TODAY -- EXACTLY 50 YEARS AGO

TODAY -- EXACTLY 50 YEARS AGO
CHRISTMAS ON EARTH
 

  I was 18, it is the year 1964 in Düsseldorf, Germany. Time of the economic miracle. My mother escaped to the countryside to escape our permanent war.
   So I was going to be home alone this Christmas.
   What to do?
   After taking the bus to Düsseldorf I drifted around the “Old Town” where people rushed to do their last-minute Christmas shopping while already the first Christmas-drunks loitered noisily – more of them to come – lonely souls who needed to drink themselves loudly through the Silent Night.
   Then I noticed a unique couple I had never seen before. He was a very small, very pretty Asian, with long spiky hair, and she, a thin blond with outrageously short hair.
   They were obviously on the road.
   I met them again in one of our hangouts. “British Mike” introduced me. His name was Duc, and her name was Puck.
   Duc was from Vietnam where he was a Guerrilla-fighter at age twelve, but had escaped to Europe where he traveled with his only luggage: a five to seven meter flag – red silk with a golden Vietcong-star in the middle!
   She was Dutch and naturally spoke Dutch, French, English, and German.
    Duc only spoke French and Vietnamese.   
    “British Mike” only spoke English, and I spoke English and German.
    They had no place to stay!
    On Christmas Eve!
   “There is no room at the village inn…” wasn’t what I was about! I invited the three strangers to stay with me for Christmas! Later in the afternoon we took the bus to my hometown – and when we arrived in my mother’s apartment in a fairly proletarian project, Duc, who had been food-shopping before, started cooking and created a most spectacular meal for the four of us.
   We sat around the table – each of us from a completely different world – damn – we hardly could communicate verbally – but we were loving, honest, and giving. On the place mats it said in fractured lettering: “And Peace on Earth” which reflected the perfect bliss I was experiencing. We were embracing peace like Jesus asked from us.
   We had to – and would do it! 
   Create world-peace in this generation!
   Well, we had made our plans without the neighbors!
   After listening to a stereo-record of Thelonius Monk with Art Blakey and the Jazz messengers we went to bed.
   In the small three-room apartment Puck and Duc got my mother’s room and bed, “British Mike” got the couch in the living room and I was in my own room and bed.
   Peace on Earth!
   The next day we all went to Düsseldorf and I learned how Duc and Puck made their living. They had bought a bunch of watercolor-prints on watercolor-paper for one Deutsche Mark a piece that they sold right there on the sidewalk for fifteen.
   Of course, it wasn’t the prints that did the selling – it was the exotic cuteness of this couple – and they raked in the money – a couple hundred Marks a day easily.
   But Duc was a walking time bomb. Any imperceptible insult could turn him into a furious killing machine.
   For unknown reasons Duc seemed to trust me and I was usually called to defuse situations like this: I would find Duc opposite a pimp twice his size. The pimp had a hard time taking this effeminate little girlie-man seriously.
   Little did he know that Duc, with his bare hands, could rip out his heart! It became my responsibility to pull Duc away before something happened, and – amazing enough – usually he did follow me!
   Duc had a long history of almost killing people (I saw the newspaper-clippings!) and he was as mysterious as he was beautiful. We would have lunch at the Grand Central Station in Munich, when suddenly he went to the men's room, from which he never returned.
   He performed stunts like this with everybody!
   Next time I ran into him, was half a year later on the Boulevard San Michel in Paris.
   For the time being, we celebrated Christmas!
   Duc kept cooking delicious meals; we listened to my few Jazz- records and danced to Ray Charles, singing, “What’d I say.”
   For a couple of days now the neighbors saw me coming out of the house in the company of what they perceived as three women (because of the non-conformist style of our hair and cloths -- no doubt!), and they couldn’t wait to call the landlord to inform him about the orgies in his apartment-complex.
   They had no idea I had never had sex with a woman yet, that I was a teenage-virgin with great romantic ideas, about love and in the middle of a religious epiphany about Christmas, Christ, love, and peace.
   The landlord explained to me that my mother would have to move out. I argued that she hadn’t even been there. All this was my responsibility and I would move out end of the month.
  “Fair enough!” he agreed.
   By then my guests had left on their voyage to wherever.
   They left the apartment clean, nothing was stolen, and the kitchen was cleaner than before, but also devoid of anything edible.
    Duc and Puck were aiming for the Canary Islands, West of Africa, to wait out the winter, and I agreed to meet there as soon as possible.
   When my mother returned from her holiday she was understandably upset. When she heard of my plans, she sent me to a psychotherapist.
   Not that she would say so:
  “It’s the insurance, they want you to see this doctor, you have to go Thursday, it’s for the insurance company…”
   She lied to me, and didn’t mention the word psychotherapist – which was impossible to ignore on the sign at the office.
  “They think I’m crazy!” I realized!
   I went in anyway.
   The surroundings were unexpected – all the curtains were drawn – there were sparingly few electric lights. A small number of other patients, hard to make out in the semi-darkness, inhabited the sofas.
   I was called in instantly and found myself greeted by an elderly lady with a kind and very wrinkled face.
   She wanted to know what had happened, and after I was done with my story, she glanced over her glasses and asked seriously:      “Tell me, do you have friends?”
    Yes, a few, but those, I felt, I could stake my life on! Ever since I recognized myself as a misfit – all the other misfits became instant friends – and since they comprehended pain, they were friends in need.
   Not just for the sunny days!
   She was delighted to hear this and lowered her voice:
   “You have to understand, your mother is almost sixty – she comes from a completely different background and doesn’t understand anything you’re talking about. I wish you good luck on your voyage and don’t forget to eat lot’s of nuts because they are a very important brain-food.”
   I’m still grateful to this surprisingly sane therapist…
   Christmas on Earth had catapulted me out of my home, my job, a future career, my social standing, but it was going to put me on the road!

From the E-Book "Runaway Jesus" by Brummbaer:
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss/187-4269114-2384702?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=Brummbaer#/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=Brummbaer+runaway+jesus&rh=n%3A283155%2Ck%3ABrummbaer+runaway+jesus

Genau heute vor 50 Jahren!

...UND FRIEDE AUF ERDEN...

 

   Ich war 18 Jahre alt, im Wirtschaftswunderland Deutschland, lebte mit meiner Mutter in permanentem Kriegszustand und dieses Weihnachten hatte sie es vorgezogen allein in den Hügeln des Bergischen Landes wohl etwas Ski zu fahren und friedliche Feiertage zu erleben.
   Dieses Weihnachten war ich allein zu hause.

   Was tun?    Ich nahm den Bus nach Düsseldorf, der nächsten Großstadt, und trieb mich in der „Altstadt" herum (an der längsten Theke der Welt!), wo die Menschen herum rasten, um am letzten Weihnachtstag letzte, vergessene Geschenke zu kaufen, während bereits die ersten lärmenden Weihnachts-Säufer auftauchten. Es würden mehr werden im Laufe des Abends – einsamen Seelen, die sich durch die „Stille Nacht“ trinken mussten.
   Dann fiel mir ein einzigartiges junges Paar auf. Ich hatte sie nie zuvor gesehen. Er war ein kleiner, wunderschöner Asiate mit langen, strubbelig hoch stehenden Haaren und sie eine drahtige, hübsche Blonde mit unverschämt kurzen Haaren.
   Sie waren offensichtlich „on the road“. So was nannte man damals „Gammler“.
   Ich traf sie wieder in einer der wenigen Bars, wo Gammler bedient wurden. „British Mike“, ein lokaler Penner und Army-Deserteur, stellte mich den beiden vor. Sein Name war Duc und ihr Name war Puck.
   Duc kam aus Vietnam, wo er als Zwölfjähriger ein Guerilla-Kämpfer gewesen war. Er entkam und flüchtete nach Europa, wo er mit einem einzigen Stück Gepäck herumreiste: Einer Ledertasche mit einer riesigen, fünf mal sieben Meter messenden Flagge – aus kostbarer, roter Seide mit einem goldenen Vietcong-Stern in der Mitte!
   Puck kam aus Holland und sprach natürlich holländisch, französisch, englisch und deutsch. Duc sprach nur französisch und vietnamesisch. „British Mike“ englisch und ein bisschen deutsch und ich sprach deutsch und englisch...…und sie hatten keine Unterkunft für diese Nacht!
   Am Heiligen Abend!
   „Da ist kein Platz in der Herberge ...“ war für mich nicht akzeptabel. So lud ich die drei Fremden ein, Weihnachten mit mir zu feiern! Am Spätnachmittag nahmen wir den Bus in die Kleinstadt, wo ich mit meiner Mutter eine Drei-Zimmer-Wohnung bewohnte, in einer schäbigen Neubau-Stadtrand-Siedlung – rechteckige Beton-Boxen, gebaut für Flüchtlinge wie uns und andere von Armut betroffene Überbleibsel des zweiten Weltkriegs.
   Sobald wir angekommen waren, begann Duc, der in Düsseldorf ein paar Tüten voll Lebensmittel eingekauft hatte, zu kochen und er kreierte eine absolut spektakuläre Mahlzeit. Vietnamesisches Chicken und Gott weiß, was für andere fremdartige, köstliche Beilagen, die zwar nicht identifizierbar waren, aber umso besser schmeckten.
   Wir saßen um den Tisch im gutbürgerlichen Wohnzimmer meiner Mutter (Ich hatte den peinlichen, röhrenden Elch abgehängt und unter der Couch versteckt.) und zelebrierten das Essen mit einem anständigen Beaujolais.
   Und da saßen wir nun – jeder von uns aus einer völlig anderen Welt, und – verdammt – die Sprachbarriere erlaubte uns kaum verbal zu kommunizieren – aber wir waren voller Liebe, ehrlich, offen und bereit alles miteinander zu teilen.
   Mike hatte ein kleines Stück Haschisch, das wir nach dem Essen rauchten. Es war der zweite Joint meines Lebens und ich hatte keine ungewöhnlichen Erlebnisse, mit Ausnahme der Frakturschrift auf den gestickten, weihnachtlichen Spitzendeckchen, die sich unauslöschlich in meine Netzhaut gravierte: „und Friede auf Erden“, was meine perfekte Glückseligkeit dieses Moments reflektierte.    Wir – vor einigen Stunden noch völlig Fremde – praktizierten bedingungslose Liebe und alles umfassenden Frieden, wie Jesus es von uns erwartete.
   Wir mussten – und würden es schaffen!
   Weltfrieden noch in dieser Generation!!!
   Aber wir hatten unsere Pläne ohne die Nachbarn gemacht!
   Wir spielten noch ein paar exquisite Schallplatten von Mahalia Jackson und Thelonious Monk bevor wir ins Bett gingen.
   In der kleinen Drei-Zimmer-Wohnung bekamen Puck und Duc das Zimmer meiner Mutter, „British Mike“ schlief auf der Couch im Wohnzimmer und ich in meinem eigenen Zimmer und Bett.

                                                          Und Friede auf Erden!

   Am nächsten Tag fuhren wir alle nach Düsseldorf und dort erfuhr ich, wie Duc und Puck ihren Lebensunterhalt verdienten. In Südfrankreich kauften sie einen Posten Aquarell-Drucke auf Aquarell-Papier für einen Franc das Stück. Der Eiffelturm und der Montparnasse, etc… – die Drucke sahen aus wie echte Aquarelle. Hier auf dem Bürgersteig verkauften sie sich für fünfzehn Deutsche Mark. Das war ein anständiger Gewinn!
   Natürlich ging es nicht wirklich um die Aquarell-Drucke – es war die exotische Niedlichkeit dieses Paars, die Aufmerksamkeit erregte und die Bilder verkaufte – und sie schwammen im Geld – ein paar hundert Mark am Tag, mindestens!

   Das ehemaligen Leben als Guerilla hatte allerdings Spuren in Ducs Psyche hinterlassen: Er war eine lebende Zeitbombe! Beleidigungen, für normal Sterbliche kaum wahrnehmbar, konnten ihn innerhalb von Sekunden in eine mörderische Tötungs-Maschine verwandeln.
   Ducs Vergangenheit bestand aus schlimmen Geschichten von Menschen, die er aus nichtigen Gründen fast ermordet hatte. (Puck zeigte mir ein paar Zeitungs-Ausschnitte aus Frankreich!) Er hatte immer zerkratzte Hände, denn wenn er sich in einem Geschäft nicht richtig bedient fühlte, reichte ein heftiger Karate-schlag um das Schaufenster in Splitter zu verwandeln. Dann musste man schnell rennen.
   Aus unbekannten Gründen schien Duc mir zu vertrauen und immer wieder wurde ich geholt um Situationen, wie zum Beispiel diese, zu entschärfen: Die physische Konfrontation mit einem hitzköpfigen Zuhälter, der zweimal so groß und breit war wie Duc und sich vor ihm aufgebaut hatte. Die Huren liebten Duc…
   Dem Zuhälter fiel es schwer dieses feminine Männlein ernst zu nehmen.
   Er hatte natürlich keine Ahnung, dass dieses kleine Männchen ihm mit bloßen Händen das Herz aus dem Brustkorb reißen konnte! Es wurde mein Job Duc wegzuziehen, bevor etwas passierte und – erstaunlich genug – in der Regel folge er mir!
   Und er war so geheimnisvoll, wie er schön war.
   Jahre später aßen wir zu Mittag im Münchener Hauptbahnhof, als er plötzlich zur Toilette ging, ohne je zurückzukehren
   Für diese spontanen Verabschiedungen war er bekannt und er machte das mit allen…
   Das nächste Mal, ein halbes Jahr später, traf ich ihn wieder… auf dem Boulevard San Michel in Paris...
   Zum gegenwärtigen Zeitpunkt jedenfalls feierten wir Weihnachten. Duc kochte weiterhin köstliche, exotische Gerichte und wir hörten meine kümmerliche, aber exzellente Sammlung von Jazz-Platten und wir tanzten ekstatisch zu Ray Charles' „What'd I say“ .
   Das entging den Nachbarn natürlich nicht und ein paar Tage lang beobachteten sie, wie ich in der Begleitung von drei ungewöhnlichen Personen, die sie für Frauen hielten (zweifellos wegen des nicht-konformen Stils unserer Haare und dergleichen!), aus dem Haus kam. Und sie konnten es kaum erwarten den Vermieter über die Orgien in seinem Mehrfamilienhaus zu informieren.
   Sie hatten keine Ahnung, dass ich noch nie Sex mit einer Frau gehabt hatte, dass ich eine Teenager-Jungfrau war, mit großen romantischen Ideen über die Liebe und, dass ich mich mitten in einer religiösen Offenbarung über Weihnachten, Christus, Liebe und Frieden befand.
    Der Vermieter erklärte mir, meiner Mutter würde das Appartement gekündigt! Ich argumentierte, dass meine Mutter gar nicht anwesend gewesen sei. All dies sei meine Schuld und ich würde am Ende des Monats ausziehen.
    Er akzeptierte meinen Vorschlag.
    Inzwischen hatten sich meine Gäste auf den Weg, nach wohin-auch-immer gemacht.
    Sie verließen die Wohnung sauber, nichts wurde gestohlen, und die Küche war sauberer als vorher, aber ohne einen Krümel Essbares.
    Duc und Puck verabschiedeten sich mit dem Ziel Kanarische Inseln, um dort das Ende des Winters abzuwarten und wir vereinbarten, uns so bald wie möglich dort zu treffen.
   Als meine Mutter aus ihrem Urlaub zurückkam, war sie verständlicherweise verärgert und als sie von meinen Reiseplänen hörte, schickte sie mich zu einer Psychotherapeutin.
   Sie hatte mir nicht gesagt, wohin sie mich schickte: „Es ist für die Versicherung, sie wollen, dass du diesen Arzt aufsuchst, am Donnerstag, es für die Versicherung ...“
    Sie log mich an, denn den Begriff „Psychotherapeut“ erwähnte sie nie – bis ich das Wort unmissverständlich neben der Praxistür las.
    „Die glauben, ich bin verrückt!“ Wurde mir klar.
    Ich ging trotzdem hinein.
    Drinnen war es unerwartet düster – alle Vorhänge waren zugezogen – ein paar Stehlampen verbreiteten ein spärliches Licht. Die Silhouetten einiger weniger Patienten bevölkerten die Sofas, schwer auszumachen im Halbdunkel des Wartezimmers.     Ich wurde sofort vorgelassen und von einer freundlichen, älteren Dame begrüßt, die mehr Falten in ihrem Gesicht hatte, als ich in meinem kurzen Leben gesehen hatte.
    Sie wollte wissen, was sich ereignet hatte, und nachdem ich mit meiner Geschichte fertig war, blickte sie über ihren Brillenrand und fragte ernsthaft: „Sag mal, hast Du Freunde?“
    Ja, nur wenige – aber diesen, so fühlte ich, konnte ich mein Leben anvertrauen! Seit ich mich als Außenseiter erkannt hatte – wurden alle anderen Außenseiter unmittelbar zu Freunden – und da sie Schmerzen verstanden, waren sie auch Freunde in der Not.
    Nicht nur Freunde für sonnige Tage!
    Die Therapeutin war erfreut dies zu hören und senkte ihre Stimme und schaute mir tief in die Augen: „Sie müssen verstehen, Ihre Mutter ist fast sechzig – sie stammt aus einer völlig anderen Welt und hat keine Ahnung wovon Sie reden. Ich wünsche Ihnen viel Glück auf Ihrer Reise und vergessen Sie nicht, viele Nüsse zu essen, denn das ist wichtige Gehirn-Nahrung“.
   Ich bin noch immer dankbar, dieser überraschend klarsichtigen Therapeutin begegnet zu sein...    „Friede auf Erden“ hatte mich aus meinem Haus katapultiert, meinem Job, beendete eine zukünftige Karriere und ruinierte meinen sozialen Status, aber es schickte mich in die Welt hinaus, auf die Straße, wo ich viele Jahre verbringen sollte.

Aus dem Buch „DER GAMMLER“ Brummbaer, bei die „Grüne Kraft“, 2011

Fastest Clock in the Universe

Dariusz Klimczak

Song for a picture or picture for a song?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0KV-PTK0UZ4

The Ballad of Lucy Jordan

 "The Ballad of Lucy Jordan" was written by Shel Silverstein.

 

The morning sun touched lightly on the eyes of lucy jordan
In a white suburban bedroom in a white suburban town
As she lay there 'neath the covers dreaming of a thousand lovers
Till the world turned to orange and the room went spinning round.

 

At the age of thirty-seven she realised she'd never
Ride through paris in a sports car with the warm wind in her hair.
So she let the phone keep ringing and she sat there softly singing
Little nursery rhymes she'd memorised in her daddy's easy chair.

 

Her husband, he's off to work and the kids are off to school,
And there are, oh, so many ways for her to spend the day.
She could clean the house for hours or rearrange the flowers
Or run naked through the shady street screaming all the way.

 

At the age of thirty-seven she realised she'd never
Ride through paris in a sports car with the warm wind in her hair
So she let the phone keep ringing as she sat there softly singing
Pretty nursery rhymes she'd memorised in her daddy's easy chair.

 

The evening sun touched gently on the eyes of lucy jordan
On the roof top where she climbed when all the laughter grew too loud
And she bowed and curtsied to the man who reached and offered her his hand,
And he led her down to the long white car that waited past the crowd.

 

At the age of thirty-seven she knew she'd found forever
As she rode along through paris with the warm wind in her hair ...

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Songwriters
SHEL SILVERSTEIN

Last Sunday "The Little Prince" by Antoine de Saint-Exupery
came unannounced to my mind.
I realized that my memory was flaky.
So I looked it up and I read:

In the course of this life I have had a great many encounters with a great many people who have been concerned with matters of consequence. I have lived a great deal among grown-ups. I have seen them intimately, close at hand.
And that hasn’t much improved my opinion of them.

From: The Little Prince  
by Antoine de Saint-Exupery   

 

 

IS THERE LIFE ON MARS?

                 

                     LIFE ON MARS                      

Click to enlarge

 

About the pictures:

Beuys and Moebius -- did they ever meet? And on what planet?

Joseph Beuys and the Coyote:

 

"I Like America and America Likes Me" Performance, 1974

    In May 1974 Beuys flew to New York and was taken by ambulance to the site of the performance, a room in the René Block Gallery at 409 West Broadway. Beuys lay on the ambulance stretcher swathed in felt. He shared this room with a wild coyote, for eight hours over three days. At times he stood, wrapped in a thick, grey blanket of felt, leaning on a large shepherd's staff. At times he lay on the straw, at times he watched the coyote as the coyote watched him and cautiously circled the man, or shredded the blanket to pieces, and at times he engaged in symbolic gestures, such as striking a large triangle or tossing his leather gloves to the animal; the performance continuously shifted between elements that were required by the realities of the situation, and elements that had purely symbolic character. At the end of the three days, Beuys hugged the coyote that had grown quite tolerant of him, and was taken to the airport. Again he rode in a veiled ambulance, leaving America without having set foot on its ground. As Beuys later explained: ‘I wanted to isolate myself, insulate myself, see nothing of America other than the coyote.’  (From Wikipedia)
Jean Giraud Moebius:
  On top of the picture, in the distance, we see Jean Giraud Moebius flying away on his friendly pterodactyl, enjoying the bird's eye perspective.  Moebius had cultivated an access to the most wondrous and magical worlds, and his hand, his pen -- the line he drew, were immaculate recordings of the incredibly rich universe he perceived.    

   But then again on the other hand, Jean was an extension of his pen. The secret of his life was, that all he ever did, was to hold on to his pen, which would transport him into the many worlds that he never got tired to share with us, in his films, comics, and paintings.
   I was privileged to work with him, and did a trailer for the CG film: "Thru the Moebiustrip", which eventually was produced in China. My trailer at Vimeo: https://vimeo.com/2216843
   Working with Jean was like love at first sight! Who could not love this gentle, humble genius, who, as mild-mannered as he was, had a steely resolve to to make a design look exactly like it should? Jean Giraud knew what he wanted, but still loved surprises. Which gave me a lot of creative freedom, and we had no problem collaborating. In my memory we all just tried to please him -- everybody was happy to do anything to satisfy the soft-spoken genius!
   I wish he was still around...

 

 

    Click to enlarge

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

 

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In the Infinite Variety of Humans Some stick out!

   It is the summer of 1967, Commune I Hempstead, London, West-Hampstead

  Notes from the Book: “What's so Wrong with Love and Peace” by Brummbaer

The European Underground 1965-67

http://www.amazon.com/Whats-so-Wrong-Love-Peace-ebook/dp/B004TCWTMC/ref=sr_1_19?ie=UTF8&qid=1384310309&sr=8-19&keywords=brummbaer

DR. ROBIN FARQUHARSON

   As I said, we had lots of guests and what follows is a description of our commune by one Robin Farquaharson, who stayed one night and became a close friend later on:
   “It was to Commune I Hempstead that I had taken my bed-settee and luggage on that disastrous Monday, 6th November, 1967. The setting seemed inauspicious for a commune: one room, medium-sized rather than large. Two double beds, a table and some chairs. It hardly seemed at all likely that in this so crowded space room could be found for all my junk; but found it was. This though I had met the members of the Commune for the first time only the day before, and though I could think of none of my friends of long standing to whom such a request would have been remotely acceptable. On the wall of the Commune’s single room was the one identifying feature of all the communes I have since seen in London – a wall newspaper. Drawings, poems, notices, advertisements. The open communication channel that made the group a commune and not just a collection of three people, but an entity. An entity whose mode of functioning was not clearly defined, but whose members clearly had formed themselves into one organism.”
   This paragraph is taken from the book “Drop out” by Robin Farquaharson.

(Drop Out! By Robin Farquharson Published by Blond, 1968 ISBN 0-218-51453-0 p.38)
It starts with the following statement:

   Publisher’s note
   Dr Robin Farquaharson walked into this office out of the cold, unannounced. He carried his only possession, a sleeping bag, and asked for a 35/- advance for a week’s work of writing. He borrowed paper and pencils and the resulting chronicle is here printed as he wrote it. He understands the consequences, if any, of its publication.

   The last sentence refers to the content of the book in which Robin among other confessions admits to being gay, being manic depressive, and taking LSD. It’s still 1967!!!   (Attempts to decriminalise homosexuality had failed in both 1962 and 1966, but was eventually ratified by an Act in 1967 that allowed homosexual acts between consenting adults, over the age of 21, in privacy. R.F.)
 
   More from the Book: “What's so Wrong with Love and Peace” :
   We had barely found room for Robin’s stuff and decided for a spot for his sleeping bag, when he already visited Dave and Denise’s room, where he introduced himself as a friend of mine. Dave had just taken a hit of acid and politely offered one to Robin, who was not ready for a grinning red-haired gnome offering a sugar cube with the profound question: “Would you like to try some LSD?”
    Robin had never taken a psychedelic drug in his life, nor contemplated such.
    But there was Mick, who was tripping with Dave and Denise and Mick was a gorgeous 17yearold, light as air, a lively face surrounded by a mane of tousled, blond hair, the kid, who could never sit still. He had just decided to suss out the nature of the universe within the next three days, and had already begun. As the diagram on the wall behind him testified:
    “Suss out” was the term he used for this process of “Satori–on-the-go”-method – and as they say, enlightenment doesn’t care how you get it…
    Mick temporarily blocked Robin’s decision-making capacity and the sugarcube disappeared in his mouth.
   Then he turned around and asked me if I thought this was a good idea…
    I was disgruntled enough not to join in the tripping, first of all because nobody here knew Robin and, second because Robin had no experience with psychedelics ever, and nobody knew what to expect.
    So I decided to play ground-control, or as they say amongst initiates: I stayed around to remind everybody of the misery and boredom of a brain without drugs.
    I tried to melt with the furniture and after a lot of invisible gesturing between Robin and Mick, they finally agreed on moving next door for a more intimate encounter, and I could go to bed after all – Robin was now Mick’s responsibility. (End of “What's so Wrong with Love and Peace”)

ROBIN FARQUHARSON A POET:

Gratify the body.
Eat when you’re hungry,
drink when you’re thirsty,
fuck when you’re randy.
If you want to exercise self-control,
try it on the intellect. R.F.

    Robin Farquharson was tall, 6feet, blond, with boyish looks in spite of his thinning hair.
    He was a self-proclaimed “manic-depressive”, but some of us diagnosed him more like having a “manic-very manic” type of disorder. He was one of the most intelligent people I ever met. As smart as he was – sometimes you had to blow his nose, tie his shoes, and fix his zipper to make him socially acceptable.
    His doctorate for original work on the Theory of Voting was awarded by the University of Oxford in 1958, and he won the Monograph Prize of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences for related work in 1961.

ROBIN FARQUHARSON'S CURRICULUM VITAE:

Born 1930BA (South Africa), Rhodes University, 1950.
BA (Hons) (Oxon) in Philosophy, Politics & Economics, 1953.
Laming Travelling Fellow,
The Queen’s College, Oxford, 1957.
D..Phil (Oxon) 1958.
Research Fellow of Nuffield College, Oxford, 1958.
Research Officer, University of the Witwatersrand,1961.
Monograph prize of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences in the field of
the social sciences, 1961.
Senior Research Fellow, Churchill College, Cambridge,1964.
Computer Consultant from 1966.
Dropped out 1967.
   As he writes himself:Like when I was reprimanded by the head of my department at Witwatersrand University for holding non-racial parties; like losing my South African passport for anti-apartheid activities Different from the wrench I felt resigning my Churchill College fellowship after one year and three nervous breakdowns. Marvellous folk, they gave me 3,000 journey money on leaving. A pity I ran through it so fast. But then that was because the college had put the loot under the control of two trustees. The trustees, dear friends of mine whom I had nominated, let me take it out of the trust account to present the Home Office, a little disturbed already by my two certification orders, with proof of my means. In fact I had already received 1,400 in instalments over nine months. Running through the remaining 1,600 in three weeks was, though in a sense a tragedy, a gas – the greatest gas of my life. Mini-cabs to Edinburgh and back, twice. Attractive chauffeurs at 50 a day. Then giving out fivers in a pub in Thame – for that I got lifted and spent three days on a temporary order in the bin at Littlemore, fortunately able to walk out at the psychological moment on a tip-off that a permanent order was being prepared.
Then that good job with the management consultants, two hundred a month, rising from trainee consultant to number four in the company in four months, but summarily dismissed (the letter reached me in a bin at Radlett, Herts.) for engaging staff without authorization under the influence of an acute manic condition. Finally four months with the computer programming company, rising this time to number two but earning only 1,500 a year, reluctantly raised in October to 1,800. The sickness of my boss at having to grant this raise undoubtedly was a factor in my dismissal on 6th November, 1967, on a charge of “taking liberties”. R.F. Drop Out

    That’s the day I met him and the “taking liberties” charge stemmed from the events of this morning. It all started with a bunch of night-trippers who spent the wee hours of a Sunday morning in the all-nite cinema of the Arts Lab. Robin must have been in a mighty manic episode when he decided that we – the present – had to found the “London Diggers”
   (The Diggers were an English group from the Sixteen-hundreds practicing an agrarian lifestyle based upon the concept of small egalitarian rural communities, kind of socialist with common property. They caused a revival of the Diggers in Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco, California and New York during the mid-1960s of which we were aware through a very effective underground news syndicate.)
    He insisted and to make sure we took him serious, he invited us all to meet at his office which was at a very posh address on Regent-Street. About thirty of us eventually roamed around in his office building, seriously planning all kind of improvements in the social structure particularly of the poor, the homeless, and the handicapped. Half of us were still starry-eyed from the enlightenment last night, and, “man”, we were ready for a new beginning – and wasn’t the fact, that we were sitting in this expensive office to plan the future of mankind, proof that we were doing something right?
    Meanwhile the black doorman was sneaking around, giving us suspicious looks because he only let this bunch of wild-eyed longhairs into his building after Robin pulled rank on him, being the Vice-president of the company. The doorman than was instrumental in getting Robin fired the next day, for “taking liberties”!
    That’s why he arrived at our flat two days later, needing a place for his stuff and place to crash. We became good friends after his acid experience. I was fascinated by this mind so infinitly larger than mine. One of his bad habits was to abuse anybodies phone to call an abundance of friends that he had all over the world and leave unpayable phonebills. Even RonnieLaing finally threw him out of “Kingsley Hall” for talking to Canada for fourty minutes at five in the morning. Ronnie Laing called Robin: “…a strange guy, very intelligent and totally out of his fucking mind.”
Since we had to pay for everything in advance in our commune, somebody with Robin’s talents and bad habits could do us no harm and we always remained friends.
    We stayed connected until he died in a house-fire some years later – as rumors suggest a victim of arson in a house he was squatting.

DR. ROBIN FARQUHARSON
By Guy Legge

http://www.ukrockfestivals.com/iow-70-r-farquharson.html
   <The festival mentioned is the Isle of White Festival 1970>
The late Dr was ( according to him ) a member of the White Panthers and was one of those who wished to declare the festival free. Guy Legge knew Robin and wrote this memoir for the site .We would like to gather more information on Robin and any other members of the White Panthers who were involved at the Isle of White , so if you have any more biographical information please contact us
   The trouble with life is that it is like any other game; one can face defeat. It depends of course what one has been up against and losing a match in the premiere league can still mean a team is playing at a higher level than a team that wins in the third division. But what of losing? You can either face the issue honestly or start playing foul.
    For political reasons we have invented a myth called mental illness. People who are dysfunctional in terms of performing as useful members of society be they criminals, the unemployed, or those who are hard to understand are classed as a bloody nuisance and ways have been evolved of dealing with them. Mental illness is a medical explanation of madness. It’s bullshit but lets not concern ourselves with that. What then is madness? It’s a political concept. It means, "I don’t have to listen to you". This is what we mean when we diagnose someone as "mentally ill". It’s true throughout life that if we don’t want to listen to people we denigrate them and refers to them as niggers, blacks, poufs, women, nutters, and communists or mad.
    This does not exonerate the oppressed however. Life may be stacked against you, it might have dealt you some bad cards but that does not mean that ones reaction to these issues is legitimate. Such is the plight of the mental patient. Such people desperately try to articulate their woes through metaphors like hearing voices or being god, and a society that loses patience retaliates by saying such things as they have biological malfunctions of the brain called schizophrenia for example.
    Thus I knew Robin. He was on a reception ward at Horton Hospital, Epsom in the early seventies. I was classed as a schizophrenic and he was a manic-depressive two famous labels of oppression. He was twenty years older than me but had fallen foul of the psychiatric authorities at about the same time in the mid sixties. I was only fifteen when I was first fobbed off as a schizophrenic. I was intelligent enough to fight being drugged but at this time, the very early seventies, I had been sectioned for 28 days for refusing treatment.
    My earliest memory of Robin was of him showing a group of us his book, Drop Out. I was impressed that it had the cover illustrated by Alan Aldridge who had produced amongst other things the Beatles Illustrated Lyrics. I didn’t actually get around to reading it until about a year ago. It has to be said that Robin’s description of "dropping out" is a bit shallow and consists of crashing out with his London friends. It’s not so much a description of dropping out, (a concept that did not commonly have any significance until the eighties and such things as peace convoys), but a description of the nature of mania. I shall explain.
   Robin was classed as a manic-depressive, a term he used himself. Such people become chronically manipulative and elated and do things like going on shopping sprees and booking into hotels, neither of which they can afford. It’s just a strategy to avoid unwelcome reality, usually chronic depression, just an absurd personality trait that has got out of hand. Thus the modern term is bi-polar disorder, a swing from depression to elation. Robin describes these highs perfectly in the book along with an interesting comparison with the use of LSD. Robin’s highs included in the book include indecent exposure and conning Shepperton Studios that he was a film producer.
    This role of film producer was another of my introductions to Robin. He approached me one morning on the ward and asked if I would appear in his movie. I asked what it was called and he said "Ivan the Woodcutter". I asked where the cameras and equipment were and he said we were only going to have a dress rehearsal. I asked about costumes and he said I could wear his clothes. I declined his invitation. He refused to leave me and I eventually swung a fist at him and I had the experience of this crazed South African with a handle-bar moustache squaring up to me. The staff cooled things down.
    Another memory is of him trying to phone his mother in South Africa in the small hours on the ward phone. He was trying to reverse the charges.
    On another occasion he had a copy of the International Times with him (the famous hippy rag with the picture of Mary Pickford on the Logo) in which he had advertised his latest venture, The Open University. Anyone interested was asked to contact Robin at ward 5, Horton Hospital, Epsom. I asked him what I could study if I signed up and he said "everything from physics to plastics design".
   Other times he was very pleasant company. He once started categorically that there was nothing wrong with me. I have often wondered how much he had thought this remark through. There was much indeed the matter with me, most of which had been caused by psychiatric care.
    I really can’t remember the precise sequence of events now but at one point Robin was returned to us from Longrove, a particularly nasty bin across the road from us (Epsom had five bins in all, much to the annoyance of the local inhabitants). Longrove was at one point in the fifties, home for one Ronnie Kray. Robin was in a wretched state and had acquired a broken arm. This fracture he told us was the result of being so drugged up that he had fallen down some stairs.
    I have recently discovered that Robin was a patient of R.D.Laing’s at Kingsley Hall. Laing has been quoted (in Mad to be Normal by Bob Mullan) as describing Robin as being 16 stone and not liking walls thus going on the rampage smashing things. This was not the Robin I knew. A more familiar description is of him declaring that what was really needed was not Kingsley Hall but some six hundred acres of land outside Addis Ababa in Ethiopia.     
   Laing describes Robin as "a strange guy, very intelligent and totally out of his fucking mind". Mention is made of his compulsive use of the telephone and his attempts to reverse charges, even with the Ethiopian government.
    He was well connected, his amazing academic background putting him in contact with very influential people. The description of him in Brian Hinton’s book on the Isle of Wight festivals trying to reverse the charges on a call to Rupert Murdoch rings true.

    Amazing stories surround Robin. He is even claimed to have had occult powers. He latterly inhabited a bohemian, anti-establishment world and apparently got himself into trouble with the authorities at the 1970 Isle of Wight festival by claiming to be a spokesman for the "White Panthers"and trying to take over.
   However, Robin is now dead. I have been told he died in a house fire. I always shy clear of any attempt to glamorise madness. It is too destructive to the individual and their environment. On the other hand I denounce with great vigour any attempt to drug dysfunctional people as "mentally ill "and in need of "medication".   
   The somewhat childlike nature of "disturbed" individuals that was so observable in Robin gives a clue to what is really going on. This adult play power that would be acceptable in a child but is intolerable in an adult serves the same purpose as play does to a child. I have a vague memory of the Oz magazine editor, Richard Neville, referring to "play power" in relation to sixties culture and I’m sure it is a description that Robin would have approved of. This reversion to a childlike state is just the same for a so-called "schizophrenic" as it is for an infant. It’s just the tracking down of values by play. Such was Robin in his public disrobing and his conning of Shepperton Studio’s. A beautiful mind gone wild and no longer with us.

Guy Legge


DOCTOR FARQUHARSON'S RADIO

by Frater Choronzon
http://freespace.virgin.net/ecliptica.ww/book/chaosinvocation.htm

    The late Dr Robin Farquharson was one of the most gifted individuals it has ever been my privelege to know. His doctorate for original work on the Theory of Voting (psephology as it's called in the trade) was awarded by the University of Oxford in 1958, and he won the Monograph Prize of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences for related work in 1961. At the time when I met him in 1968 he had recently been stripped of his post as a Senior Research Fellow ("Don") in Management Studies at Churchill College, Cambridge.
    I first encountered him at a meeting of the 'Anti-University'. This was a loose knit structure which operated from a series of short term addresses. Its primary function was to promote serious academic work into subject areas which were considered to be neglected by conventional Universities.
    Among the assembled Anarchist Philosophers, Situationists, Astrologers and Crack-pots there was this eminently respectable gentleman, neatly tumed out in a business suit. He presented a complete contrast to the tie-dyed majority of the delegates, and they were a little suspicious of him; Police Spy? CIA Agent? His contributions were succinct and positive however, and I was struck by his ability to cut through the periphera of an issue and apply his thinking to the critical elements. He was a tall man, maybe 6 ft 2 inches, fortyish with greying, thinning hair and that wild-eyed look which comes across, for example, in some portraits of Beethoven.
Robin's fall from academic grace was occasioned by his mental balance. He writes in the preface to his book Drop Out: "I am a manic-depressive. When I'm up, I have no judgement, but fantastic drive; when I'm down, I have judgement, but no drive at all. In between I pass for normal well enough."
    One evening he turned up at the Westbourne Park Road flat which I shared with some friends, carrying a large portable radio receiver under his arm. The door was opened and he seemed agitated. "You don't trust me", he said, the speech tumbling out in a flurry, "you all think I'm a spy. Well, I'll prove to you that I'm not!"
    With that he assumed entry. Seated on the floor in the front room he started singing a song loudly; with imperfect pitch, but recognisable. All the while he was fiddling with the tuner dial on the portable radio, but with the set switched off. We couldn't figure out what he was up to, but suddenly he turned the radio on loud and the song he was singing came forth over the airwaves, exactly synchronised with his voice.
    He roared with laughter as we scratched our heads, not completely taking in what we were witnessing.
    He switched the radio off and lapsed into a learned sounding commentary on a topic of current news interest, all the while twiddling the tuner dial. After a further ten or fifteen seconds he switched the radio on and the commentary programme he had located continued what he was saying.
    Next Robin started speaking in German. He tuned the radio again, switched it on and out flowed the Deutsch, absolutely contiguous with what he was saying.
    "I told you I would prove that I wasn't a spy."
    We thought it was a conjuring trick, some stunt with a tape recorder. But no, he really did appear to have some bizarre ability to pick up radio waves in his head.
    In later years, having got to know him better, we occasionally discussed this offbeat talent. He explained that it only occurred infrequently at a particular stage in the progression of his manic state, and it seemed that the drugs administered interfered with it. I asked if he had ever done any scientific analysis of the process involved, and he said that he generally kept the ability to himself, because he appreciated the sort of pressures and experimentation he might be subjected to if he admitted it or demonstrated it to the wrong company.
    The proof was accepted. There was no way that a spy with that sort of talent could possibly be assigned to check up on the Anti-University or the Human Zoo in Westbourne Park Road.
Robin was delighted and carried on with his party-trick for some hours. Suddenly he became very sad. He picked up a news flash that Yuri Gagarin, the Russian who was first in space, had died in an air crash. It transpired that Robin had a deep personal admiration for Gagarin and he was genuinely moved by the sudden news. The date was 27th March 1968.
    Robin Farquharson would not have thought of himself as a magician, nontheless in the eyes of his beholders he certainly appeared to be able to exhibit what might pass for a magical power.   
   People on the verge of mental instability frequently 'hear voices'; Robin's talent was in being able to recognize what it was he was hearing.

Preserving The Digital Legacy Of LSD Guru Timothy Leary_

They are digging...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oE0lviWmZQo&feature=player_embedded

http://artsbeat.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/09/27/timothy-leary-video-games-unearthed-in-archive/?_r=0

The Gift by Lou Reed read by John Cale -- The Velvet Underground... long ago

 Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit. It was now Mid-August which meant he had been separated from Marsha for more than two months. Two months, and all he had to show was three dog-eared letters and two very expensive long-distance phone calls. True, when school had ended and she'd returned to Wisconsin, and he to Locust, Pennsylvania, she had sworn to maintain a certain fidelity. She would date occasionally, but merely as amusement. She would remain faithful.

But lately Waldo had begun to worry. He had trouble sleeping at night and when he did, he had horrible dreams. He lay awake at night, tossing and turning underneath his pleated quilt protector, tears welling in his eyes as he pictured Marsha, her sworn vows overcome by liquor and the smooth soothing of some neanderthal, finally submitting to the final caresses of sexual oblivion.
It was more than the human mind could bear.
Visions of Marsha's faithlessness haunted him. Daytime fantasies of sexual abandon permeated his thoughts. And the thing was, they wouldn't understand how she really was. He, Waldo, alone understood this. He had intuitively grasped every nook and cranny of her psyche. He had made her smile. She needed him, and he wasn't there (Awww...).
The idea came to him on the Thursday before the Mummers' Parade was scheduled to appear. He'd just finished mowing and edging the Edelsons lawn for a dollar fifty and had checked the mailbox to see if there was at least a word from Marsha. There was nothing but a circular from the Amalgamated Aluminum Company of America inquiring into his awing needs. At least they cared enough to write.
It was a New York company. You could go anywhere in the mails. Then it struck him. He didn't have enough money to go to Wisconsin in the accepted fashion, true, but why not mail himself? It was absurdly simple. He would ship himself parcel post, special delivery. The next day Waldo went to the supermarket to purchase the necessary equipment. He bought masking tape, a staple gun and a medium sized cardboard box just right for a person of his build. He judged that with a minimum of jostling he could ride quite comfortably. A few airholes, some water, perhaps some midnight snacks, and it would probably be as good as going tourist.
By Friday afternoon, Waldo was set. He was thoroughly packed and the post office had agreed to pick him up at three o'clock. He'd marked the package "Fragile", and as he sat curled up inside, resting on the foam rubber cushioning he'd thoughtfully included, he tried to picture the look of awe and happiness on Marshas face as she opened her door, saw the package, tipped the deliverer, and then opened it to see her Waldo finally there in person. She would kiss him, and then maybe they could see a movie. If he'd only thought of this before. Suddenly rough hands gripped his package and he felt himself borne up. He landed with a thud in a truck and was off.
Marsha Bronson had just finished setting her hair. It had been a very rough weekend. She had to remember not to drink like that. Bill had been nice about it though. After it was over he'd said he still respected her and, after all, it was certainly the way of nature, and even though, no he didn't love her, he did feel an affection for her. And after all, they were grown adults. Oh, what Bill could teach Waldo - but that seemed many years ago.
Sheila Klein, her very, very best friend, walked in through the porch screen door and into the kitchen. "Oh gawd, it's absolutely maudlin outside." "Ach, I know what you mean, I feel all icky!" Marsha tightened the belt on her cotton robe with the silk outer edge. Sheila ran her finger over some salt grains on the kitchen table, licked her finger and made a face. "I'm supposed to be taking these salt pills, but," she wrinkled her nose, "they make me feel like throwing up." Marsha started to pat herself under the chin, an exercise she'd seen on television. "God, don't even talk about that." She got up from the table and went to the sink where she picked up a bottle of pink and blue vitamins. "Want one? Supposed to be better than steak," and then attempted to touch her knees. "I don't think I'll ever touch a daiquiri again."
She gave up and sat down, this time nearer the small table that supported the telephone. "Maybe Bill'll call," she said to Sheila's glance. Sheila nibbled on a cuticle. "After last night, I thought maybe you'd be through with him." "I know what you mean. My God, he was like an octopus. Hands all over the place." She gestured, raising her arms upwards in defense. "The thing is, after a while, you get tired of fighting with him, you know, and after all I didn't really do anything Friday and Saturday so I kind of owed it to him. You know what I mean." She started to scratch. Sheila was giggling with her hand over her mouth. "I'll tell you, I felt the same way, and even after a while," here she bent forward in a whisper, "I wanted to!" Now she was laughing very loudly.
It was at this point that Mr. Jameson of the Clarence Darrow Post Office rang the doorbell of the large stucco colored frame house. When Marsha Bronson opened the door, he helped her carry the package in. He had his yellow and his green slips of paper signed and left with a fifteen cent tip that Marsha had gotten out of her mother's small beige pocketbook in the den. "What do you think it is?" Sheila asked. Marsha stood with her arms folded behind her back. She stared at the brown cardboard carton that sat in the middle of the living room. "I dunno."
Inside the package, Waldo quivered with excitement as he listened to the muffled voices. Sheila ran her fingernail over the masking tape that ran down the center of the carton. "Why don't you look at the return address and see who it's from?" Waldo felt his heart beating. He could feel the vibrating footsteps. It would be soon.
Marsha walked around the carton and read the ink-scratched label. "Ah, god, it's from Waldo!" "That schmuck!" said Sheila. Waldo trembled with expectation. "Well, you might as well open it," said Sheila. Both of them tried to lift the staple flap. "Ah sst," said Marsha, groaning, "he must have nailed it shut."
They tugged on the flap again. "My God, you need a power drill to get this thing open!" They pulled again. "You can't get a grip." They both stood still, breathing heavily.
"Why don't you get a scissor," said Sheila. Marsha ran into the kitchen, but all she could find was a little sewing scissor. Then she remembered that her father kept a collection of tools in the basement. She ran downstairs, and when she came back up, she had a large sheet metal cutter in her hand. "This is the best I could find." She was very out of breath.
"Here, you do it. I-I'm gonna die." She sank into a large fluffy couch and exhaled noisily. Sheila tried to make a slit between the masking tape and the end of the cardboard flap, but the blade was too big and there wasn't enough room. "God damn this thing!" she said feeling very exasperated. Then smiling, "I got an idea." "What?" said Marsha. "Just watch," said Sheila, touching her finger to her head.
Inside the package, Waldo was so transfixed with excitement that he could barely breathe. His skin felt prickly from the heat, and he could feel his heart beating in his throat. It would be soon. Sheila stood quite upright and walked around to the other side of the package. Then she sank down to her
knees, grasped the cutter by both handles, took a deep breath, and plunged the long blade through the middle of the package, through the masking tape, through the cardboard, through the cushioning and (thud) right through the center of Waldo Jeffers head, which split slightly and caused little rhythmic arcs of red to pulsate gently in the morning sun.

 

THE K-BLADDER-PROBLEM

A message from Dave Brown:
Hey Brummbaer,

Have you ever heard about the relationship between heavy ketamine use and bladder problems? I never heard of this until tonight.
See:
http://www.ketaminebladdersyndrome.com/KBS/Welcome.html
http://www.drugs-forum.com/forum/showthread.php?t=210139
Dear Dave,

   I'm very familiar with the K-bladder problem. In the late eighties of the last century I took more ketamine than is permitted by the limitations of the body. I had a permanent cystitis, which hurt so bad that I needed to have a hot bath ready to jump in, after I relieved myself. At times shredded, bloodied pieces of tissue would come out with the urine. Since I took a lot of other drugs and had a lot of sex with different lovers, there were many suspects lined up to blame the cystitis on. The reason why it took so long to understand that it was the ketamine is explained by the observation that symptoms only appeared when a certain accumulation of ketamine in the body is reached. I could take ketamine for days, everything was fine, no bladder problems. – But a few more shots, two days later, would give me the worst cystitis within hours. It seemed to me that once I went past a threshold of saturation, the body cannot put it away anymore. The delayed reaction made it difficult to connect the ketamine use with your bladder. Once I became aware of this problem I had an early warning system installed, that told me at the slightest hint of cystitis to stop the ketamine immediately. So my advice is: Less ketamine, more walks on the beach, and to pay absolute attention to what your body tells you.

   ( At the time we used to take 100mg intramuscular, with a lot of attention on sterility and clean syringes, except of course John Lilly, who could do anything because he was Irish.)
   I never had any K-bladder problems after I understood the rules.
   The problem with the delayed peeing has probably a different explanation. The first time I had this problem, I was very high on acid and could not pee, because I could not find the muscle that needed to relax within the million signals I received from the general area. Later I realized, that in fact, we have a few muscles in our body called sphincters. They are always contracted and unlike the rest of the musculature who is designed to contract, the sphincter needs the opposite signal. That can be difficult when you are trying to do this consciously. I learned a lot of amusing techniques to get myself to pee – like making a fist and then redirecting this signal to to my bladder – or like when you are trying to trigger a delayed sneeze, by looking into a bright light – It works for peeing too.
   True story: Once I found myself high as a kite in a bathroom with a need to pee, but no idea which button to push. There was a bag of cat-litter in the bathroom and I focused my eyes on the little R with a circle, the symbol for “registered to...” It worked. Then I realized that the little R, was the corporate pee mark, which I was utilizing to pee, and in a fractal world this can be understood as an iteration of similar events on different levels. HaHa!

 

Sometimes Facebook is great:

Quote of the day:
If you think Ronald Reagan ended the cold war, you might as well believe that Charlton Heston parted the Red Sea.

Multiverse/Volume 5 HD

SIX LAWS THAT GOVERN THE UNIVERSE.

THE FIRST LAW:

It never rains, but it pours.

Commentary:

Everybody who has been hanging out in the universe, knows this simple fact. Of course in it's larger application we see that indeed: The universe is made out of clusters, strings, waves!

Everything exists between two extremes: Empty space – no rain at all! Compact space like at the center of the earth, the sun, or a black hole – the rain is so thick you don't want to go there.

Thick, thin, large, small, heavy, light, dark, light...hmm...particles, waves... Sounds like Hegel, or the I Ching.

Anyway, it's a very reliable law – every professional gambler, meteorologist, or quantum physicist can attest to that.

THE SECOND LAW:

You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink.

Commentary:

This metaphor describes why teaching and learning are such difficult tasks. It is our inability to accept new information and the desire to stick with what we know. Like the pope, who refused to look through Galileo's telescope, because he already knew there was nothing to see.

Footnote:

Most early cultures quickly figured that if you sell the water to the horse – it would happily drink...

THE THIRD LAW:

We have a very poorly functioning memory.

Commentary:

Conventionally, to illustrate this point, one would claim to have forgotten the commentary – haha – nevertheless that would show enough memory to remember the joke etc.. and contradict itself. There are two types of memory lapses: Misplacement of the information or complete deletion. Misplaced information we usually are aware of, we know that we used to know, we just can't quite get there. Information that was completely deleted, doesn't leave any trace it ever existed. Never happened!

THE FOURTH LAW:

The Law of the Surf

Commentary:

This law cannot be described in words: I usually show it by going into a surfer-pose, bending slightly forward, both leg firmly on the ground, and balancing with widely stretched arms.

What that means is: You cannot learn “The Tango” from a book! Somebody has to show it to you. Then your mirror-neurons can replicate the movement without problem. These are speechless instructions, that also explain the otherwise unexplained mystery of the infectious yawning, sneezing, synchronized swimming, etc... So it's a wordless law – it needs to be shown.

THE FIFTH LAW:

The Law of the Unintended Consequences

Commentary:

However smart you are, when you think you covered every eventuality – you have to make room in your calculations for the unintended. That's just the way it is. It's a law!

THE SIXTH LAW:

This space intentionally left blank.

Commentary:

See above.

 

As they were experienced by Brummbaer

2013