Wild Burros

 

On the infamous Route 66 that crosses the southwestern United States, there is a small “ghost” town called Oatman, in the Arizona desert.  The town was famous for being the honeymoon hideway for Clark Gable and Carole Lombard, but today it is also famous for its wild burros.  The burros are descendents of the pack animals that gold prospectors brought with them to the region in the 19th century.  Today they are protected by the U.S. Bureau of Land Management as a living relic of the American Wild West.

The town of Oatman makes its living from tourists, such as myself above, who come just to see the donkeys.  My dad was with me on this trip and he nicknamed the little fellow “Herschel” (I have no idea where he came up with this name– I just went with it).    Anyway, “Herschel” is one cute little bugger, isn’t he.

Lori Gloyd (c) 2006

The Gundo

I thought I’d say a little bit about the city where I live. I live in El Segundo, California. El Segundo has a population of about 16,000 people who live there, about 100,000 who visit during the day, and we are surrounded by the 13 million other residents of the greater L.A. area.

The town is bounded by the Pacific Ocean, LAX, a conglomeration of various aerospace corporations, and the Chevron Oil Refinery (the second one built in California, hence the name of the town). Also, we are home to the county’s sewage treatment plant, a steam plant, and an electrical plant. And we have a military installation.

But lest you think we live in a horrible, Blade-runner type of place, we do have 27 parks, 18 churches, and 39 restaurants and pubs (fortunately, more eating places than drinking). Other names for the town: The Urban Island, Mayberry-by-the-Sea, The Beach Town without a Beach Culture, and most recently, The Gundo.

We also have an operating silent movie theatre with a three-story high Werlitzer organ. And, most importantly, we are the hometown and current residence of the Barbie doll.

Oh, yeah, and a new Borders bookstore just opened last week! (I’m so excited).

So, there’s just a little snapshot of my town. Let’s hear about yours!

 

Lori Gloyd (c) 2006

Departure from Bristol

Traveller set off from her home town of Bristol, a teeming port city, where she had had difficulty find a seat on the stage coach. The roads were appalling that winter and the carriage managed to lose a wheel before they had even arrived in Bath. Reluctantly, she put up for the night in a bug-infested, rat-ridden hostelry from which she was only too glad to escape on the morrow. The journey to Dover seemed interminable. As she was leaving the hostelry, called ‘the Enchanted Well’ a strange figure had brushed against her, a figure who resembled no living mortal of her era but rather looked as if she had been assembled from various mythological figures. She had wild flowing locks and a cape with mystical images embroidered on it and she carried a twisted staff in one hand. This character had thrust a small bag into her hand saying ”take this, you may find you have need of some of the items therein” and had disappeared. Traveller had thrust it into her pocket but in the coach curiosity got the better of her so she took it out and began to examine its contents, tipping them out on the seat next to her. And what a strange mix of items they were. First of al there was a stiff piece of card, like an invitation.

 

Le Enchanteur has pleasure in inviting you to join her and a number of other travellers on the trip of a lifetime to realms hitherto uncharted - a GRAND TOUR of the land of Lemuria - If you wish to accept this offer you should present yourself at the House of Shells on Friday 1 December 2006 at 9am Further information will be supplied to you at the rendez-vous

There was a candlestick, a packet of seeds, a picture of a winged unicorn glued on to the back of an old playing card, an old pair of metal-framed spectacles, a tiny anchor and a pair of wings . She picked up each item in turn. The candlestick was very small and she couldn’t think what purpose it might serve for it was far too small to provide a light. The seed packet bore the legend ‘dream seeds’ but the picture looked like an opium poppy – and then she saw the connection – of course, opium induced dreams … (how had she heard it described recently? Riding the dragon, that was it. She hoped she wouldn’t doing any dragon-riding in the near future. But perhaps the seeds were for planting one’s dreams and nurturing them as they grew.

 

 

The spectacles didn’t appear to out of the ordinary, just very old. The anchor must have fallen off somebody’s charm bracelet and she couldn’t imagine what she could do with a pair of wings. However did they become small enough to fit in the pouch? She pushed her hand right to the bottom of the bag to ensure that she had found everything when her hand touched something old and papery. She carefully drew it out and unfolded it. It appeared to be a map of some sort but did not look like any maps she had seen before. She decided she would have another look at the map when the light was better. She carefully packed everything back into the bag and stowed it away. Leaning back against the seat considering the objects she eventually dozed off, thus managing to while away the next couple of hours of the journey through a particularly boring flat landscape.

Eventually she arrived at Dover, from where she would be setting out on 1 December. Her passage was already booked and she was eagerly anticipating the adventure, although, it must be said, not the crossing of the channel. Although she could swim like a fish she never felt comfortable on board a ship and prayed for calm seas that day.

 

Sea of Stones - 1

If you have planned a leisurely tour of museums and bargain shops, then stay far away from the shadow of Mount Trigor where every knight bent on Crusade glory stumbled, and Hemingway said ‘Farewell to Arms’, and a dozen cultures braided their myths – and people forgot what they are …

 

We walk together then on a journey from mind’s dilutions to divinunity through a quagmire of doubt and confusion called ‘the soul’!  Yet each of us must also stride alone, as what you choose to take from your pouch, and what to add is not a choice ‘by you’, but ‘of you’.  Oh, I may be able to point out a slippery rock or two, and you may be able to steady my shaky leap across a chasm of folly; but our greatest shared gift is to hold one end of a silver thread so that we can find our way back from the caverns of lost. 

Transylvania is but a dash to the north, and the indolent beaches of azure slumber an easy stroll south – so keep your balance, or at least whistle in the glomming that I might find you.

Sorry – I am speaking to you as if I were a Gusari of medieval times, when a tour guide had to be a warrior and shaman and midwife of dreams.  That legacy is in my blood, as is that of princes buried in kurgans nearby, and of storytellers who still carry the embers of creation; but I am but a seeker just as thee.  The only difference is that I remember more – at least that is what the elders believe – those who would call be Duuran.  Forget this!  Lesson one is that believing has NO VALUE!  I do not wish that you believe in anything I might share.  Just accept that there is much that I KNOW – and that these can serve as kernels of information upon which you might also re-member.  If you can accept that believing is but a transitory step between a mystery and knowledge then your soul might find some peace.  I could tell you that every problem of this world comes from people accepting believing as knowing, but that is just an opinion.

 

Instead, I will ask a question.  All cultures have a shared mythos in which some basic entity proclaimed, “Let there be Light,” or some equivalent command to attention.  As Trigor I choose to call this ‘cause of being’ “SOURCE”; and within the limits of reason ‘Source’ embraces all that is. 

 The question is,

 

“Where was/is Source when this command was given?”

 

Duuran

Sailing to Byzantium

 

That is no country for old men. The young

In one another’s arms, birds in the trees -

Those dying generations - at their song,

The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,

Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long

Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.

Caught in that sensual music all neglect

Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,

A tattered coat upon a stick, unless

Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing

For every tatter in its mortal dress,

Nor is there singing school but studying

Monuments of its own magnificence;

And therefore I have sailed the seas and come

To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God’s holy fire

As in the gold mosaic of a wall,

Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,

And be the singing-masters of my soul.

Consume my heart away; sick with desire

And fastened to a dying animal

It knows not what it is; and gather me

Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take

My bodily form from any natural thing,

But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make

Of hammered gold and gold enamelling

To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;

Or set upon a golden bough to sing

To lords and ladies of Byzantium

Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

– William Butler Yeats