Yule Caroling

Many of our Christmas carols come from a Pagan source, often

the ancient Celtic or Germanic people. The same is true of the holiday itself and most other Christian holidays. Certain traditions and dates of ritual-practice were maintained and modified by missionaries to draw Pagans into a Christian life. (This is why Jehovah's Witnesses do not celebrate even Christian holidays, because they come from an "impure" source.) Christmas was once Yule, which has many historic interpretations; originally it was a winter lunar holiday of the Germanic Pagans. However, winter-season and solstice celebrations are common in almost every indigenous or pre-modern culture.

All religions (for lack of a better word) draw upon some same key elements, and so we see the Pagan Yule present worldwide alongside other nearly universal practices and beliefs (consult the works of Joseph Campbell). Of course Christianity is not excluded from the collective mind, many of the concepts and traditions present in Christianity developed independently of other traditions, and yet are connected or related to other systems of thought and practices. A peculiar (and somewhat tangential) example comes to mind: when missionaries arrived in Papua New Guinea they found the indigenous residents difficult to convert because all concepts of sin and salvation were absent from their myths, but cannibalism was/is a fact of life. Therefore, it was the Holy Sacrament (the drinking and eating of the symbolic blood and body of Christ) that bridged the gap between these two seemingly separate cultures.

If we look far enough back into our family tree we are all indigenous. And if we look deeply enough into ourselves, and our modern practices we may find a Pagan face looking back at us, painted and singing. I have much to say on the subject of “song”… but for now I will content myself to address our Yuletide caroling. The Christian mythos and the consumer ethos of the modern solstice season do not suit me, and I’d hazard to guess they do not suit you either. But I do not wish to ignore the power and beauty of the season, in fact I want to sing in praise, gratitude and communion with the Earth and its People. So here is my favorite Christmas song ("The Holly and the Ivy") restored to its original Yule version. You may well find original Pagan versions of your own favorite songs online or in the library, or you may wish to simply look inward and “restore” the ancient song on your own. If you find a good one, or write your own, send it to me and I will post here. Good Yule to you!

The holly and the ivy / When they are both full grown / Of all the trees that are in the wood / The holly bears the crown.

Chorus: Oh, the rising of the sun / And the running of the deer / The shining of the winter stars / As the longer days draw near.

The holly bears a blossom / As white as any flower / As our Mother bears the infant Sun / In the winter's darkest hour.

(Chorus)

The holly bears a berry / As red as any blood / As our Father bears the hunter's spear / for His hungry children's good.

(Chorus)

The holly bears a prickle / As sharp as any thorn / As we shall bear our song of hope / On triumphant Yuletide morn.

(Chorus)

(photo notes: image of "the Holly King" from the internet, British origins)

Step to the right of your left hemisphere

There isn't much I can say about this video, this story, or story-teller. The beauty, wonder and human-heartedness here are so expansive that I couldn't bring myself to summarize. Jill Bolte Taylor's gifts are great, and she is as generous. Here she sings an ancient song set to a modern tune. She sings for all the human family to listen and rejoice, knowing that peace, joy and compassion are our truest nature, our birth-right and our offerings. I love this woman!

TED is an altruistic non-profit contributing to the collective wisdom of mankind by organizing and distributing amazing talks by great humans.

Yugen Movie I (anti-viral video)

Another monthly series to join the ranks... Yugen Movies. Short, silent videos of boring things... a.k.a Anti-viral Videos. Actual locations of little importance.

John Cage as Imagined

“And what is the purpose of writing music? One is, or course, not dealing with purposes but dealing with sounds. Or the answer must take the form of paradox: a purposeful purposelessness or purposeless play. This play, however, is an affirmation of life – not an attempt to bring order out of chaos nor to suggest improvements in creation, but simply a way of waking up to the very life we’re living, which is so excellent once one gets one’s mind and one’s desires out of its way and lets it act of its own accord.” –John Cage

"John Cage as Imagined" by Fletcher Tucker

First there was his voice, clear and gentle like that of a glacial stream. The voice, of course, intones the mind, which was even more clear, more gentle, perhaps more like a wind lightly pushing us this way and that way. His fingers were long, a gift not just for playing the piano, but also for pointing. He kept his fingernails overgrown so he could not clench a fist, nor clutch anything too tightly. He had ears that could rotate around (like a coyote) which he would also point with. Pointing was his favorite… with riddles and performances he would point to sounds, to symbols, to waves… to deep oceans. At parties he would entertain fifty conversations all at once, and answer every question he was asked with another question. He always brought guacamole, or a three-bean salad. John Cage was the Roshi of the New School. The subtle broom of western music. Your black-sheep uncle who never forgot your birthday. His only instrument was his mind, which he learned to let play itself. On his 433rd birthday John Cage was eaten by a shark while surfing. With his last breath, he was heard (only by the shark) to say: “How lovely to be eaten by such a great composer, one who can finally teach me about silence.”

photo notes: from the inter-net... further note: thanks are due to my friend Spencer Owen for showing me John Cage in a tangible way.

Transparency

In the interest of transparency I have decided to show all sides of myself on this here blawg. Not just awareness seeking, riddle speaking stuff... I do sometimes doodle a comic. The first taste is free...

Yin Yang Halloween

or "Yin Yang, Jack-o-'lantern, Celtic Cross - bad tattoo suggestions"

“What is a bad man but a good man’s job? What is a good man but a bad man’s teacher?” So says Lau-Tzu in the Tao Te Ching. In Taoism there is a belief that “opposites” are actually polar aspects of one, same thing, energy, event, or concept. In this way light and dark are thought of as mutually arising, which is to say: one did not create the other, they in fact exist only simultaneously; like-wise, one can never dominate or destroy the other, for they depend upon one another, and in fact are the same.

They are falsely named light and dark, and should rather be seen as lightdark, or perhaps by some other name [might I suggest ldiagrhkt?]… this is the same as our understanding that a magnet is what sits between the pulling and pushing poles, a central point that essentially cannot be located, and certainly cannot be extracted. When does the negative pole become positive, or visa versa? They must both be present to create a magnet. So it can be said of life and death, and good and bad, or, if you prefer, good and evil.

Halloween is less about “evil” than it used to be. Based on ancient Celtic traditions All Hollows’ Eve (formerly Samhain), observed every year on October 31st, is when the pole that is the living world collides with the pole that is the world of the dead; and so this planet is like the magnet “between” the poles.

Halloween sometimes brought darkness upon the villages and homes of the shamanic Irish. Evil might visit in the form of illness, bad crops, or disease among the livestock. October 31st was indeed a dangerous day. So how was death, darkness, and evil to be placated? How were the Celts to act? As Taoists it seems, for they did not close down their towns and hide at the end of October, nor did they fearfully fight for the other pole.

They did not fill their homes with idols and reminders of the living world, instead they burned animal bones, carved gourds like skulls, and hung skeletons upon their windows… young men even dressed as though dead and painted their faces black. Through these symbols and rituals the dead were free to move among the living. There was no fight.

The ancient Celts walked in the darkness as they walked in the light, knowing (it seems to me) that they are one… knowing that darkness, pain, sickness, fear, madness, sorrow, cruelty, and death are the troughs of waves with peaks called light, pleasure, well-being, wonder, clarity, love, kindness, and life. For the peak to exist at all there must be the trough, and so to fight for light to conquer dark is to fight also against light.

May this Halloween be totally Celtic, very dark and very scary, and so it follows... may the next day be bright and hopeful… forever and ever, Amen.

photo notes: taken by Fletcher Tucker in 2008 near Stockholm

Dursu Uzula

Dursu Uzula is a film in Russian made in Siberia by master Japanese filmmaker Akira Kurosawa in 1975. The plot is simple and goes as follows: Russian soldiers are exploring/mapping the wild far-east of their territory in 1902, by chance they encounter a trapper named Dursu Uzula who in turn becomes their guide.

Dursu is an Asiatic indigenous man of the region, in the parlance of the time he is known as a Goldi. I am assuming that this is a term for a certain ethnic group of the region, possibly a term used only in the early 1900’s; regardless of the actual meaning, the sound of the name casts Dursu (movie and character) in the right light… I conceive of it more as a title, Dursu is the Goldi because his precise knowledge and way of being is approaching its “golden years” in the rapidly modernizing world.

He is golden like leaves in partial decay, or the afternoon sun on an icy lake (frozen in the night, and thawing in the mid-day). This Goldi is a man of autumn, because he is the keeper of knowledge and awareness that was so rapidly in decline even in the early 1900’s.

With perfect knowledge of place Dursu is woven into the land, surviving by (what seems now to be) a super-sense of deep ecology that was already receding. The time of indigenous people, even in far-flung places, was almost over, and much of their ancient wisdom lost. Dursu sees this loss reflected in the attitudes of the Russian men he leads through the forest; he often mocks the soldiers comparing them to children because they notice so little.

Dursu meanwhile expresses expansive awareness and compassion for all beings, living and non-living, referring to all things in broken Russian as “men”. He expresses concern that stretches well beyond himself and his immediate situation, revealed in a scene where he repairs an abandoned shack in the forest and fills it with dry wood, matches, and rice, on the off-chance that someone will pass the hut and be in need.

His awareness too is far reaching, it reaches, in fact, beyond the limits of the land he knows, even this planet. Dursu (pointing to the sun): “this men is most important men, he dies, all men die…” (then pointing to the moon) “this men is also very important.” Dursu seems to know the truth: we are all in all.

Despite Dursu’s rich knowledge of place, the fragility of man is painted across this picture, as are notions of loss, and pain. Even when we are one with the wild, the world is still full of danger, and suffering arises anew. But we strive and strive and strive. By including fear and darkness this film dodges the sappy over-glorification/de-humanization of the indigenous man, Dursu is not set apart from the sufferings and sorrows of modern men… sorrow it seems is timeless and universal.

Lovely too in this movie is the dear friendship that develops between Dursu and the Russian Captain/Cartographer. The Captain’s reverence for Dursu is shown again and again in the film, and although he lacks the wild wisdom of the Goldi, the Captain is a compassionate and gentle spirit too, which brings in a hopeful view for this future-past. Although we loose some of our ways (and maybe even we loose our way entirely) the human heart is still ancient and good.

For eternally and always there is only now

"Thus you can throw yourself flat on the ground, stretched out upon Mother Earth, with the certain conviction that you are one with her and she with you. You are as firmly established, as invulnerable as she, indeed a thousand times firmer and more invulnerable. As surely as she will engulf you tomorrow, so surely will she bring you forth anew to the new striving and suffering. And not merely "some day": now, today, every day she is bringing you forth, not once but thousands upon thousands of times, just as every day she engulfs you a thousand times over. For eternally and always there is only now, one and the same now; the present is the only thing that has no end." - Erwin Rudolf Josef Alexander Schrödinger

Nobel Prize winning Quantum Physicist and truly Majik Dude. This quote is from his book My View of the World

photo notes: from "the" internet

Mushroom Mirror

[a continuation from Autumn & the Death of the Buddha, which can be seen below]

Now we stumble into the territory of the mushroom and the mind. The universe, in Buddhist terms, is a series of mirrors… in Buddhist mind-science we investigate some things that are impossible to know (such as death) by investigating other aspects of being, which are a reflection of the same cycles… this is the origin of such theories as reincarnation.

The natural world is an endless cycle of spring, summer, autumn, winter, and spring again, and so it follows that the nature of consciousness, and of the human soul, would be a reflection of that cycle, now renamed: birth, life, death, void, and rebirth. Some of the cycle we can see directly (birth, life and death), and some of it we can only see reflected (void and rebirth). The mushroom’s ecological role, its historical significance in Buddhism, and its potential effects on the human mind also appear to be reflective.

Without the mushroom the world would become an impassable heap of detritus. Without various fungi, and like organisms, decomposition of dead plant and animal matter cannot occur fast enough to keep up with the cycle of death and birth. Waste is broken down, and refined by mushrooms as they build themselves of it; the chaotic clutter is clarified as a mushroom. This process is reflected in the human mind when our ways of seeing are clarified and refined by eating certain mushrooms (psilocybin).

The world of perception is similarly cluttered with debris, and waste, in this case: language, memory and associations… mind leaf-litter. Now we travel deeper into concepts like phenomenology and thusness, ideas that would fill this and many blogs if we were to start excavating thoroughly… should you be interested and uninitiated I recommend reading Heidegger for a western take, and Dogen for an eastern one. Here is my understanding…

Instead of seeing the fabric of the world as it is, we see it as it has been described. We do not usually see a tree when we look at a tree, we also do not see the complex and beautiful ecosystem in which it is woven (and of which it is also weaver), instead we identify that living object as tree because it fits a description, a memory, a string of words and thoughts. We also seldom see past the words and associations themselves, and it is even more seldom that we understand some part of the world not as a separate entity, cut-off and categorizable, but in fact as an inseparable aspect of the whole.

We cannot be fully present if these problems persist, we cannot perceive the true thusness of any one thing, nor can we perceive the Oneness of all things. Our mind needs a mushroom; whether it be a real mushroom (like a psilocybin), or a reflective practice (like meditation).

The mushroom helped the Gautama Buddha sew his cells back into the earth, to unbind his subtle-self from his body. His life was a life of symbols, a life of instruction, so I am inclined to consider why he pointed to the mushroom in his last moments… probably not to turn us all into psychedelic-trippers (although the people of Nepal were certainly aware of these mushrooms, which they used and called “Traveling Plants”)… The Gautama was, I think, pointing once again at the mirror, which reflects another mirror, and so on and so forth as we reflect each other, as the universe reflects us, as "the entire moon is seen reflected in a single dew drop"(quote from Dogen), as the path of self liberation is revealed in a single mushroom. The series of reflections, as in the “tunnel” made by two mirrors, is endless, as are the cycles themselves, as are the mysteries we contemplate.

Happy autumn to you!

photo notes: taken by Fletcher Tucker in 2009, on Orcas Island Washington

Autumn & the Death of the Buddha

Pumpkins and gourds, golden leaves, and Halloween decorations are the trappings of autumn in the west. In the east the mushroom (in its many forms) is the symbol of the season. Autumn is most simply a time of slow death. Plants and animals turn their attention inward to prepare for the impending dark. Deciduous shrubs and trees shed their leaves, their connection to the sunlit world; instead they sit and wait as sticks and bramble. Bears and mice dig graves in the earth, preparing to sleep as though dead for months. Snakes slither into caves, and toads slip under the mud, both plan to freeze. Birds and insects leave the sky. The living world rests between exhale and inhale… for the most part.

The mushroom spore thrives in the fall, however, absorbing old wet leaves, fallen trees, half-frozen corpses, and piles of shit, rematerializing them into focused beams of matter and energy (the mushroom itself).

It is no wonder that this marvelous organism has become synonymous with autumn (in Asia), as it is quite common to witness the mushroom’s appearance, as if by magic, in the shadows of the crumbling and retracting fall environment; arriving as everything leaves, being born as everything else appears to die.

There is much poetry contained in the tiny mushroom, even more so when we consider its place in the legends/histories of Buddhism. The Guatama Buddha’s last meal included a poorly identified poisonous mushroom, from which he fell ill and died soon after. His death, of course, was actually his liberation from the world, an event necessary on the path to Realization, Oneness, reunion with the Self.

So when we celebrate autumn, we celebrate the mushroom. But we must also consider greater symbolism in the fungus, because as we celebrate the mushroom we also celebrate the death of the Buddha, and so Oneness in and of itself. [to be continued…]

photo notes: taken by Fletcher Tucker in 2008, near Malmö Sweden. This mushroom is called Flugsvamp it is amazingly poisonous, but if prepared carefully (as it was by the Vikings) it can be very powerful in removing both fear and pain, which is why it was ingested by many warriors before battle... no doubt partly responsible for the Vikings' historical reputation of being unstoppable in battle.

Tree Tits

Maybe part of a new series of images called sexinature... Just to class things up a bit.

photo notes: taken by Fletcher Tucker (noticed by Noël Vietor) 2009, Point Reyes California

A Majik Word

In Japanese there is a word, yugen, for which there is no corollary in English. Yugen is the word for a feeling, which can be described in English only by describing situations where the feeling is present:

“To watch the sun sink behind a flower clad hill, to wander on and on in a huge forest without thought of return, to stand upon the shore and gaze at a boat as it disappears behind distant islands, to contemplate the flight of wild geese seen and lost among the clouds.”

These are examples of yugen from Seami (a.k.a. Zeami, a.k.a. Kanze Motokiyo), Japanese playwright and theorist from the 15th century. It is, at least to my brain, not immediately simple to draw connections here, intellectually I mean. There is however an ineffable similarity between these situations. If I am to apply my wider imagination, I am quite easily transported to places/happenings I have experienced myself, places/happenings similar to those described by Seami, and I understand the feeling that is same, and so the word with my feelings.

I am likely to prattle on and on about the short-comings of language on this blog, elevating my ironic status to threat-level-mauve… The complex traps, snares and veils of language are a favorite thought-topic of mine. Certainly language does not always work in our favor, not because it is weak, but because language is pervasive and unbelievably powerful.

Reality, individual and shared, is determined by our attention. We cannot make sense of the world in front of us if we do not focus on something (visa vi: leave some things out). Likewise, our senses focus their attention (over millions of years of evolution) on certain wavelengths and types of vibration. Surely there are innumerable aspects of the world, our lives, ourselves, consciousness, and the expansive universe that allude our perception, because we cannot sense them, or because we have not learned, or have forgotten how to focus our attention on them.

On the most practical level, in most cases, for most people, language is our spotlight, our net for the world. We sense what we can say, we do not notice what we do not have words for, and we often struggle with feelings or perceptions we cannot describe… this is something I seek to undo in my life, some language liberation is my goal. But before the spotlight is just daylight, we can widen the beam, expand the net we cast. Sometimes I find a majik word, like yugen, that reminds me that there can be liberation even within this heavy-handed system of symbols and grunts we’ve devised. There are mantras, songs, and incantations… and sometimes a single word.

photo notes: taken by Fletcher Tucker 2008, Stockholm Sweden

Why I Stopped to Look

I began to investigate a murder as I got out of my car to photograph the corpse of an adolescent black-tail deer. She was struck down by a car or truck, possibly moments before Noël and I saw her in the road. Her body was cold, but the blood had not even begun to dry, nearly neon-red and shinny in my headlights.

There are those among us who would call this photo morbid; those who would see only the sad fact that our (human) systems brought about the untimely and unnatural end of this young being. They are both well meaning perspectives; they offer a framework for compassion, respect, and awareness in their own way. Certainly I do not wish to scandalize this animal with my photos, nor do I wish to ignore the relatively tragic impact of human intrusion (in this case roads and autos).

I stopped to investigate, searching not for the fingerprints of the killer, but in fact for the fingerprints of death itself. On this trail, laid afresh, I must contemplate absence more than presence, void instead of form. Subtle though they are, the dark, the cold, and silence are the tracks and leavings of eternity. So far, this appears more morbid than the photo. But I am actually speaking about a sense of wonder.

By this corpse I marveled at the completeness of death, and simultaneously at the magnificence of consciousness. When consciousness left that deer, so did the deer. I did not stand in the road by a doe; I stood rather in the absence of one, a void-doe, a no-deer. So much was clear upon seeing the strange, clouded forms that were once eyes, and upon hoisting it up (to place it off the road, to prevent further endangerment of drivers and scavengers, Noël’s good idea), touching the once-flesh, feeling its weight devoid of the warmth and grace that creates “deer.” Its body was always just a magnificent puppet made of grass and soil, rain and salt, electricity and movement. It is amazing how immediately and irrevocably someone (person or animal) simply becomes the land, deposited as a lump of earth at his or her moment of death. We rely only on ephemeral cell walls for boundaries, separating out bodies from silt, separation contingent upon the breath… when it leaves so do the boundaries, not over time, but in an immeasurable instant.

This is why I stopped to look. It is, I think, effortless to sense these aspects of being, life, death, and consciousness, if you take a little time in the presence of a dead animal; dead humans are, of course, less accessible (practically and emotionally), but could inspire the same awareness… some of what we are also leaves, and some too becomes earth. These are glimpses of lights almost imperceptibly subtle, ideas so huge I cannot get far enough away to take them in. Even so, there is clarity in the calm, cool space left by those who have left; though I have no final conclusions. This, like all, (murder) mysteries is left unsolved, but I investigate none-the-less, grateful simply for the chance to do so.

[A quote relating to the value of animal-corpse contemplation compared with the short-comings of human-corpse contemplation. In-other-words, why people don't see much beauty or value in dead people.] “Dead humans contain too much horror, I think the vision of eternity is muddled by horror.” - Matthew Wray Robison

photo notes: taken by Fletcher Tucker 2009, near Tomales Bay California

A Majik Place

These photos are from Nimis (a.k.a Ladonia) and it is wonderful. A drift-wood city built by one man in the South of Sweden over 20 years. The wood was delivered by the sea, and cobbled together with nails hauled to this stone beach in a sack, on a back. Read about Nimis, dream about Nimis.

photo notes: taken by Fletcher Tucker 2008, at Nimis in the south of Sweden

Journal from the Sierra-Nevadas

A bat in the middle of the day flies over my family. A blessing, an omen.

- 10 / VIII / 09

Then bat shit on me in the night, that’s new to me… I’ve been dropped on by birds (song & sea), slipped on dog, marveled at mountain lion, and thrown cow… but never visited by bat scat. Later, lonely owl song far off, looking for companionship.

- 11 / VIII / 09

Thirty-three meteorites seen from the stone plateau of our camp, some with long tales stretching across a quarter of the bowl. Usually “shooting stars” cannot be confirmed, even by yourself, they are like a flash of spirit. Instead, tonight we wowed together (with who knows how many more on the dark side of the Earth). Wonder resounding at the movement way above us, connecting us to the farthest edge of our home.

- 12 / VIII / 09

Blue & white butterfly landed on my journal, I wrote this one second later.

- 13 / VIII / 09

Three ravens in formation fly over, low. Distinguished from crows by the sound of their wings, whoosh-whoosh (like a Pterodactyl), and the depth of their cry. Hours later from the top of a fur tree one raven calls another, its call is answered and together they circle in the air, one left the other right. Far off, just black specks, two more ravens mirror them exactly.

- 14 / VIII / 09

An owl again at nightfall, heard between meteorites, “only” five now. This time not so lonesome, the call is answered a half-octave higher. So they move tree-by-tree, calling out and listening with endless patience, seeking out their partner in song. Whether their corporeal forms ever met I can’t be sure, but their voices meet close to our camp… calling in different pitches in perfect unison. The over-tones ring off the rocks, the air in their bird-lungs vibrates intimacy. I hold my breath in gratitude.

- 15 / VIII / 09

photo notes: taken by Fletcher Tucker 2009, Sierra-Nevada Mountains

Subtle music surrounds us

"We and nature are companions, and although authoritative voices do not speak from clouds, a vast, subtle music surrounds us, accessible via clarity and serenity" - Gary Snyder (quotation from Energy from the Moon)

Try to read everything Gary Snyder has ever written, and I will try too. May he live 10,000 years... if he wants to.

photo notes: from a google image search, photographer unknown.

an Indie Sutra

“Concert at the Gateless Gate – Touring & Non-Attachment”

Surely this show, this song, must end. As soon as the thought of the concert forms its impermanence begins also, expanding and thinning out, in unstoppable entropy. A song, like a life, lasts only as long as the breath, and stretches only in our conceptions past the immediate present moment. It is in this moment that we encounter the most astonishing gift of song, a potentially absolute union of performer with listener, listener with performer, and all listeners with one another. This extends only as far as one’s will to surrender entirely to that moment. Should we be willing… here we are reprieved of boundaries, as musician and audience participate equally in the mind-manifesting that is song-birth.

Though they end, after this show there is another. Despite the frustration or elation experienced during any “gig” the musician must let it go, for it is fleeting and soon to be replaced. Although a generous audience, fine venue, and evening of excellent playing can sustain and up-lift an artist, it cannot actually be preserved. And though inattentive listeners, impolite sound engineers, and many false notes can diminish one’s confidence, the show is soon forgotten by all, and swallowed by the void instantly with no sentiment. There is nothing to be done, no pain to be avoided, no pleasure to be preserved… only what arises as it does.

Thus we find the touring road of music-makers to be actually the road of non-attachment and present-mindedness. So we sing as the gateless gate comes into view, perhaps far off, but always approaching.

- Fletcher M. Tucker, June 2009 (on tour)

photo notes: taken by Gyða Björg Sigurðardóttir 2009, in a cave in western Iceland

Basho as Imagined

Today would have been the 69^th birthday of Robbie Basho, composer, guitarist, pianist, singer, sage. In memoriam I have written this piece about him…

“Basho as Imagined” by Fletcher Tucker

7 feet tall and 29 pounds, Robbie Basho was created on August 31^st 1940. His enormous stature was attributed (by many) to his father, the Mountain, conversely his feathery weight was bestowed upon him by his mother, Fresh Fallen Snow. With hands as broad as an alpine stream during spring thaw, Basho was made to play the 12-string guitar… some find it a daunting instrument… the breadth of its neck, and the delicate placement of the strings challenge most, but nourished Basho. Channeling old and modern magic through his instrument Basho set out to create a new form of music, the American Raga. As gifted as any beast can be with an instrument, or composition, he was equally gifted as a singer. Basho had a voice like an old Viking king and a range of highest vibratos and rumbling, lamenting moans; his remarkable vocal power was no doubt a bi-product of lungs comparably sized to that of a bull moose. His lyrics were a refined visionary beam, casting light on mythos and mystery from the ancient America, mystic Persia, ascetic Hindu, and feudal Japan. Warrior-artist Basho, armed with voice, words, wood (body), steel (strings), and sight, is one of our greatest illuminators… little known shaman of America the Beautiful… bringer of song from beyond the veil.

• “Factual” information can be found at the wikipedia
• His records are rare, and almost none of them are currently in print, so look for them to download. I recommend “Voice of the Eagle” & “Visions on the Country” but also stand by each and every one his many records.

"The Eagle cried to the sun: we are all one!"- Basho

photo notes: taken by Fletcher Tucker 2007, of an amazing wood carving in a museum in Paris France

"what we will do"

Majik Dudes is mind manifesting in three:

I. Future presentations of live in(ter)dependent musics in San Francisco. We are cultivating all-ages spaces (only). Audience and performer both contribute to the “mind” that is the moment of song-birth, Majik Dudes will respect this union with rad venues that nourish creation. Soon… in Autumn, we will start gathering together, for shows with local and touring artists. Shows will be cheap, and the music will be good.

II. Writings related to music, art & awareness. Publishing of some of my naturejournals & thought wonderings, poetry, and prose. And "reviews" (for lack of a better word) of records and musicians I enjoy.

III. Personal and group artworks published. Objects (utilitarian and decorative) displayed online.

Check back soon.