There's Never Been A Better Time To Be An Anarchist

Arabım Fellahi

Inceptual Thinking

It is because only the greatest occurrence, the most intimate event, can still save us from lostness in the bustle of mere incidents and machinations. What must eventuate is what opens being to us and places us back into being and in that way brings us to ourselves and face to face with work and sacrifice. ~ Martin Heidegger, Contributions, p. 46.

The Green One

Mr. Tambourine Man (Newport Folk Festival, 1964)

Epilogue

It is possible that eventually Islam (like Christianity already in some circles) will prove to have its most creative thrust by way of the "secular" literature in which its challenge has been embedded, and will move among its heirs like a secret leaven long after they have forgotten they were once Muslims. Persian poetry will not die so soon as the disquisitions of fiqh or kalam. And Persian poetry may eventually prove to be as potent everywhere as among those who use language touched by the Persianate spirit, and so by Islam. ~ Marshall Hodgson, The Venture of Islam, Vol. 3, 441.

Stephen Hero's Creed

It is absurd that I should go crawling and cringing and praying and begging to mummers who are themselves no more than beggars. Can we not root this pest out of our minds and out of our society that men may be able to walk through the streets without meeting some old stale belief or hypocrisy at every street corner? I, at least, will try. I will not accept anything from them. I will not take service under them. I will not submit to them, either outwardly or inwardly. ~ James Joyce

Persian Ney - Mohammad Mousavi

A Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Bird

Name: Malamati Renegado. Occupation: Gadfly.

Chaucer

A contemporary of Hafez. But who was he?

John Berger

A life in writing.

Hurt

Efficacious Reading

Publications of the Simplicity Institute.

The Quick And The Dead

One by one, they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age...His soul had approached that region where dwell the vast hordes of the dead. He was conscious of, but could not apprehend, their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself, which these dead had one time reared and lived in, was dissolving and dwindling...A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight...It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead. ~ James Joyce, "The Dead," Dubliners.

Homo Sapiens

"Wise dirt" [humus].

The Feast Of Fools