Date: Sat, 27 Jul 1996 16:12:47 +0000 (GMT)


Anarchives Mid-Summer Communique

Hey everybody, the anarchives has been a bit quiet lately, as we've all 
been busy and travelling the world. Here's a taste of what's going down, 
activity is in ascension and reports will begin to flow concnerning what's 
coming in the future, which is just another way to describe the present...


____________________________________

Red RainForce Rising

We are without us and my one indigo eye is moving in. The shore's buildings
and towers are crashing to waves but your red ceder, rotted on the top is
still standing.

The tonal was obliterated and language now rises out of spirit carcus like
those emerald green leaves lighting the black mountain background.

Drudgery/Reward, Pain/Pleasure, Victim, Martyr, cycles are finishing. In
the horizon I see unconditional hearts and constant ecstasies. The negative
is falling off like dried paint from this transparent ball.

Nerves like drums need rhythm. You'll know when the world ends because
you'll be wondering who you are as it begins. A womb is a fire you make,
leave or awe at. God are those invisble flying swords you call dogs who
sing and walk.

Soon people will see the melody planes around them. Tireless silent
progressions will drown out your aggression or passivity and swirl through
tea sticks at a midningt mountain.

A red flower found in this workship is wiser than those feudal
consistencies and petroglyph definitions that rot even the guarded
property. It's still a world where no one person is to be seen with
anywhere close to most of their one person is to be seen with anywhere
close to most of their one person.

There's a baby bee finding the wrong side of the sun, hitting the lit
window pane over and over again until I point out from behind the steam,
the shadows of the pane where she finally flies, up and out past the hinges
and into the cool blue.

Stopping that river injured neks and shoulders and now the dirt road on the
right is finally flooding.

The celtic mermain swims in fear, because of the way she feels she should
think. But she's a piercing Goddess and I'll see you down south in that
little house in the desert.

The church's stole spirit, marchers stole discipline, computers stole
imagination, psychology stole psychics and you stole me and we all got
locked up in folders and Warner Brothers bored games. So now the snakes
take you up and the ladders take you down; Medusa has shown with millions
and beauty but she's down to persuasion and style is getting wet and moving
to Mars to dry off while most wait coughing and the ones who draw now
teach.

Close your eyes and look above the plastic and screen to that white red
opening below moist red petals, circling from and beyond the crystalled
stem.



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