Threshold Revelations ~ EV21 ~ 11/11/11


"Celestial Guidance" (c) Julia Still
Beliefs Divide

What I believe isn’t important. The fact that I can put order to my thoughts, sort them into opinions and fan them into beliefs is hardly impressive. In fact, such thinking is unavoidable. It’s what our highly evolved human brains do. They compare and contrast and judge in an endless attempt to make sense of the world around us. Believing is as automatic as walking or talking or sneezing, and about as noteworthy.

There was a time when I considered my beliefs to be something more than just an assemblage of thoughts. I mistook them for something much more important. I thought they were me.

At various times in my life I believed I was a Catholic, a Unitarian, an agnostic and a secular humanist. I was a liberal, a feminist, an environmentalist and a pacifist. I took on new identities in search of a higher self and, down deep, I think, to distance myself from certain vulgarities that characterize the human condition - qualities like greed and aggression. By connecting certain thoughts, by cobbling together new identities, I convinced myself and others that those unwholesome human traits couldn’t possibly define me. They defined thieves and rapists and murderers. I was above all that, and had a portfolio of beliefs to prove it.

I was not alone in my quest to adopt a new identity. Everyone in the world was doing it right along with me. Hindus, Muslims and Buddhists. Socialists, Communists and Greens. Progressive Unionists, Christian Democrats – some crafting identities the way college freshmen craft double majors. We were all attempting to rise above our inherited animal nature; but rising above it didn’t make it go away. We were still greedy and aggressive despite our deeply held beliefs. We were walking contradictions, projecting our inner conflicts onto the world; in fact, we were the world, and that’s why it was such a bloody mess.

Having wandered from one belief system to another, I thought I had explored life’s biggest questions; but I was only asking questions for which my beliefs had provided me pat answers. I had yet to ask myself the most radical questions, the ones that would eventually smash my beliefs to bits. They were questions no one seemed to be asking, questions like:

If a clash of beliefs can be found at the root of all the violence in the world, then shouldn’t we question their validity – not the validity of any particular belief, but belief itself?

Separated from our beliefs, would we lose our moral bearing? Would we fall prey to our baser instincts and rock the world with depraved acts of violence? Or is this precisely the behavior we exhibit under the hypnotic spell our beliefs?

Imagine a city whose buildings have been leveled by an earthquake. That’s the image I had of my mind after my beliefs had been toppled. I felt like I could see forever in every direction. The towering thought structures that stood as my beliefs no longer blocked my view of the world. I felt a disorienting sense of freedom. Liberated from the beliefs that had conferred my identity, I felt blissfully anonymous. I was a person without a suffix, without an –ist to affirm my existence. I had unwittingly joined the only club that matters. It numbers in the billions, doesn’t charge dues and welcomes career criminals. It’s called the human race.

It’s been years since I disposed of my beliefs; and I have yet to turn into a sociopathic killer. On the contrary, I’ve developed a deep affection for my planet mates now that I’m not measuring them by the yardstick of my beliefs. Gone are the walls of thought that prevented me from seeing who they really are. Gone are the lectures I’d give in an attempt to raise their consciousness. And gone, mercifully, is my compulsion to cast them as evil so that I can appear virtuous.

However sacred or profound, a belief is nothing more than a thought, and thought is never the thing it describes. It can only hint at the wonders it attempts to touch. Sermons about love garble love’s ineffable beauty. Speeches about unity clank after the first syllable. Courting belief is a prescription for a virtual, not a virtuous life.

(c) John Ptacek


Loony bin (part 1)

Telekinesis Armageddon cosmic over flow lights a small fuse in this universe I have created in my head where I can have late night conversations with childhood friends when I’m in that sleep yet awake state- until I realize there is someone there actually conversing with me & when that reality hits I will ask them "Are you still there?" but they wont be, you see, cause as soon as one’s mind clicks into the fact of what is going on that is when the conversation is lost- 2012 the kid knew who drank a ton of belladonna- he knew the score, & so did that guy Max who never showered until they forced him to- with a beard down to his balls- he never spoke a word even tho everyday I’d say "Hey Max! What’s happening, great day today aint it?"I stared at a cup of juice for 5 hours once & the staff was getting concerned, I could not & would not speak to anyone while I went into this trance like state where nothing mattered but me staring at that cup of juice, & inside my mind I saw with my eyes that juice finally begin to boil & that’s when I came out of the trance.hang around a bunch of lunatics long enough you will start acting like one- it’s like a feral child being raised by a pack of dogs that walks on all fours and barks and acts like a dog- any environment one is in will rub that energy off in one way or another until the conscious mind accepts that as normality- for instance I now know I do have friends to speak to as night falls-they may not be people you or somebody else can hear but I hear them perfectly clear now-5 points to the darkened sun when Yosemite explodes after the earth’s massive quakes melt & burn anything with lungs & you can scrub your soul all you want with bleach but that smell you now see, taste, and hear will stay around one’s aura like a volcanic fire ball of circling worms that out stretch from the inner hole of a brain damaged poetic urine fountain- the seven seals of revelation come like a tidal wave of bursting unpredictable showers of fire- your medications to make me a zombie are no longer needed because when I stare into the sun & make my mind as blank as a lobotomy patient- I can feel every sound of every star that explodes in the never ending black holes of an emotion galaxy inside another universe within the sanctity of simple breathing- I can feel invisible sand morsels surrounding my feet in a hot summer day while distant ocean waves slowly come to this new shore of enlightenment- we can feel the cat itching its fleas while it cleans its over fed belly now that the tree stumps have been cut down to mind sized elements of a future that no longer matters.My friend Antonio in the mental ward who was a confused pedophile who could barely speak English could turn into a monkey as soon as I said "ewe, ewe, ahh ahh…"& every time- he would have me rolling around on the ground in hysterical laughter- & that substitute doctor who thought she knew it all trying to cut my Prozac in half while not believing my shaking hands anymore after the fourth day of non stop Librium doses that put me in such a state where all I wanted to do was make new colored drawings like some whacked out third grader non stop- Antonio & others would draw with me and Antonio wrote down a movie he was going to direct with all these alien crafts up in the air. He told me it would be called "Bank Stony tee and the funky family tree movio the grandma Mexican American unknown kavino". "That’s a wonderful title for a movie." I’d respond. Certain staff members looked at us as if we were crazy, others seemed so used to any sort of behavior that came about they could never be surprised with whatever was going on- like the time this guy named Sam –an asian man- came into the TV room –pulled his shorts down & began shitting all over the tile floor while yelling some sort of gibberish in Japanese at the top of his lungs- others began to vomit from the smell but for some reason it smelled like fresh apricots to me- maybe I was starting to lose it for real- or maybe I already had-Sam was on constant suicide watch. Always a big black guard sitting outside his room with the door cracked staring at Sam laying in bed- it made me and the suicidal belladonna drinker roommate of mine wonder what the fuk Sam had done- so one time at lunch-if you can call their lunch food ( it was more like some mystery small portion of what looked and smelled like vomit every day, and a piece of bread) I lost 15 pounds in that place.Well. Suicidal belladonna drinker and me who were both obsessed with 2012- tried to spark up a conversation with Sam."So Sam? What’s your deal? Why are you in here?"He quietly looked up from his food and said…."It’s just a big misunderstanding, that’s all it is."We left it at that. But my mind began to wander, seeing him shoving sewing needles into his ear holes or something while he played Russian roulette with some ancient Japanese gun that was possessed by his grandpa who had killed himself after the war.My mind always thought things like this- maybe it was good I was in this funny farm- if they only had a sensible doctor that knew what she was doing- not this cunt who kept cutting all my medications that made me feel non suicidal- every time I had to look at her face and eyes or even come close to her I felt like splattering my brains all over the fuking walls & hopefully chunks of my brain matter would go flying into her stunned open mouth as I did it.Something about her was just wrong- she gave off that aura that she was so above everyone- like the time I tried to warn her about 2012 and she starts laughing at me saying she worries about what’s going on today, not what will happen in the future. But if we knew what was going to happen in the future it would affect us as to how we act today! I tried to tell her. She was so stupid and condescending-I told her one-day. "Don’t tell me what meds I need and don’t need, I practically have my PhD in medications- I know what makes me happy and what makes me angry-Everything you see around you is an illusion of an atmosphere that other people who have brainwashed you & the rest of society have inflated into this gigantic floating balloon of bullshit that you and most are all stuck in! & one day, with just one pinprick that fuking balloon is gonna pop! Understand! POP! And only than will you & the other robots understand any sort of meaning or truth or love! Understand!"She let out this snide smirky chuckle and whispered something to her assistant who seemed to be writing down everything I said.She made me so angry that I decided to let out this massive fart so that the entire session or whatever it was that we were having would end.So I did."BLLLLLffffffLUUUUUUUffffllRRRRRRRRRPPPPPP!"my butt cheeks ripped one out like a trumpet of belching rabbits being slaughtered all in synchronicity."That’s it MR. Martini! This session is over! Now get out of my office!"Her assistant covered her nose with her shirt and I started hysterically laughing at the looks on both their dumb faces.I walked towards the door & let out one tinier squealer-sounding fart just for good measure.I walked back out into the main room with the other loonies and Antonio came up to me and started acting like a monkey, and I was laughing so hard by that point that I just let out this huge scream of joy or insanity! I’m not sure what it was but I started tipping over chairs and running around in circles like a mad man as the staff of low IQ retards all chased me around trying to get me to stop.I had learned from some whacko they brought in the night before who went on a non-stop cursing fit of such vulgar insanity for hours at 3 a.m., that the crazier you acted the better drugs they would give you. Cause the next day that guy was stumbling around like a slobbering slow motion zombie. his eyes like half shut clueless brain dead glowing numbness.I wanted a big shot of whatever they had given him, and this would be the best way to go about getting it I assumed.I continued to run around in circles, tipping chairs over, and began screeching like a chicken or a rooster.."BEEEEEE GAAAWWWWK! BEEEEEEE GEEEEEEK !" I bellowed, while Antonio ran around doing his monkey impersonation right behind me. This one schizophrenic lady that was always walking around cursing and clapping her hands and singing religious hymns covered her ears and began letting out these horrid screams of pain.When they finally caught me, about five of the Mongoloids grabbed me and wrestled me to the ground and put me back in the straight jacket I seemed to have arrived in my first day there. They took me in this weird little room that was painted purple with doves flying around the walls with no windows. They all held me down and one of the goons brought out this huge needle filled with something. The mere sight of a needle filled with anything always brought a rush of excitement to my drug riddled junkie brain.Last thing I remember was that thing going into one of my few remaining veins & I woke up about 10 hours later feeling like everything was in slow motion and that all my limbs had turned into slippery spaghetti noodles."Feeling a little calmer today Mr. Martini?" this big black guy said opening the door. Only his voice was all slow and warped like some sort of fuked up drunken demon on Thorazine.My lips tried to answer but they were just big globs of jellyfish that wouldn’t form any sort of sentence. It felt like gallons of slobber was drooling down my chin. I had gotten just what I wanted, the less I felt, the more zombie-fried I became all the better was my reasoning. My manic mind & mood swings had to be shut down for long periods of time so that I could just stop thinking so much about so many things. I just wanted that feeling of nothing. Of such zonked out numbness that I wouldn’t even realize I was a human being anymore.

(c) Nicholas R. Morgan

"Dancing on a wire" (c) Tanja Udelhofen

Ode to a Raindrop

I am a god,

or at least,

a part of one.

I spiral,

turn in the air,

a broken tear

falling from clouds

upon the tops

of umbrellas.

I can make mud,

even puddles,

cradles for toy boats

estuaries that

boots may

jump into.

I am an unborn

snowflake, a

tiny river falling

to the earth in

a single, happy,

deadly fall.

(c) William Wright Harris

(c) Adam Pinson

(c) B. Lynn

Amsterdam Wide Dreams

a lovely girl brings home her puppet
and plays with him

the tall convex space appears turquoise
draws a sinuous line
sensual on the perimeter
steeped in the events of others

is the profile of a sea wave
villain of the most beautiful seawater
ensures the persistence of blue

the opposite of darkness is spreading
the wave breaks regular

has a changing effect
hands out colours

the night owns the future

forgives the guilt
multiplies the fixed and reflected light
surrounds the vaporous game
unties a curtain

after dark
you look and measure the content
of mirrors
the anxiety of angels goes on stage
they have memory
remind all

the vibrations are perpendicular
penetrate the skin
a mass of water rises and falls
is female
able to overwhelm the spectator
with the honesty of her sins
under a dim light
so as not to be seen
so you do not see the others

there is a glare
vision is complex
a comely light

the volume of the music is consumed
a ruby-throated hummingbird flies free

growing soft folds follow the trend
the long radius
the imagination to reach
the underside of the tables

steel and water
deposit the gray and blue
in the depths of the deepest eyes

wooden puppet head is sitting
on himself
his face is opalescent
inspired by a happy melodrama

built on the water

(c) Alessandro Cusimano

"Shifting Universe" (c) Alejandro Flores-Oviedo

Night Sky Ocean

© 2011 All International Rights Reserved by Myztico

It is late and after midnight in the New Moon’s night. Her light of milky gauze is nowhere to be seen. The sky blackly turns, an indigo blue, and it’s as swollen as the ocean. The stars all swim like phosphorescence in the sea and the Great Bear has already passed on her way upstream. In these inlets and salt water marshes where love grows blind, it feels as if this is where the world got spawned.

I've been by this river for a long time now, and I don't think I can find my way back to the road. I heard a panther’s scream some while ago. It must have gotten caught on a palmetto breeze. Squatting here, as still and whetted as the marsh, I've been waiting through the water’s lifelines. And they've been breaking in the nocturnal feedings going on all around. But the tidewater’s flow is at its lowest, and the marsh’s up-from-under hunger has receded too.

I've given up trying to return before morning. I've given over to night water’s palm. I've been watching for hours the river and the way it opens to the night sky ocean. Its sleeping dreams have constellated, they've been coming to the surface. And they've been the night hags newly awakened. So eager, they've seemed, to fly on the stirrings of a wet wind. They've just risen so sinuously, sure of their own charms. And they've even brought all of their long stemmed, full waisted loveliness within reach of the sycamore’s water craving limbs.

I think I would have plunged into their element long before now, except for those other faces coming from the same unfeeling depths. I think it would be worth that plunge, worth a bloated eternity, if only for a single twining embrace. But those other faces have kept coming up, they've raised themselves to the top. And they've glowed like a fever sweating its way out. They are the molten faces. They're like faces of the men who have sought the wild woman’s daughter. And they will not turn away. Rising from the bottom, their eyes are empty, while the water keeps boiling all around them. They must have been stirred by the same fiery hands, their eyes having become pearl drops for the crossroad’s ravens. And as they're come nearer to the surface their faces have taken on signs of less uncertainty. I guess they ’re out of their depth in the river’s colder region, being more certain of what they are on the shore. And they're all like kings, with the way they keep surveying what they cannot see. Still I wish they would go away, or find someone else who might heed their warning. I wish they would leave me to the loveliest faces I've ever seen.

This must be where it all began. In these rivers of silt hiding red-black by day, in these glades of loosened life. Even now, in the New Moon’s night, in her no light at all when the month is a nighthawk flying out of the grove, you can see those girlie faces just below the black water’s rise.

(c) Terreson


Into the mire

The steep hills provide shelter from chilly winds, and the mist rarely lifts from the bogland valley.

Trees with snake-patterned bark grow straight and tall here, and echoing calls of witch-time birds are heard by day as well as by night.

Among the hoarsely rustling grasses and rushes on the boggy ground, bodies and limbs swathed in pearly haze, unknown beings are living.

Is the lantern-guy an unknown being?

Many have told stories about him, how his treacherous lights have lured unsuspecting folk out onto the soft ground, out among the quietly whispering sedges, the gently rocking tussocks, out into another world, deep into that which cannot be named.

Many have told how people, believing to see a helpful light ahead, have gone astray from the safe path, sunk into the mud, sunk, sunk, foot, leg, body and all; sunk, do you hear! Away from here, out into there, disappeared, traceless, vanished, gone!

The tracelessness is the worst part. Those who disappear without a trace, can hardly expect to be met with an easy mind anywhere.

But how many have actually been close to the lantern-guy? Smelt his clammy hair, looked into his pale eyes, heard the almost soundless hissing of the tiny flames that spring from his fingertips?

Who has stood there, half-hidden behind a willow scrub down by the marsh, watching him move slowly, confidently among the rolling tussocks, now invisible, now as a clear contour in the mist – and his tiny flares, yea, the wee lights, those familiar little flames that attract humans.

The willow witch knows the lantern-guy, as do the many other dusky beings who have their home in the boggy land.

Theirs is the half-light world: the mire-haze, the frosty mists, the northern lights, the moongate, the flickering glimpses of late evening sun through the vapours and the lattices of tall grasses – all these are kin to the flares of the lantern-guy. And these, too, are regarded with suspicion by the humans.

The fairy folk of the twilight may well have their world to themselves wherever the lantern-guy shows the way.

And that is exactly what he does. He shows the way; he never leads anybody astray.

Everyone who takes the first step out onto the boggy ground, into the mist, into the mire, is on the way.

(c) Jane Røken

"second creation" (c) Thomas W. Bossert

Floral Silk Folly

Shall I tell your fortune, m’lady?
It won’t take long. I see you are ready to go.
Garden party, is it?
Ah, I can tell. Not only from your floral silk dress;
I can smell the anticipation on your breath, relish
the tingle of champagne and hungry glances
from pot-bellied handsome gentlemen. I know.

Your fortune, m’lady. It may not be what you expect.
It’s unconditional, but the rules must be observed.
When you leave the house, don’t look back.
Walk down the lane to the manor. The gates will be open.
Stay on the garden path. Accept no food, no drink,
ignore the desperately aimless conversation gambits.

Go to the bottom of the garden, there’s a summerhouse,
a folly, and the door will be ajar. Don’t touch it,
push it open with your foot. Walk straight through,
be careful not to pick up anything. Go out the back door.

Don’t be alarmed, m’lady; it may seem a bit strange.
You will see the naked sky, deep and splashed with stars,
and like a floral silken dragon you’ll take off to meet them.
Join your kin. Only the scene will have changed, not you.

With one finger I trace the diagonal of the mirror,
upper right to lower left. The glass turns blank and silent.
I get up, leave the house, don’t look back.
Like dragon wings, the floral silk propels me to the folly.

(c) Jane Røken

from 'Reminiscences of Elementals' by Lorna Smithers

Aqueduct Street Mill (Preston)

"Veracruz and Jarocha playing by the ‘malecon’" (c) Alejandro Flores Oviedo

Lit by a flash, rising a pyric spire
I see my image in her eyes
Supple backed, twisting,
My wings unfold and ignite
As her fingers stroke the guitar.

Strings cord, distaffs spin, shuttles fly
To the clap and smash of wood on wood.
They work the looms like demonic harps
To the industrial crash of Horrock’s drum.

‘Break the frames!

Raise your hammer, light a torch!’

My blistering kindred are borne on high
Writhing, flexing our burning fingers.
They break down the factory doors.
Splitting beams, collapsing timbers,
Distaffs grind and shuttles fall.

Warp and weft are folding in
The mechanical pageantry unfurls.

‘Ignite ignite!’

Thrown down we lick the cotton
Kiss the debris, raise it in a flaming embrace.
We are united in a vast conflagration
Liberated by the call of King Ludd.

My burning form fades from her eyes
Her fingers strum the guitar.
Her inspiration rises in my afterimage.
The mill resounds as she sings
Of the revolt of the eponymous King.

"Birth of Inspiration" (c) Alejandro Flores Oviedo

Riversway Dockland (Preston)


As I bathe in the street lights’ amber glow
Across the face of my water their features quiver.
Profanefully unaware of what lies below;
A recess of mystery that would make you shiver.

Their words play ripples across my depth
They speak not of me but of another place
Where images play upon plasma faces
They do not see beneath the surface.

When I awoke in eighteen ninety two
Prince Albert came to ordain my basin.
He saw nothing more than his own reflection
And those of the ladies in porcelain fashions.

The trawlers trawled, the dredgers dredged
Ship loads of cargo were hauled off and on
Littering my visage with woodpulp and cotton
Beneath the flotsum nobody sees me.

They speak of pirates and buccaneers
All I’ve known is riot at the Ribble Pilot,
The revelling Manxman was rudely removed
Now its too quiet amidst the bobbing pleasure yachts.

They speak of ships and privateers
If this dock had not opened in years so late
Before the Dutchman I’d have had the Hind
Prior to Jack Sparrow Sir Francis Drake.

If the Golden Hind and its dragon captain
Had sailed resplendent into my dock
Would spirit have moved on the face of the water
Would he have seen below to the depths of my heart.

For views on the docklands the people gather
To see images floating on a surface so blank.
If you looked into my world, your world would shatter
If you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back.

*Friedrich Nietzsche - Beyond Good and Evil

(c) Lorna Smithers

"Reflection of the Moon in a Bubble"
(c) Olga Spiegel

"Aboriginal StarSeeds" © 2011 All International Rights Reserved by Myztico

Sing Another Chorus

Life is a beautiful carousel
Flaming ponies made in Hell
Just when you think:
"It's going swell."
the haunts overtake and destroy
where you dwell.
So sing and play me bonny boy
Hoist yer ale; inhale yer joint
Keep it light in the pale, dank night
and work through the blazing day
till you've given it all away


"Awakenings" © 2011 All International Rights Reserved by Myztico

Quantum Quandaries

Soft, like pristine water, a delicate voice, redolent of secret inspiration, not often used.
There is the high-pitched panic
drones like angry bees, chaotic, insistent. That voice is not hers, but of her demons,
flaying, cackling, castigating, sizzling knives flown from angry hands -- pyrotechnic effect while consciousness bathes in restraint,
senses restricted to calm, to cleanse, safe inside.

There is another voice, sure as ocean rain, forceful as gunshot on a silent night.
When we hear its tune, we listen. Pure bell that sings only Truth, it is in our sacred core to listen.
That voice is rare and wonderful, the essence of beauty. The more we listen, in awe, compassionate wisdom takes hold,
we become attuned. We become the voice of welcome, of familiar kind regard.
We become complicitous encouragement.

Mobs, ignorant, angry people boo and hiss, too loud to hear anything useful.
Lords of violence, long conjured real enough fear, sneer for the big screen. Pimping for Jehovah?
We learn to fear from what attacks every day.

How can I explain?
Rats, spiders, assorted displaced vermin, semi-feral humans, scrabble through garbage, stagnant remnants of rain and replenishment, to no good end.
Children grow.
Revised as zombies consuming what is available, what is given or taken -- no minds worth saving, subsisting on dead flesh and legendary fear. How can dreams cope?
Impossible to pick up such raveled stitch.

"Garden Of" (c) Alejandro Flores-Oviedo

Watery imagery -- the ocean that meant to keep me so many years ago.
I become a swimmer,
a survivor in the storm.
I don't know why. It wasn't my idea to be strong. I didn't think, just let my body work along from one place to the next.
Sing of surf, held close to mystery. Undersea caves cradle chests of gems, shining like starlight. Call of cheer that carries carefree souls.

Far stars here call our craft home.
We've made a career of matter of energy.
After brief eternity, given the designation "life," find a free meadow under the sky.
Simple, mundane sensuality
-- slimy tears dissolve eye grit; sore structural muscles ease into melodious jazz.

She is stronger more able, vibrant in song. We are all learning to play; this world we create, build in conversation,
turn conceptual experience into a private wealth from each to each,
teachers and students on the art of renaming.

This peculiar Hades Bohemia reflects like jewel facets, bioluminescent charms.
Too bad those chained to arms,
deprived of what arms can claim to feel fulfilled,
seek release in arms defined to kill
or to be killed.
Powerful self-devised agent to prescient shadows, to pay penance,
ritually claim my soul.
Yet, essence,
possibilities inherent in living seed
grow in potent mixtures (tinctures for violent bifurcation, strictures, intricate captivating lulls)

Captive, imagination still wanders on
long walks that suddenly awaken questioning:
"Where am I going?
Who is this "me"
that has a destiny
or merely flits along prevailing wind?"

No one to remember, holding on to random sensory familiarity.
Don't trust the mirror.
They love to lie, lazy, wistful --
if wishes could be more real than these fantasies,
murals tied to greasy walls --

Why should death's mystery entice so much more than life's?
What hope the best of men survive death's fiery trial?
Why insist, assume, the bond of flesh is blood consumed, all against every?
Where is ecstasy of hand touching hand?


"Sidestreet Stroll" © 2011 All International Rights Reserved by Myztico

Fibbing Coon

I tell the raccoon he was a liar
For there is no good in this sector of reality
He laughs at me as he digs through the refuse of man
But to him this is a treasure trove
His laughter makes me laugh
I forget the world is so serious
But I leave him and ask the humming bird the meaning of life
She smiles and says
“On a fortune cookie from east, there is a saying
Life is not a gift but a duty”
I tell the humming bird she is a fool
She should move to the East
Where the axis spins and the rain clouds back peddle
Who am I but the son of a fool?
Yet, we all play the clown in the circus of life
I choose to be the ringleader of this asylum
The doors are open but the windows closed
Where are the guard dogs of the sane?
I believe another lie-sanity is a gift
I believe insanity (is the ultimate level)
For the real world is a maximum-security prison
Racism, poverty and gay porn
All met to keep us in place
For the hardest ward to escape is the mind
But I know a trap door
It's called fantasy

(c) David Michael Joseph

"The Light at The End of The Tunnel" (c) Brigitte Cinq-Mars

No Longer Disconnected

It is words that you ask for and it is words that you shall receive. Not the words of Man, but the words of Spirit. Words that caress and touch to the heart. That lead one from ego concentration to inner contemplation and connection to what many in your world call, the Soul, the Higher Self, the Collective Unconscious, the Oversoul or Super Ego. We just call this your Self.

Nothing more, nothing less than yourSelf. So, now we come to Self direction rather than being directed by one's ego needs and wants.

Now, once connected to yourSelf, you are automatically and simutaneously connected to the Divine. The Mother and the Father which you came from and from which you will return to again one day.

No longer disconnected or confused by your fears. No longer mis-informed, mis-educated, mis-led away from both Nature and your Self.

Now you are free from sin. For sin is that taken from outside yourself, nothing more, nothing less. It has tainted and colored your reality and led you astray. Yes, we refer to it as an it, being neither of your humanity or of the Divine. A collective nightmare, a collective fear, a collective non-reality imposed upon you from outside yourSelf while you were distracted and led away from the reality of a Self living within a human form.

Loneliness is a by product or side effect of this disconnection. For there is no reason to be alone or feel alone when you connect again to Nature and to the Divine. A magnitude of helpers are there to guide you and show you a better way of living.

This was the way in the time of the Monoliths and before. Man was alive and connected strongly to the Earth, which in turn helped him connect to other realms as well as the Divine. Man was grateful for the fruits of the Earth as well as for the fruits of the Spirit.

Man had an intelligence and farsight only dreamed of today, not yet actualized within your present day physical reality.

For the Priests of old taught Man to fear Nature and to fear your natural abilities as a way to deceive and to take control of the direction mankind would take in future generations.

This fear was taught and is not a part of you or natural to your humanity. It is as a drug or a hypnotic spell placed near your consciousness telling you over and over again that you need to be told by others what is best for your being. It cannot enter into your consciousness, for this will not be allowed by Self; but it can be placed near enough to be heard by your ego which lives in a state of fear while wishing itself a God, knowing that it is dependent upon its human, or more truthfully stated, its more than human Host, while within human form.

This ego is vulnerable since it is a filter, a receiver, or a translator between the body and the Host. These Priests in their weakness understood this and figured a way to influence others through word and image. False images were created to lead Man astray, away from the wise and loving consul of the Earth Mother and the Heavenly Father.

This was allowed due to the gift of free will and due to the love of the Parents. Their view is a long one and Their wish is for Man to develop in the gifts of Spirit and take their rightful places upon the true throne, that place that you call the human heart.

Yes, your heart, not just a physiological organ, but a great hall, a place of meeting, a place of justice and generosity. The meeting place of Heaven and Earth, The Central Station where Heaven and Earth meet and love is born, a love of both the natural world of Mankind as well as the realm of the Divine.

Once Man could at will open the veil between realms and refresh and enliven not just his or her human body, but the body of human community. Man at that time lived for thousands of years if he or she so wished, or could stay a short while if this better suited his or her goals.

These Priests of Dark Determination taught limitation, fear, greed, lust, guilt and jealousy. Disease was created, as were a number of other illnesses to dull the senses and bring Mankind into a state of forgetfulness.

This tradition continues today; and has been allowed since Mankind was given this place called Earth as an experiment. One could say that the experiment didn't go as expected; yet this is the short answer. The long answer is that time has yet to run out, for Man and Mankind's destiny is still within Its own hands.

An antidote will soon be found to this sickness or illness of Man; and Mankind will gently awaken again to its true nature and potential, and pick up again where delayed and distracted, at the places of stone.

Now, those places will awaken; and future and past will meet again; and Man will remember his glory of old as well as remember his future glory. Past and future will come together for the betterment of today. It is today or in the Now that is the starting point as well as the ending point.

The circle will be completed and Mankind again will know the Truth of their being here on planet Earth.

No need to look outside of life. For all is within the circle as all is within the heart of Man. Take refuge in the heart and sing with joy this day.

(c) Michael Hopkins

"Goddess" (c) Robert J Donaghey

Synchronicity, B/W digital print on vinyl banner, 24" x 36", 2011.

The basis of the language of this painting/banner derives from hieroglyphic origins as it fuses the visual and verbal into a powerful composite and reflects a source of inspiration by movement from Cairo's Tahrir Square protests. At the same time, it stands for 'computer hieroglyphs' subjected to the new visual requirements in a digital era. The simplicity of image serves to accelerate communication. The geometry establishes the parameters of a symbolic cosmic order, where: triangle - stands for social wisdom and force of energy, circle - for a global unification, and square - reflects a materialization of expectations. The strict black and white palette helps to accentuate spatial attention.
The original painting was executed with 60 strokes a minute; an equivalent of the beat of the drums, the sound of our time, which generates their internal matrix of spatial rhythm. This matrix constitutes unique personal code. The arrows signify the direction, as vector of pulsating energy. They are oriented towards the center of painting/symbol, which becomes the center of tension.
When human figures are introduced into the image, they may be be considered as 'human ciphers' in a sense that they embody an ethereal presence. They are in constant interaction with each other. The oversize arms and hands reinforce their eccentricity and struggle.
The banner image derives from an original painting and was inspired by drawing the Vitruvian Man by Leonardo Da Vinci in attempt to examine new, creative forms of expression which are emerging and shaping our collective consciousness in an era of upcoming 'digital renaissance'.
Finally, the peculiar dimension of this work springs from its hypothetical grounding in the year of social, cultural and economical changes.

- Jolanta Gora, Oct. 21, 2011

"False Flag America" © 2011 All International Rights Reserved by Myztico

shield and sword

The biggest difference was diversity
If there are so many kinds of people welcome here,
there must be room for me
is how the thinking goes.
Even if I lick my toes before dancing from room to room
to keep clear my position on the ground.
Little Nell sparkles in dark corners,
shimmers like radiant heat behind rings and clouds.
Well made-up bag ladies tisk tisk and tickle under
her flounces, stick her with branding fronds
behind her ears,
Titter just below the threshold so she knows/
but knows not what they wish to have told her
that she has no place, no home, no town, no proud name,
but if she will but play according to the script they
have memorized, allow their discreet bullying is just
what she most lovingly desires,
they might not chase her away,
may suckle off her sparkle
until it dims,
gives them pause to move on to more diverting fools.

I exhort you once more to be the change,
change the sign,
sign the slogans with sweeping motions
charge into the fray
breathe the sludge
taste the waste we so freely made
be the cause
because we can only
seize the day
ride wild winds, embrangle kites of prey
deride perversity


(c) adan delbosque

Contributors to Threshold Revelations

All of the work (and believe me, it is work) presented here is the property of the individual artists. All of their rights are reserved. So, no lifting without permission. Contact information can probably be found on the contributors' pages. If not, check with me to contact anyone whose work you wish to use: libramoon42@mindspring.com

Julia Still

All my works are in mixed media and traditionally executed with a pair of lucky scissors, glue and heavy books of all kinds for pressing. Any computer effects are only to correct wrinkles in paper, reflections in scanning and unforeseen "bloops". Since I am recovering from brain surgery, my eyes do not tolerate the computer for long. I consider my artwork as a tremendous gift from my imagination, my body and the Divine. It is steeped in symbols, archetypes and what treasures are to be unearthed from my unconscious. It is my language because images come to me more naturally than words. I create my images hopefully to contribute not only to my healing but to anyone who may need it, and that includes this home of ours called Earth. I pray that each and everyone's individual journey is blessed and guided by the stars and that this planet is surrounded by love and care.

"Celestial Guidance"- how else can we navigate the Universe and the Unknown but by the light of our stars.
You can see a more extensive collection of my work:


John Ptacek

My life has been enriched by the teachings of wise men and women. My essays attempt to interpret their sometimes perplexing teachings so that more may be exposed to their wisdom. They appear on my website, On Second Thought, at www.johnptacek.com

Olga Spiegel

E-mail: ospieg@aol.com


Magic-realism & the minds eye

Inspiration exists when the soul finds joy in the infinite.

Olga Spiegel, was brought up and trained in Europe, lives and established her studio in New York. Her work has evolved from the abstract and optical energy field influences of the 1960s through later study of the Old Master's technique with Ernst Fuchs, to her current unique visionary alphabet, that has lately included computer, digital paintings.

Nurtured by Psychedelic Art, European Fantastic Realism, Surrealism and Science Fiction, her art points to an inner process, a chemical visual interaction were the inner self's messages are deciphered through images and symbols taking the viewer into an edgy realm of realism and unnamable forms.

On the wings of improvisation free flowing images and color create associations to uncover a mysterious universe. Ancient icons, space-age imagery with metaphysical overtones, that reveal an evolutionary flowering, nature and its organisms populated into myriad of forms. Fine art does not always fit within a context, it is more like science searching for a cure. Hidden in a fractal dimension, a cosmic ricochet surfs into a realm incessantly reinventing itself. Journeys into fantastic dimensions, as our imagination expands so does the universe, it is the energy that fuels survival.

Her work has shown in galleries and private collections in Europe and America and has been cited in many books and publication.

Nicholas R. Morgan


Adam Pinson

It all starts with white paper madness......

Once my starting point has been established the rest is created mostly by process of elimination like a roomful of junk somewhere in my mind where I pull out objects and shapes to throw onto the paper. Once started the picture begins to draw itself depending on the evolution and juxtaposition of surrounding shapes and forms. Generally nothing is preconceived, everything is drawn right onto the original.

Each piece has probably seen a few hundred different images all of which at some point have been constructed and deconstructed gradually. I view my deconstruction very much as a progression as it shows me what I don't want, half of the time spent is breaking down the image. I could easily spend an entire night drawing shapes, lines and forms, erasing parts, redrawing and exploring different angles just to find myself destroy it all during the fuzzy battle that is morning.


T-shirts available @ the link below


Tanja Udelhofen

I have always been imaginative and creative. During my schooldays I took part in different art projects, and later attended several art classes. Being a self-educated person I never stop to develop my skills in different genres, but mostly I create surreal and dark themed artworks. Originally from Germany, I now live in the great city of Rotterdam, Netherlands, with my partner and my stepdaughter.

My contact information:

William Wright Harris

My poetry has appeared in such literary anthologies as Immortal Verse and Favourite Memories, through such online publications as Poet's Ink and Languageandculture.net, and literary magazines such as Write On!!! and Ascending Aspirations. I am a student of English Literature and Creative Writing at the University of Tennessee- Knoxville, and have been fortunate enough to study poetry in the workshop setting from Marilyn Kallet, Arthur Smith, Jessie Janeshek and Marcel Brouwers. I have also been lucky enough to receive several awards, such as the Editor’s Choice Award from Poetry.com as well as be published in three countries: England, Canada, and of course my native United States of America.

B. Lynn

if anyone would like to contact me, my email is bmtimework123@hotmail.com

Alessandro Cusimano

was born in Palermo, Italy, on July 2, 1967. He lives in Rome, where he is writer, poet, translator. Anarchist and visionary, painful and surreal, his works reflect on anxiety, crush conventions and illusions, proclaiming, with a barrage of words, that life is, by its nature, a scandal. An unconventional path, funny and desperate, populated by staring puppets and strange creatures, whose life unfolds between sarcasm and resentful emotion. Appearing recently on the international literary stage, some of his writings have been published by The Cynic Online Magazine, Decanto Magazine, The Recusant, FOLLY Magazine, Exercise Bowler, Streetcake Magazine, Bewildering Stories, Numinous Magazine, Deadman’s Tome, RED OCHRE Lit, Orion’s Child Magazine and Black Cat Poems.

Alejandro Flores-Oviedo



Poet, sometime novelist, short story writer, and essayist. Said with some tongue in cheek, but when asked about my career I tend to think of what Djuna Barnes said about herself late in life: America's best kept literary secret. One reviewer has said of my work: "Terreson's is a masculine voice that heeds the feminine, and unites these contrasting aspects into a rich, harmonizing body of experience." I can go with that, at least viewed as motive. I've always kept to a daytime job and not just for money. These years it involves honey bees and honey bee queens in the Deep South.

I can be found on Delectable Mnts Salon Chat poetry board:
http://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/ -- "DM styles itself on the salon notion. It looks to be a gathering of free thinkers, dilettantes, amateurs (which means 'lover of the thing'), aficionados (which means 'to have an affection for the thing'), and conversationalists for whom conversation is as essential as bread and water. Ideally the board is a place where doctors of philosophy, mathematicians, poets, outlaws, technicians, experts, liberal artists, housewives, garbage collectors, and desperados can bounce ideas and experience off each other."

JoAnn Nava

"BEAUTY IN ALL THINGS" is a part of my Wildlife Sanctification Series


Jane Røken

Jane Røken grew up on a diet of Russian folk tales, the Salvation Army, and Norwegian fiddle music. She believes in angels, moomintrolls, and rocks that chant in thunderstorms. She lives in Denmark, on the boggy interface between hedgerows and barley fields, and likes to think of herself as an internationalist.

Thomas W. Bossert

The painter Thomas W. Bossert from Germany clearly has been influenced by the great surrealists, Dali, Magritte, and also H.R. Giger. In his acrylic paintings he combines organic elements, forms from the microcosm or mandalas with human figures, and thus symbolizes how tightly intertwined the human existence is with its external world.

Many images are born out of playing with symbols, colours, lines, and structures.

My homepage:

Lorna Smithers

comes from Penwortham, nr Preston, Lancashire. She completed a BA in Philosophy and English in 2004 and an MA in European philosophy 2005. Since then she has worked with horses as a riding instructor and groom and is currently working as a cleaner whilst hoping to a establish a writing career.

In the quartet which this pair of poems are from, ‘Reminiscences of Elementals,’ she connects with places in Lancashire by working with spirits of the elements to evoke visions of it’s industrial past.

"Each piece confronts the issue of the loss of industry and the groundlessness of contemporary society. I see this as relevant to the topic as the poems take the form of revelations upon a threshold where the divide between the material / imaginative and present / past breaks down to bring about the visionary experience set into words on the page."

My e-mail address: lornasmithers@tiscali.co.uk

Laurie Corzett/libramoon

seeking outlet for those crazy thoughtstreams, is always moving into new (or resurrected) projects, including Emerging Visions visionary art 'zine: http://emergingvisions.blogspot.com; Seers and Seekers Yahoo Group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/seerseeker/; The Healing Dance Network Yahoo Group: http://health.groups.yahoo.com/group/healingdance/; Visionary Arts and Minds Tribe; theme-based chapbooks of her writings; an experimental metafiction, working title: Something Sacred http://caelastory.blogspot.com/; a (envisioned as) graphic novel (anyone want to do the graphics?), Acts of Desolation: http://caelastory.blogspot.com/2009_03_01_archive.html; as well as her Utopian Flash Fiction Project -- series of flash fiction pieces around a federation of diverse villages each working out their methods of community life -- little dramatic impacts illustrating creative solutions to social problems: http://tribes.tribe.net/uff.

check out my book, Words from the Sky: http://www.lulu.com/libramoon;
then, there's lunar ramblings:

feel free to email me to discuss visions and art: libramoon42@mindspring.com

Jorge Myztico Campo

Myztico was born in Cuba and raised in the Times Square District of NYC. He is a self taught artist, muralist, musician, filmmaker and writer. His works have been collected by the Museum of Native Americans in Washington, D.C and held in private collections internationally. His work was recently showcased in TheVisionary Revue

He has showcased his work throughout the USA. His work can be seen and heard at: http://myztico.mosaicglobe.com/
email address: myztico13@yahoo.com

Freedom is the only proven path to prosperity. Sanity is the only proven path to freedom.
Courage is the only proven path to sanity. Knowledge of Self is the only proven path to courage.

Visit my Art Shop:

David Michael Joseph

I'm a Filmmaker, poet/short story author and screenwriter from New Jersey but living in Los Angeles.

Brigitte Cinq-Mars

"The Light at The End of The Tunnel" is one of my nail polish–on–canvas paintings.

Michael Hopkins


Robert J Donaghey


Jolanta Gora-Wita

is a Polish-born media artist and independent curator living and working in New York City since 1986. In September 2002, work by Gora-Wita was added to the Permanent Collection of the Library of Congress in Washington D.C.. She has been featured in group shows at museums, galleries and cultural centers in Europe and the US, including the State Hermitage Museum, St. Petersburg, Russia; Chelsea Art Museum, NYC, NY; L'Universita di Roma La Sapienza, Rome, Italy; Kulturverein Schloss Goldegg, Goldegg, Austria; Kunstwerk Project, Galerie Hofmeisterhaus, Fotogalerie LichtSchatten, Siemens Nixdorf Gallery in Munich, Germany; Whipple Gallery at Southwest State University in Marshall, Minnesota; and Museum of New Art, Detroit. She was presented in Japan at Index Gallery, Osaka and Casa Gallery, Tokyo. In New York City, Gora-Wita has shown at D.U.M.B.O. Mastel + Mastel Gallery; Monique Goldstrom; Eighth Floor Gallery; Trans Hudson; 450 Broadway and more. (...) She was also featured artist in a group exhibition at the Consulate General of the Republic of Poland.

Combining the roles of artist, art activist, and curator, Gora-Wita has organized numerous Global New Media exhibitions including “Unauthorized Access “ at Hermitage Museum, St. Petersburg, Russia; "The Sonic Self" at Chelsea Art Museum; "TLON" and "Mission to Mars" at Eighth Floor Gallery; "Sonic Identity" at 450 Broadway; and "Binary Code" at Trans Hudson Gallery.
These audio-visual-driven, ambient events have extended her work in the domain of sound art; Gora-Wita wrote as Sound/Media Art Editor for NY Arts Magazine 2002-2006.

Fascinated with electronic culture and its implications, Gora-Wita uses emergent technology to explore ancient concerns about the limits of the possible, the efficacy of communication, and human interactions in the modern culture.

"I want to share with you from bottom of my heart my creativity to express this moment and my support to the OWS movement."


"When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace” - J. Hendrix

Adan Del Bosque

I hope you enjoy my visionary art.

if you wish to contribute to a future issue, take a little trip to

Submission Guidelines ~~ http://emergingvisions.blogspot.com/2010/08/submission-guidelines.html

visit previous issues in the archives * *

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