Twister Zardoz Show

Found this – emerald!

Whitey Noodles and I have a theory, sometimes, everything is….THE MOVIE ZARDOZ! There’s just no escaping it. You wake up some mornings, and……IT’S ZARDOZ!

Long live…..The Stoned Head!

WIZARDOFOZ

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Twister_(play)

Mr. Twister speaks – to his chosen ones!

“Our hearts and minds are with the people being persecuted so unfairly relating to the January 6th protest concerning the Rigged Presidential Election,” Trump said in a statement. “In addition to everything else, it has proven conclusively that we are a two-tiered system of justice. In the end, however, JUSTICE WILL PREVAIL!”

Here is a summary of the Hippie Vortex Pilgrimage that fled the Bay Area to a farm outside Eugene. Throw in the truth, Peter, Christine, and myself, were a Northern Vortex, and, we are poised to be a Hippie Musical, then, it’s not over till the fat lady sings. Where in the fuck do Acidheads and Speedfreaks……..get the permission to do their version of the Wizard of Oz? Follow the bouncing ball. The Roof Job is about Dorothy wanting to get her roof fixed after The Twister. See what I mean? The Wizard of Oz is based upon the opera ‘La Boheme’.

Ken Kesey saw a virus coming in his apocalyptical opera. Trump is the Stone Head!

Seer John

Zardoz – Wikipedia

“Neal (Cassady) listened to jazz from the time he was a teenager, so he had those rhythms in his head. His speech had those rhythms. He’d be talking and there’d be this syncopation, there’d be a beat to everything he was saying. He wouldn’t just be talking, talking, talking. It would be this and then this, and you’d get this sense of a rhythmic flow. He’d be moving to it, too. It was kinetic, and he was driving a car, and it was all rhythmic. There was a jazz beat behind all this stuff, because that was in his head.

Kesey, Ken Babbs, and I started The Twister Show. Kesey wrote a musical play, a tragicomedy about the end of the world. We were all in it. I was the Tin Man, among several other themes. It had some characters from The Wizard of Oz in it. To be a Tin Man I had to carry an axe. As you know from jazz, a lot of the jazz musicians refer to their instrument as their axe. I made up a stage axe. I had an old junk saxophone laying around. I took a lot of the keys off of it and screwed them on to the handle of the axe and taped a kazoo to the handle of it. That was what I played.​The song that I played was a Bobby Timmons tune called “Moanin’.” Lambert, Hendricks & Ross wrote lyrics to it. “Every mornin’ finds me moanin’, ’cause of all the trouble I see.” Besides singing it, I did the instrumentals to it. That was my first attempt at doing jazz. I wasn’t very good at all.*excerpt of my radio interview with George Walker from 2018

Jake D Feinberg

12h  · Hunter S. Thompson was writing a story about the Eugene Marathon for Running Magazine. The editors of the magazine couldn’t get him to finish the piece, so they brought him to Eugene and put him in a motel room and wouldn’t let him out. He demanded marijuana. They said, “How are we going to get you marijuana?” He replied, “Call Babbs, he’ll get it for you.”​I went and knocked on his door, and it opened a crack. They wouldn’t let me in. I said, “Why not?” They answered, “Nobody’s seeing this until this is over.” I had to slip it through the crack, and they paid me my $30.​I left and found out later that Hunter had locked himself in the bathroom. When they came to get him to tell him they got the weed, he opened the door and threw a bunch of firecrackers at their feet, all popping around. He did those kinds of things.When Kesey went to jail in 1967, it was right at the beginning of the year. 67 was the Summer of Love. We were all still in the Bay Area, but things were changing by then. The word was out, the publicity was in, about San Francisco. It was attracting more and more people. The flower children were followed quickly by the sharks.​It was not the kind of place we wanted to be around anymore. We wanted to get away, and a lot of the early acid heads did the same thing. They went under the asphalt back down into the earth and they flocked into Northern California and Oregon.​All the Pranksters came up here to Oregon, and we had a communal scene out there at the Kesey Farm while he was in jail. It had a barn and a pump and a septic tank, so we just set up housekeeping there. That summer we were buying 50-pound bags of rice, beans, and flour, eating tortillas, and growing vegetables. There were those types of communes all over Eugene. As time went on, we branched out and found our own places.​The Pranksters fell in the cracks between The Beats and The Hippies. We were a special thing in American history. We were not part of any other group or any other movement; we were our own thing.​What we are and what we were is beneficial to us and beneficial to anyone we can connect with. In this country there is this huge underground growth, like mushrooms, of people who are still carrying on The Prankster movement. It’s not the Hippie, it’s not the Beat, and it’s not all Deadheads, although music is certainly a part of it.​The neo-Pranksters are out there, having their “Acid Tests.” They’ve got their bands, they’re staying up all night, finding God however they can, and grooving with one another.​They’re taking that out on Monday morning, going to work at a regular job, and knowing that at that regular job, the real work is to cool everybody off that’s out there hungry, hurting, and fighting with each other. So the workplace they’re in is a groovy place.*excerpt of my radio interview with Ken Babbs from 2016

Twister: A Ritual Reality in Three Quarters Plus Overtime if Necessary, is a 1999 play by Ken Kesey, loosely based on L. Frank Baum‘s novel, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and the 1939 film version, The Wizard of Oz. The play also features the West African deity Legba.

Kesey starred as the Wizard of Oz in the premiere of the play with Ken Babbs (as “Frankie Frankenstein“) and other Merry Pranksters. A video of this production was released in 2000 by Key-Z Productions titled Twister: A Musical Catastrophe.

Twister: A Musical Catastrophe (Video 2000) – Plot Summary – IMDb

The major characters in “Twister” faces turn-of-the-twenty-first-century crises in the world today: The Hungry Wind, The Lonely Virus, and The Restless Earth, which deal, respectively, with tornadoes and hurricanes that bring famine, AIDS and other plagues, and earthquakes, all of which Kesey cites as being on the rise.

Praise Be To Zardoz!

Posted on August 12, 2019 by Royal Rosamond Press

Zardoz came to the Wayne Morse Free Speech Square. I saluted a fellow Wizard of Oz.

Come back………when you know something!

Play half the Shofar video, then hit the drum circle video. Halfway into that, play Shofar, and at end of drumming. The New Jubilee Week will end on Friday, and sundown.

King John ‘Antichrist After Merlin’

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zardoz

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jubilee_(biblical)

Miriam Starfish Christling

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Ken Kesey and “Ritual Reality”

Posted on February 2, 2016 by Royal Rosamond Press

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“People want to be involved in a ritual.”

In this video Ken talks about “Ritual Reality” while in England searching for Merlin. Some say there was a ritualistic Labyrinth Walk at Stonehenge that Ken and Pranksters visited. Joaquin Miller, the first world-renowned writer from the Emerald Valley, had dinner with the Pre-Raphaelite Artists and Writers who rendered works from Arthurian Legends. They did paintings of Fair Rosamond that King Henry put in a Labyrinth. Some say Henry found the grave of Arthur and Guinevere – that contained Excalibur! Joaquin was like the Wizard of Oz. Ken played the Wizard in his drama ‘Twister’. The Ken Kesey Labyrinth would have a yellow brick road. Images of Stonehenge would appear on the walls. If we build it, he, will come, the one Kesey searched for……found!

A Labyrinth is a………..Twister! C’mon folks! Wake up! Kesey was bigger than Disney! I have a vision for a Labyrinth Walk.

Our Museum will be the work of the Muses! Our Labyrinth will attract people from all over the world. Our creative businesses and galleries will be provided with paying customers. Everyone will be inspired – and AMAZED! There will be thick glass around the image of Ken reading to the children under a great tree. When you touch parts of the glass, you have access to the Word Wide Web – for free! You can program your own Art Show and share it with others! You can read a real book, not a pretend one. This will be a Place, a Pallet, a Paradise, a Palace……for Children!

Ten years ago there was a Labyrinth Walk that charged $5 dollars. Our Labyrinth will  charge $7 dollars for adults, and $5 for children. Half the proceeds will go to feed hungry children in Lane County, the other half for maintainance. At the entrance there will be a pedestal for payment by cellphone. You can pay as much as you want. Once a month, it will be free to everyone. Why do I see folks texting while they walk?

Jon Presco

http://www.shewan.co.uk/furthur/kesey.html

Twister: A Ritual Reality in Three Quarters Plus Overtime if Necessary, is a 1999 play by Ken Kesey, loosely based on L. Frank Baum‘s novel, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and the 1939 film version, The Wizard of Oz. The play also features the West African deity Legba.

Kesey starred as the Wizard of Oz in the premiere of the play with Ken Babbs (as “Frankie Frankenstein“) and other Merry Pranksters. A video of this production was released in 2000 by Key-Z Productions titled Twister: A Musical Catastrophe.

Dinner at Rossetti’s
by Joaquin Miller
________________________________________
There is no thing that hath not worth;
There is no evil anywhere;
There is no ill on all this earth,
If man seeks not to see it there.

https://www.youtube.com/embed/UKbkDTrxNJM?version=3&rel=1&showsearch=0&showinfo=1&iv_load_policy=1&fs=1&hl=en&autohide=2&wmode=transparent
September 28. I cannot forget that dinner with Dante Gabriel Rossetti, just before leaving London, nor can I hope to recall its shining and enduring glory. I am a better, larger man, because of it. And how nearly our feet are set on the same way. It was as if we were all crossing the plains, and I for a day’s journey and a night’s encampment fell in with and conversed with the captains of the march.
But one may not gave names and dates and details over there as here. The home is entirely a castle. The secrets of the board and fireside are sacred. And then these honest toilers and worshippers of the beautiful are shy, so shy and modest. But I like this decent English way of keeping your name down and out of sight till the coffin-lid hides your blushes–so modest these Pre-Raphaelites are that I should be in disgrace forever if I dared set down any living man’s name.
But here are a few of the pearls picked up, as they were tossed about the table at intervals and sandwiched in between tales of love and lighter thoughts and things.
All London, or rather all the brain of London, the literary brain, was there. And the brain of all the world, I think, was in London. These giants of thought, champions of the beautiful earth, passed the secrets of all time and all lands before me like a mighty panorama. All night sol We dined so late that we missed breakfast. If I could remember and write down truly and exactly what these men said, I would have the best and the greatest book that ever was written, I have been trying a week in vain, I have written down and scratched out and revised till I have lost the soul of it, it seems to me; no individuality to it; only like my own stuff. If I only had set their words down on the next day instead of attempting to remember their thoughts! Alas! the sheaves have been tossed and beaten about over sea and land for days and days, till the golden grain is gone, and here is but the straw and chaff.
The master sat silent for the most part; there was a little man away down at the other end, conspicuously modest. There was a cynical fat man, and a lean philanthropist all sorts and sizes, but all lovers of the beautiful of earth. Here is what one, a painter, a ruddy-faced and a rollicking gentleman, remarked merrily to me as he poured out a glass of red wine at the beginning of the dinner:
“When travelling in the mountains of Italy, I observed that the pretty peasant women made the wine by putting grapes m a great tub, and then, getting into this tub, barefooted, on top of the grapes, treading them out with their brown, bare feet. At first I did not like to drink this wine. I did not think it was clean. But I afterward watched these pretty brown women” and here all leaned to listen, at the mention of pretty brown women– I watched these pretty brown women at their work in the primitive winepress, and I noticed that they always washed their feet after they got done treading out the wine.”
All laughed at this, and the red-faced painter was so delighted that he poured out and swallowed another full glass. The master sighed as he sat at the head of the table rolling a bit of bread between thumb and finger, and said, sitting close to me: “I am an Italian who has neven seen Italy. Belle Italia!…”
By and by he quietly said that silence was the noblest attitude in all things; that the greatest poets refused to write, and that all great artists in all lines were above the folly of expression. A voice from far down the table echoed this sentiment by saying:”Heard melodies are sweet; but unheard melodies are sweeter.” “Written poems are delicious; but unwritten poems are divine,” cried the triumphant cynic. “What is poetry?” cries a neighbor. “All true, pure life is poetry,” answers one. “But the inspiration of poetry?” “The art of poetry is in books. The inspiration of poetry in nature.” To this all agreed.
Then the master very quietly spoke: “And yet do not despise the books of man. All religions, said the Chinese philosophers, are good. The only difference is, some religions are better than others, and the apparent merit of each depends largely upon a mans capacity for understanding it. This is true of .poetry. All poetry is good. I never read a poem in my life that did not have some merit, and teach some sweet lesson. The fault in reading the poems of man, as well as reading the poetry of nature, lies largely at the door of the reader. Now, what do you call poetry?” and he turned his great Italian eyes tenderly to where I sat at his side.
To me a poem must be a picture,” I answered.
Proud I was when a great poet then said: “And it must be a picture–if a good poem so simple that you can understand it at a glance, eh? And see it and remember it as you would see and remember a sunset, eh?” “Aye,” answered the master, “I also demand that it shall be lofty in sentiment and sublime in expression. The only rule I have for measuring the merits of a written poem, is by the height of it. Why not be able to measure its altitude as you measure one of your sublime peaks of America?”
He looked at me as he spoke of America, and I was encouraged to answer:”Yes, I do not want to remember the words. But I do want it to remain with me a picture and become a part of my life. Take this one verse from Mr. Longfellow:
“And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.’”
“Good!” cried the fat cynic, who, I am sure, had never heard the couplet before, it was so sweet to him; “Good! There is a picture that will depart from no impressible clay. The silent night, the far sweet melody falling on the weary mind, the tawny picturesque Arabs stealing away m the darkness, the perfect peace, the stillness and the rest. It appeals to all the Ishmaelite in our natures, and all the time we see the tents gathered up and the silent children of the desert gliding away in the gloaming.”
A transplanted American, away down at the other end by a little man among bottles, said: “The poem of Evangeline is a succession of pictures. I never read Evangeline but once.” “It is a waste of time to look twice at a sunset,” said Rossetti, sotto voce, and the end man went on: “But i believe I can see every picture in that poem as distinctly as if I had been the unhappy Arcadian; for here the author has called in ail the elements that go to make up a perfect poem.”
“When the great epic of this new, solid Saxon tongue comes to be written,” said one who sat near and was dear to the master’s heart, “it will embrace all that this embraces: new and unnamed lands; ships on the sea; the still deep waters hidden away in a deep and voiceless continent; the fresh and fragrant wilderness; the curling smoke of the camp-fire; action, movement, journeys; the presence–the inspiring presence of woman; the ennobl- ing sentiment of love, devotion, and devotion to the death; faith, hope and charity,- and all in the open air.”
“Yes,” said the master thoughtfully, ‘no great poem has ever been or ever will be fitted in a parlor, or even fashioned from a city. There is not room for it there.”
“Hear! hear! you might as well try to grow a California pine in the shell of a peanut,” cried I. Some laughed, some applauded, all looked curiously at me. Of course, I did not say it that well, yet I did say it far better, I mean I did not use the words carefully, but I had the advantage of action and sympathy.
Then the master said, after a bit of reflection: “Homer’s Ulysses, out of which have grown books enough to cover the earth, owes its immortality to all this, and its out-door exercise. Yet it is a bloody book a bad book, in many respects–full of revenge, treachery, avarice and wrong. And old Ulysses himself seems to have been the most colossal liar on record. But for all this, the constant change of scene, the moving ships and the roar of waters, the rush of battle and the anger of the gods, the divine valor of the hero, and, above all, and over all, like a broad, white-bosomed moon through the broken clouds, the splendid life of that one woman; the shining faith, the constancy, the truth and purity of Penelope–all these make a series of pictures that pass before us like a panorama, and we will not leave off reading till we have seen them all happy together again, and been assured that the faith and constancy of that woman has had it reward. And we love him, even if he does lie!”
How all at that board leaned and listened. Yet let me again and again humbly confess to you that I do him such injustice to try thus to quote from memory. After a while he said: “Take the picture of the old, blind, slobber-mouthed dog, that has been driven forth by the wooers to die. For twenty years he has not heard the voice of his master. The master now comes, in the guise of a beggar. The dog knows his voice, struggles to rise from the ground, staggers toward him, licks his hand, falls, and dies at his feet.”
Such was the soul, heart, gentleness of this greatest man that I ever saw walking in the fields of art….

Gerald tells us that in the old English, this means Apple Tree Island, for “truly that place abounded in apples”. The monks discovered the grave between two stone pyramids, fully 16 feet into the ground as many of Henry’s sources had suggested it would be. Inside that grave was a large stone cross, which Gerald tells us “I have seen”, upon which was carved; “Here lies buried the famous King Arthur with Guinevere, his second wife, in the isle of Avalon”. The male skeleton was said to be of enormous proportions and a lock of golden hair identified the other body as a female. There was also a sword within the grave. The sword of King Arthur. The legendary Excalibur. Legend said that it had been returned to the Lady in the Lake, yet here it was, buried with Arthur and his wife.

About Royal Rosamond Press

I am an artist, a writer, and a theologian.
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