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http://clarebyrneweeklyrites.blogspot.com/ I have in mind what George Balanchine, the Russian choreographer who fashioned the archetype of the American ballerina, had to say of Isadora Duncan, an earth-mother of modern dance who won fame in Europe and Russia with her passionately attuned evocations of the Muse - "a fat pig rolling around on the stage" his approximate description. I'm lolling, grasping, red-faced snorting my way into this image; I'm seeing all the stuff behind those words that I want to sniff out, not even just the "fat" but the "pig," and the "rolling." What did we loose track of by sidestepping Isadora and all her deeply-creased folds?

click for video: Quicktime / .m4v for iPod / direct streaming for PC " And yet, and yet . . . Denying temporal succession, denying the self, denying the astronomical universe, are apparent desperations and secret consolations. Time is the substance we are made of. Time is a river which sweeps us along, but we are the river.." Travelling at high speed in a fjord, Sam Renseiw remembered the exquisite prose of Borges, quickly paraphrasing a passage. View a part of the sensuous cruise back towards Bergen by clicking here or on the links above. (patafilm # 634, 02'05'' -filmed in full HD, unfortunately still clumsily compressed- 11.7MB, Quicktime/mov - other versions at Blip.tv) Today's Bonus Lumiere Video features the royal way of travelling by boat . (Lum # 155, " royal disembarkation " 01'00'' , 4.8Mb, Quicktime/mov) Today's Patalab Metaphor Video features a simultaneous mermaid. (patafilm # 163, loop,[08.05.2006 post] 1.7 MB, mov/quicktime)

Not all burial sites as conveniently located, as Josh Bernstein can attest.

http://clarebyrneweeklyrites.blogspot.com/ Receiving intimations that I am some incarnation of Martha Graham, late grave priestess of modern dance - taking on some of her body, face, divine madness, as I begin to pass through these middle years, the years in which she "began her life's work." Her purpose is occupying me, though forcing itself out in different channels, as contours of time demand. I'm honored by the conjuncture but don't expect her to give me an easy time. She never gracefully acquiesced roles. Performing her piece Lamentation last May, she shut the door on me - literally, the door from offstage to onstage - as I tried to enter. The second performance, I became inexplicably, foolishly tangled in the curtains by the door, lining the stage. She stole both entrances. Test me; I'll enter and sit until I'm blessed.

Josh Bernstein visits a Chachapoyan Temple and discoveres that inside the Chachapoyans performed human sacrifices.

I've got a one-track mind about my digestive system these days. Many would say this is not much different than usual. I've been reading BodyStories, a book of experiential anatomy by Andrea Olsen with one of my classes, and have been excited by the idea that we evolved from starfish-like creatures into vertebrates in order to not shit out our mouths. This is my interpretation of the information. It is good to think that we didn't develop brains to comprehend anything in any objective way. Rather, the brains ended up in our heads where our mouths were - and started understanding everything in light of that end of our digestive system. In this way, out the other. One-way path. No mixing. Separation of stuff. The moral system reels out, long as our small intestines. To be fair brains aren't just in our heads - they run down our spines and feather out into every tip. And each cell of our body does the dirty work on its micro-level - absorbing and dispensing. Here we trace back to single celled organisms who didn't know the difference, or why that might be bad. I'm continuing to unpeel. I am so pleased with the thought that our brains might, could have developed in our asses that I dedicate this corsette undo-ing on the up-turned tree to that alternate universe of possibility.

Josh Bernstein describes what it's like to carry a mummified body ... and what it smells like.

student's writing this week showed me a thing or two: "...ironically, the inner self [Ruth] St. Denis refers to is actually very much so a self that is inspired by community, because I think dance really needs community to feed it. Self-expression ultimately needs to be truly expressed." I sat at the Farmer's Market today. That's the thing to do - sit and watch other people, instead of making the rounds of stalls and ending up the customer-performer. A bluegrass band with mandolin was playing "Orphan Girl" by Gillian Welch and John Prine's "Angel from Montgomery" - both songs I know and love courtesy of my southern-raised friend Kathryn Sparks, a stunning tall dancer who knows how to shake a leg. And lo and behold, a fiddle song started and the tall Vermont woman I'd been watching in the T-shirt and jeans got up and started dancing, wild and free, right in front of everybody. A skirted, booted woman joined her; they caught up children and swung them around. A couple more emboldened ones joined in: the women and children danced. Oh, I envied them. To get up and dance like that, in public, in broad daylight! I don't know how they had the courage to do it, but it must be just that it's their own community, and they know how to shake it up. I love the expression "dancing with abandon." Abandoning what? I could make a long list.

This video will show you how to do all five rites so your body can feel younger. It has been said that these rites can rejuvenate your body. I was amaze by these rites that I had to show them. So what do you have to lose?

This video will show you how to do all five rites so your body can feel younger. It has been said that these rites can rejuvenate your body. I was amaze by these rites that I had to show them. So what do you have to lose?

This video will show you how to do all five rites so your body can feel younger. It has been said that these rites can rejuvenate your body. I was amaze by these rites that I had to show them. So what do you have to lose?Author: 007Claude Tags: stimulate rite rites fountain youth younger revitalize rejuvinate Posted: 09 September 2008 Rating: 0.0 Votes: 0

I arrive in Vermont in prime blackberry season. I don't know if the patches produce abundance like this every year, or if anyone else here cares to pick them, but I feel like I've hit the jackpot. I go out with my tupperware in the early morning to berry-pick, a kind of hunt. I stand at the edge of the woods, where a blackberry runner invites me, waving a few glistening purple-black berries my way. I pick those. Plunk! they go in my tupperware. Then I see, deeper in the patch, a much bigger runner laden with scores more - bigger - berries. I climb in over fern and goldenrod to carefully strip them into my tupperware. Plunk, plunk. There I see, deeper in - an entire cache, a panorama of weighed, graceful arches of huge shamelessly shiny fruits, dozens of orb-eyes per berry: each a world, a camera lense I can see my reflection in. Slowly I work my way in; I thoroughly denude the scene. And there I see, low on the ground, barely visible in the undergrowth, stealth blackberries runners along the forest floor, with berries so big they can't be round - trembling, oblong monstrosities, queen bees of blackberries, fatly falling off the stem at the slightest touch. It's no good to look for them. I stand there and I see something in my side-vision (then, how could I miss it?) which leads me deeper and deeper in. How can one year and one edge of forest produce this many blackberries? Tupperware after tupperware, jars and jars of jam. But it's not free. The mosquitoes find me in my delicate maneuvers to reach the topmost branches. And the briars - cunning thorned tentacles, take their due in skin and blood; on every surface I'm raked, poked, pricked, stabbed. So I give this recompense, with sweat, thanks and praise pouring out of me. And lastly, I pay in risk, however slight. There is always the chance that someday, engrossed in my task, I will look up and see eyes looking at me. I will realize I am not the only berry-picker today. Maybe I've already been seen. This is exactly the currency I am most willing to pay.

What does dance class do? It teaches fitness of moment - lessons in rhythm, space, energy - to help you set yourself on fire. So you radiate. So you are an instrument impulsing extravagant forms of electric transmission - like a lightning-struck tree, a bird on a telephone wire, a filament in a bulb. We put ourselves through narrow passages of movement in order to burn. There are all kinds of temperatures and shapes. While this process may be a How To, it is also a How What - an exultation or a plea. How What! I praise the current running through me. How strong, how true, how pleasing, how painful, how simple, how confusing, how weak, how absent. We burn up and down. It's a rite of sacrifice. It's a giving up. It's a putting out. It's expending all that energy not primarily to prepare for something else; it's doing it here and now. We move, feel, think, sweat. But sacrifice demands a recipient - energy expended, by all rationale, must go somewhere - so where is it going? Back into ourselves, for later withdrawal. To someone across the room. To someone across the globe. To this here and now, with all its specificity - soft silence, creaking floor, cast sunlight, aching hips, caught hair, inquisitive fingers. To What do you impulse your energy, at this moment?

Words can be descriptive, preparatory, communicative. But I'm beginning to believe in - to understand - their original function and capacity to DO things. The first reason a word was made was to have a power - to soothe, sparkle, pierce, open, smother - and a million other things. They get done by saying them, writing them, hearing them, reading them. So let me back up - the same with these actions, for which I've assigned descriptive words - these movements I do. Of course, movements can also just be descriptive, preparatory, communicative - but they ultimately have power to enact. It's simple common-sense truth: that doing things does things - and the hardest to grasp. This is magic, but not the way we've commonly been taught to understand that word. What I don't know is if a well-practiced move or a sponteneous move has more power, or if it just depends on the circumstance.

They are real, the knots that naive, weak, malevolent, or fearful winds make of us, wrapping around and through us - leaving us like trees on unrepentant cliff faces, warped. So we are often lost, without anyone to perform delicate attentive unravelings - particularly the transgressors - and we must do the action ourselves, an arduous process. It is hard to plainly ask redress from our transgressors - or even know who they are. Or know we need it. Or know what to ask for until we stumble upon it in a tumbled string of actions or phrases. Or know we were knotted until we release.

My Aunt Laura sent me a remembrance of my mother, her sister: how Mary Anne used to love to dance in the living room of their big house growing up - to popular music, boogeying away, not caring who was around, dancing for the fun of it, all by herself. I imagine little Laura, long legs in skirt, dark hair, and beautiful solemn face peering around the door frame at her older sister, perhaps a window into release, freedom. Actions feels giddy in this full swing of summer. This dance is in honor of my mother's birthday, yesterday - I also remember her moves as a Mom, Laura, cutting a rug in the living room - putting a record on the turntable and shimmying. There's no finer way to dance, and no finer reason.

Dancing on grass makes falling a pleasure.

Tuning with my body: it's visual and it's physical - doing things through image and action. Bringing the energies and vibrations humming around us into being, manifestation. Creating form to all the sexy desperate urgent explosive as well as mundane quiet passive sustained imperatives and intentions within us and around us. I can do these energies, inhabit them - or rather, let them inhabit me, let them play me. Many people around the world tune to the key of Jesus - a key of hope and release forever, of salvation. It's a good key, I certainly understand - it's a key that can affect me tremendously. But I want to play more right now in the key of Mary Magdalene, or the young girl annunciating herself in her underwear and tank top on the floor of her messy bedroom - an image from a painting I just saw last weekend, a piece of contemporary religious artwork digging down deep. Sometimes it's time to tune to the key of the unknown - darkness, turmoil, of death or destruction poised beside you, of the wheel turning, thrashing you tied to its curve down into dark waters again and again. The gasp of air on the other side, the filling of the lungs with renewed or sustained life - maybe that's Jesus, or other names you might you want to call it. As with most things, it is a matter of timing, emphasis, rhythm. Belief - a word idea that's gotten stuck. Why not play in a key, then play in another key? Take on this energy, then take on that. Roll with it. Then you won't get caught with your pants down spouting some truth that's no longer true.

My friend Claudio Carvalhaes at the Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary, where I'm teaching workshops this week, passionately believes it's time to do away with the pews in churches. The same issue is being raised (again) for concert dance spaces. The two-facing, two-dimensional, two-meaning structure is no longer helpful, and is in fact deadening. Mark Torgerson, in a talk here on art within liturgy, said that fixed seating didn't even exist in churches until very late in the Church's history - the 13th century or so. Before this, church spaces were open and arrange-able - like a dance studio, in my mind. I agree with Claudio. Rip them out! It will help us be accountable in our witnessing, or even fully co-celebrant! So here I offer a goodbye to the pew. They weren't all bad, and could be useful: many a liturgical dance practice as a child did I spend catapulting them, or hiding underneath them, neatly crunching the tallest stack of communion wafers I could fit into in my mouth. May they rest in peace. But I'd extend the ban to our sitting-ness in general, in our daily life, in our work and play. I can't even say "in all walks of life" because our modern life doesn't walk anymore. Oh Lord please - I'll do without the modern, just let me sit less in the rest of my life. I am in Caldwell Chapel at LPTS, a particularly holy cave, cavity, grove, or boat at sunrise and sunset, when the sun takes outrageous liberties with the interior, penetrating flanks of stained glass. The conference here this week is called "The Body: Worship & the Arts."

I like the idea of sending up (around, out, down, over, under) energy at an altar. This is what I'm doing here this week, with the camera set right on the one in my home, looking into the kitchen. That makes the eye of the camera (your eye) a divine gaze. Where we do things is important, as much as anything else. Not that that should limit us to any particular place for important doings - rather, that we should use well the place we're at. Count Basie offers up some divine sound, exactly from where he's at.

Some of the best art going on these days is in people's shuffle-song function on their iPods, and in their computer screensaver function that randomly sifts through photo collections. "Art": event-making in time and space, coordinations and sequences of image, sound, action, vibration. These random sequences are fresh - taking everything into account, appropriate for the moment - but they make connections that stretch or toss finely-wrought lines across our collection of memory and meaning with the aplomb of a master. What do I mean by "best?" - harder than art. Re-definitions of best, and good and better, would be good. Really, better should just be buried. Good, and best, are what is necessary for the moment. And, when we watch good art, we are making it good by our complicity, our participation in it. We are invitees to a party, this event of art. We put effort in, we give energy that helps the party be good - if we want to be good guests. I want to unhook myself from the assumption that art is supposed to entertain me - though if very well might, by the wayside - and re-understand that it is simply there to do something to me, if I will let it. Oh yes, I put up all sorts of blockades, all the time, to make sure that art does nothing to me - except make my mind-stuff, my brain wiring, twist around and around itself - by applying words like "good" "better" and "best," by filing and categorizing, even in the moment of experiencing it. I crowd out my actual, sensory experience of it. I am already having a conversation with myself, about the thing I'm supposed to be experiencing. Getting into the habit of expecting, needing, entertainment from art - when does that happen? My brother Donald says it happens to us when we realize how painful, how hard life is - we seek outs, reprieves.

The gods and my cats enjoy an unconscious, or a subconsicous, or a deep, freely given level of intentionality or, intention of energy/action and material that's not end-goal-oriented that, to our minds, might seem "distracted" it's not trying to get any specific place or do any specific thing this is stepping in the path of divine energy - the right brain the uncategorizing the unexpecting the unmemoried for more on this, go to http://www.ted.com/talks/view/id/229.

It really hit me, a goodbye to this studio. It crept up on me as I set up, ate a donut. What holy spaces are dance studios. So willing to hold you - let you mete, leak, explode out. Safe, tolerant, non-judgemental. This studio is seasoned with my oils, skin, tears, drips and drops, gains and losses, hairs and tangles. Experience is a physical thing. It doesn't just go away, it lives on in a place, haunts it, comes out again to re-greet you, surprise you. This is the Long Island University dance studio in downtown Brooklyn, which was built out of the fly space over the stage of the Brooklyn Paramount, where movies and live jazz music played from the 20's to the 60's. It's full of stuff, wafted, exploded, suspended onto the catwalks, from many years before me. It just takes all my stuff in and blends it all together.

www.entheogen.tv An excerpt from the film Entheo:genesis, Awakening the Divine Within. Alex Grey and Daniel Pinchbeck discuss our modern disenchantment with the natural world in comparison to tribal cultures.

The garden at Bear Creak: the arbor was created in January 2007 out of cedar culled from the property. I was visiting the farm then, when it was just barely cleared, and I helped my dad gather the cedar-wood and hoist the logs up. The four-armed pergola rising now in the background of this week's rite was envisioned by him - and is now being built by artist/craftsman Ferrell Moose and his brother Seamus, also out of cedar. It's been beautiful to watch them work this week, and see the structure rise up out of the center of the garden, right over the well. I send this week's rite especially to my friend T and her family.

5º Teaser do DVD do Paul Booth "Paul Booth's Last Rites", onde Corey Taylor aparece, sempre fazendo graça, falando sobre o tatuador. Author: own2real Keywords: corey taylor paul booth dvd last rites teaser legendado brasil Added: May 27, 2008

An excerpt from the film Entheo:genesis, Awakening the Divine Within. Alex Grey and Daniel Pinchbeck discuss our modern disenchantment with the natural world in comparison to tribal cultures.

We made it through the winter. This has been the most beautiful spring I've ever seen, in my whole life. Now that I've time-traveled down to the South, where early summer is in full swing, I can officially say that the sun and warmth is coming and it's here. I'm at my father and brother's new farm, Our Lady of Bear Creek, in Chatham County, NC, where everything is so sun-graced and sparkling that I have a hard time getting in front of the lense. Tuliptrees and sweetgums and winged elms and honeysuckle and privet and eliangus and bitter orange and sycamores and cedars and cow peas and buttercups and walnuts and hickories and locusts and willow oaks: a fraction of what's here. I am seeing more; that seems to be the emphasis of this spring. But finally I make my way down the path. At the very end, a jewel in the grass caught my eye. It changed from ice blue to emerald green to honey yellow to garnet red to blinding white, as bright as those headlights you see on new cars. A single fat drop of dew hung under a stem, lit by the sun.

Will, Meredith, Patrick and I did a walk across 23rd Street last Thursday night, May 8th, to get our bearings for the Kneelings on Saturday. It had looked like the skies were going to burst all day, and even as we gathered at the Chelsea Waterside Park, torrents might have rained down at any moment. But they didn't, and we were granted one of those early balmy spring nights, where the city feels bright and fresh and awake. Will and I took notes on where each of us, in turn, wanted to kneel - one per block. In front of the Uhaul. Under the callery pear tree. At the doors of the synagogue. In front of Home Depot's green products. At the silver door on the white building. By the vintage clothing place. Thirteen blocks over to the East Side River. We passed people walking dogs, got checked out by boys and girls, desperately sought places to go to the bathroom, talked, and walked along together, quiet. We tracked back to Viang Ping's Thai Food on 23rd between 2nd and 3rd, got Red Stripes at the deli down the block, and ate. The restaurant was quiet. We felt both in and supplanted from New York City, just over the doorstep. We talked about this song. I walked home, sweetly sadly savoring the whole night, seeing us changing, being with and missing loved ones near and far, even the ones I'd just left and was going to.

WoW video made by Myssiing and starring Whachuwan (Stonemaul [US] PVP). Music is by Lynyrd Skynyrd, "Simple Man". We made this for our Mom for Mother's Day. We hope you enjoy it, and know that even though we're far away, we still think of you everyday and everything you've ever taught us. We love you Mom. :D Love~ T. and S. Author: photochik02 Keywords: world of warcraft lynyrd skynyrd simple man myssiing whachuwan final rites stonemaul pvp rock machinima amv mother mom Added: May 11, 2008