The watchword of the Sixties was "to broaden the area of ββconsciousness". The acute, poetic and relentless gaze of Gianni De Martino, one of the founders of βMondo beatβ, considered one of the leaders of the psychedelic movement and author of the recent βI want to see God in the face. Fragments of the first counterculture β, reveals the ecstatic and visionary universe, between illumination and dazzle, of the first psychonauts and the encounter with the fairy tale through nihilism at the time of love-ins in Tangier and on the beaches of Mogador.
di Gianni DeMartino
cover: drawing by the author (all the drawings contained in this article are the work of the author)
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When young Lampo lived there, Tangier resembled an immense fluorescent cheese crossed by a mystical crowd of young travelers from all nations or perhaps none.Β Fled from the houses of old Europe, the boys had long hair and the women wore sandals fresh from the forest and colorful miniskirts, printed with huge, terrible flowers. In revolt against the existing order, they escaped from now alien maternal kitchens, and escaped from the family, the school, the party and the oratory to find the meaning of life in subjective experience rather than objective recognition. The soundtrack of the free thinkers, small bands of refractory, ambushed & fugitives, was offered by the Sons of Lucifer, the Beatles or perhaps Dionysus himself:
Dad, our little girl is gone
how could he do such a thing to us?
Waiting for the profound revelation or for the return to the city (we always returnΒ in some cities, with the subway under the house and the supermarket and the newspaper kiosk at the corner), the music went on and the sails swelled withΒ guitars:
Gods dance on their bodies
New flowers bloom, forgetting Death,
Heavenly eyes beyond the heartbreak of Illusion.
These were the times of drugs, of death, of the East. Camels trampled in the courtyards and from the squat, quadrangular old minarets of the white city the voice of the muezzin rose five times a day. It was not a mosque nightingale, but a kind of croaking call to order, picked up in unison by the loudspeakers of all the minarets in the countryside and by the barking of the dogs in the neighborhoods. The sky then became dull and blue, as perhaps all skies are in which a state religion is in force. All that remained was to drop the acid and transform everything into an immense fluorescent cheese.
In the villages of Morocco, the fellahs gave a lot of beating to the long-haired and new Dionysians who peed in the water of the springs. On the other hand, Muslims who broke the Ramadan fast prematurely were not persecuted; ei kuffar, the infidels so-called "crusaders and Jews children of monkeys", did not comeΒ slaughtered worldwide at the cry of Allahu Akbar.Β As for the women, they could walk around uncovered. In the red earth countryside of the interior, on the edge of a half gray and half blue desert, there was a good-natured, hospitable and convivial Islam. It was a very different Islam from the ferocious one of the Muslim Brotherhood who today cry too loudly Death Death Death in the ears of their God.
Then a hot erotic breeze was blowing from the west coast of the United States. And LampoΒ he had joined a gangΒ of teenagers who have just landed in Tangier's medina. The smooth, round face like a baby's ass (may Allah grant us to die in our own way), Lampo was convinced that he could put an end to wars, injustice and misery. He was born near the extermination camps of Europe, his cradle was illuminated by the reflection of the atomic bomb just dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. But he still believed he belonged to the first civilized generation on the planet. In short, here he is launched on the path of ever-fresh flowers, perpetual peace and eternal universal love: BROTHERS OF ETERNAL LOVE.
He wanted to become an alchemist, a shaman, a child of voodoo. Who knows who had put that terrible idea into his head. Maybe Mickey Mouse, Timothy Leary, Mircea Eliade. Anyway, whoever it was, that contestant of traditions and conventions felt very tall, high mind and in perfect harmony with the vibrations of Psyche's pirate radio. Above all, he felt innocent. Of an impudent, primordial innocence, embarrassing to remember. It was not yet time to understand that perhaps innocence is even more ancient and criminal than guilt. In any case, he had started the lunch of life with fruit, the Forbidden Fruit of course. And, having launched the true cry of the heart, he began to runΒ to rottadicollo to escape the fathers, priests and mullahsΒ trying to bite his legs. Lampo would have jumped over the wall of the ancient garden. It was planted in him, the garden, from before history began. And, although the birth had been a rupture, he would have returned to Paradise by surprise, cunningly, escaping the ancient prohibition and making maramao to Mircea Eliade, to the myth of Paradise lost and to theΒ Cherub with flaming sword.
A start or a break? A force, a magic, an acid, perhaps a burning dissident desire, higher and faster than habitual death, exploded the knot of norms and shifted languages. Fuck, indeed wow!, that stuff was really fast! It was for this reason that now, wearing an orange, apricot-colored jellaba played, she called herself Lampo ("call me Lampo"). She was not the heroine of the traumatized veterans returned from Viet Nam, but a magical sacrament, a veritable taboo. LSD and mushrooms appeared like a pork roast between a Christian and a Muslim, a cooked to perfection ancestor between a cannibal and a missionary nun, a litmus test for diagnosing cultural divorces between who she was in and who he was out. Life had to be placed at the center of a counter-cultural and phenomenological investigation. And then taste that hallucinogenic radicchio, eat that senseless root and go further. Indeed MORE BEYOND, as Lampo had written in large fluorescent spray letters on the side of his psychedelic van. At the end of the story he would find peace, beauty, justice and an auroral world similar to a fairy tale.Β EΒ everyone would be welcomed into Heaven, just as the heart wanted.
Actually (what a terrible expression!)Β Europe was on the way to becoming, as if from sudden amnesia, a land of Serbs and Croats. Not a few died with the needle in their stomach, in unseen corners of bloody toilets of cities, corners, not angels, illuminated by unreality. After having planted so many flowers, here come up, not without some lively disappointment, so many artichokes. "Non-null perierunt in our works ", says the Rosarium. And the integrated junkies of the stupid Eighties were already announcing, who after throwing their collar to the head of the Mao, would occupy the best places in the University, in television stations and publishing houses. On swivel chairs, to offer you a cigar or a sniff with a smile as bright as a jet of napalm. Was it the rhizomatic & desiring Unconscious that was transforming itself into an Italian, middle-Italian and middle-European area, mean and polypish? It was the twentieth century that was setting between violence and brutality, as it had begun. Terrible power of repetition. Since the time of the famous incestuous war between Cain and Abel. Sick of Heaven, the planet, smeared with blood,Β he would be satisfied with just a little Disneyland. And, globalizing, by now made the omelette, it would have shrunk like a blue jeans interconnected too many times rewashed. But those refractory young people no, they didn't want global and planetary aspirin. They wanted the cool moon and the sun, they wanted blue seas and mountains, they demanded everything at once. Other than public loneliness! A dissident desire. A spontaneous process of commonality. In Barbonia City, as in Parco Lambro, in Woodstock, or in Goa (Oh, Goa!). In areas provisionally vacated, beyond the "wall with sharp shards of bottles on top". An underground and planetary movement towards the absolute. Strange vicissitudes of the desire for infinity. "The infinite? Go, citrullo!". So said that know-it-all Mr. Square, grumbling in his bald head. Then he added, adjusting his glasses on his nose, with the typical move of the idiot: "And hope, with the poet, Leopardi, our dear national hunchback, that the shipwreck is at least 'sweet', even if it isn't ".
Lampo no longer wanted to belong to Mr. Square's family, school and oratory. He was thirsty for authenticity and stood up on tiptoe, glancing over the desperate curve of Time. Were Time and Space an answer? The bodies freed themselves, tended to the overbody and to a use exalted of the body. Young people, a new social category just invented, waiting to put on the mask of the famous "maturity", refused entry into the common life of the so-called adults. They called it "the System". And, like gazed fauns, they now harbored the embryo of the Angel, the Man of the Future. Defined by the regime press as βleaping densβ, they would never have become mature, prudent, fearful and aging flesh, set for a brilliant skeletal future. But in order not to become a picture postcard, one had to sprinkle chest, back and legs with oil of argan. And in order not to become old turtles, one had to run, all run with agile immature legs towards the heavenly earth,Β for a stew to be consumed in harmony. It was the Angel of the Earth, Mamma Gaia, who called all her children to her house. "Come on, my children, just play up there in the sky with so many dead companions, come here to me, home for a stew." Obviously when you are young, smooth, fresh and attractive, there is no feast lost in your memory, but only the desire to release more light, more honey! And consume it, of course, all in harmony. Including skeletons.
So Lampo, instead of running like a graffiti artist towards a social center of the city,Β it ran towards lopsided palm trees in the distance. He ran not so much after girls or young men, but just behind life; wondering why life was so sick and who had rotted even the idea of ββlife. Oh, caravans! To be able to leave with you, caravans! He ran towards the East and the streams of the East. Where there is no where and a great party rose behind the sun. To live, only to live: is there a dream more beautiful and crueler than this?
NATURALLY SHIVAITI
The dream dares more than waking. Of the famous wake of reason that generates monsters. And "man lives poetically," according toΒ a phrase by the German poet Holderlin, quoted several times by alchemists, shamans and illustrious existentialist philosophers. It was when in all the piss rooms of the Galaxy there was a rumor of the Age of Aquarius and the advent of the New Plane of Consciousness, a small evolutionary leap. Angels from all horizons, students with eyes a little red from the dust, danced nakedΒ and dreamy among the bonfires lit by the hippies on the beach. Tired of the demons of the twentieth century, now the young visionaries would begin to plague the world with UFOs, spiritual coaches or facilitators and their new age Angels.
At night we dance in circles and
We are devoured by fire.
We wake up in dismay and search
Groping life.
Well, if you have something to enlighten us ...
After dancing for a long time under a sky of stars that shone clear, almost frenzied, Lampo crouched around the fire of the Love in. He was mesmerized by the fire. His hot breath burned into his face, and after a while his legs and chest warmed, while his back remained cold. Shivering, he hugged his hair wet from the cold dew of the night closer to the bonfire under the stars. Perhaps, once he woke up from the Collective's dream, he would catch a cold.
Wonderfully cool under the white circle of the moon and the first rays of dawn, Lampo had not yet known bronchitis, death and tragedy. Lit by another fire, bell-bottoms and lots of colored smocks, Lampo had not yet lost the sense of physical immunity to all test and would haveΒ magically overcome the barrier of classes, sexes, races and languages. He ate little, he just needed a can of tuna or some cheese "The Laughing CowβTo cover many kilometers on foot or by shaky bus. βVoluntary povertyβ, Aunt Nanda, Fernanda Pivano, told him one day, offering him a ham sandwich and an ice cream.
There were days when the boys, their brown bodies coated with eternal sexual desire, left their companions at home with flowers in their hair and went to play football on the beach in Tangier with a carton of βGloriaβ milk. What could those bodies do but take off a little for this and a little for that? Each sand crystal shone. The sun played with its rays on the boys' navels. The boundaries between the sexes had become relative, and the boys, hot, had red lips, very dangerous. The bongos, the guitars, the patchouli-scented shawls, everything was taken by a kind of spiral ascension, a generalized erection. "My God! - Lampo was surprised to think. - We psychonauts are seen to be omnilateral, panerotic and of course Shaivites. Either way, the boys were so handsome that they would even give the pope an erection. Or to a Swiss like Jung, just to give an example I don't know how fitting.
With Martine, the French girl just met at the bus station of the CTM in Casablanca,Β the relationship was more demanding. From the first moment he saw her, struck by her small tits, he approached her to invite her to sunbathe naked on the roof of the Maarifa hotel and immediately declare his love to her, but he also said that he did not feel ready to embark with her in a long voyage on the open sea. There would be time, later, to gradually integrate passion and tenderness for a woman, into a common creation of life under an intimate roof,Β between milky kisses around the boobies, the maithuna tantra and, why not, also the hierogamy or hieros gamos, the marriage that represents the sacred union or syzygy (conjunction) between a god and a goddess. Meanwhile, with the immature-boys, the elves and the male-fairies everything seemed simpler, it was like a run on the beach or a quiet walk in the countryside. Lampo loved syzygy and sea travel, but he also liked dry land. And, moved by immaturity, of course, and a driven curiosity,Β he wondered what bodies could do.
To know what the bodies could do, he did not need to read Leibniz, perhaps translated and commented, via Nietzsche, by Toni Negri.Β So if at night, turning around in the tent instead of a helping hand he found an ass ofΒ little gnome or kobold, it is not that Lampo was meditating on the mysteries of the dark. Instead of cultivating an idealistic body and impaling oneself on symbols, one could also generously impale oneself on something more concrete, let's say. Why not? The Templars called it "the practice of the insufflation of Phoebus", and the high Shivaite hierarchies "adhorata", with reference to the cult of Ganesha. But here I should open a long parenthesis of ethnosexology of the Milky Way, and tell you why in certain hot planets the costumes of the Templars of the Holy Land, not to mention the pirates, gnomes and kobolds.Β of North Africa, they are so different from those of Mister Square. Let's say that those young and very horny migrants, tall and with magnificent blond hair,Β brunettes or redheads had practically forged a new elasticity, a looseness that would allow them to be everywhere, to cross nomenclatures, to break into where they were not expected, like a permanent erotic and amorous virtuality, alternating, open, flickering in the deserts , on the seashore, in the bushes, in the huts or in the tent, and in any case always in permanent connection with all the bodies of the universe and all the psyche pirate stations. Including the pirate station of the Abbey of ThΓ©lema, which is the name given by the English occultist Aleister Crowley to Villa Santa Barbara in CefalΓΉ, Sicily. The fugitives believed they could live heart to heart with all their friends in the universe. In the universe, this great and glittering metaphor that still contains us. And where perhaps a few shining drops of theΒ their young sweat, "more delicate than a prayer". Unless the sun, the great lying sun, evaporated and erased so manyΒ incriminating tears and stains scattered on the pillow of the night.
Of those fatal creatures, indeed fairy and by now passed like shadows among the dust of so many Love Inn, rave party ante litteram and Temporarily Autonomous Zones, the square newspapers of the bald heads said so many stupid and disheartening things. Like: "Drugs, Sex & Rock and Roll." By writing about it, Lampo would have liked to cover fugitives and fugitivesΒ with the gold dust of a story, which maybe someone will wonder if it ever started. It was also said that theirsΒ writing, that of fairy creatures, absolutely real, was exempt from the cult of style. "The mind-wandering maximalists aim to live in a horde of vile and impudent youth." What an intrusive and reductive perspective, Lampo observed. Weren't the crabs enough? It was also necessary to get those old hissing words like old snakes on curly heads, along with who knows what othersΒ horrible suggestions of the television series "Accursed Stories"? We should rather speak ofΒ liquid glory, of a golden hordeΒ and sacred orgy. But since it is probable that, even today, it is not so much words that wage war, but Death, perhaps it will not be enough.Β remove all those from the vocabularyΒ old words that risk making us all feel stupid and depressed like wearing an old coat.
In short, it would take another language, an angelic language to say thatΒ Lampo was a teenager of the second half of the sixties, when he was doing theΒ first researches ("escapades", Mr. Square would have said), and explored that world with all his senses open, obtaining - in the discontinuity of his walks from one body to another - small eternities of enjoyment and some crabs, even astral crabs, famous mental parasites.Β Nothing serious: the syphilis that had made Baudelaire imbecile had been defeated by penicillin, the AIDS that would have poisoned the pleasures of love was still to come and the Mom cost very little. Life was not expensive in Tangier. For a few dhirams you could also have a few buboes removed. One day Lampo would write aboutΒ those young breasts and backsΒ burning, wounded, full of violent, salty smells, coming from the desert and the sea. He would have lightened themΒ covering them with so many feathers and iridescent rainbows.
THE ARDENTI BROTHERS
Left the literature to those balls of his friends who hadn't heard the call of the world outside the door, perhaps Lampo was a mutant, a psychedelic rat. In any case, he was helping to inventΒ new costumes characterized by a certain fear of sex, an excess of lamentations for the dead and a constant interest in dreams and visions.
Tongues of fire snaked between the blond, black or red mop. In the rooms of the small hotels of the medina, Egyptian, Aztec and Martian walls of visions rose. The famous magical substance - a crystal in liquid solution - had just arrived fromΒ London, the friends of Bernadine Coverlay had brought it, along with the vests from Carnaby street, certain page hats and posters of Shiva, by GaneshaΒ and of Visnu. The LSD rocket had just been launched and LightningΒ he followed with wide eyes the rapid passage of the hyper-luminous creatures and their pure white between rapid cascades of liquid glory and the brilliance of the flash of chalky light as in ancient paintings. Could the ancient paintings have saved us from post-modern, post-mortem and post-everything leprosy? It was a great sacrificial movement, oblique and planetary: those severe disturbances resembling madness, those visions of chariots of fire in the sky, those puffs that simulated lightning and thunder that were apparitions of mountains, of kaleidoscopic fractals andΒ waves of golden dawns. WereΒ atrocious grids for sensitivity and consciousness. And then thatΒ tunnel, the famous tunnel and the rainbow bridge seen after exiting that bottleneck just before the ecstasies, or pseudo-ecstasies.
Here is a freaked out or melon student, forced into the laborious hum of a universe of energies over which he has no hold. And suddenly the impression, or rather the concrete perception that the wheel was, in his swirling splendor, absolutely still. White ecstasy.
Suspending his breath, like a yogi, a mother in childbirth or a fetus, Lampo let his famous "defenses" drift away, and all burn. Here is a good chance to let go of all old attachments to me and mine. If everything flows and it's fire what do you want to save? Your refrigerator? The TV? The seicento or the second house by the sea? In the vicinity of that bush of fire, a burning bush perhaps too dangerously close to the secret of mutant energies, it is better to take off your shoes, the leather boots you have just bought in Madrid and bend down to the ground. The faceΒ on the ground, in the living water of creation at each new, springing instant, Lampo said to himself: βWell, nothing special. The magic of the universe from all sides penetrates us, and reaches up to the puddle of the night, only before taking this psychovitamin it was a bit limited by our square brains. " And he took the book out of his blue backpack My Philosophical Development by Bertrand Russel, the mathematician of peace and promoter of nuclear disarmament, who thus confided in a letter to Costance:
"Before I die, I have to find a way to express the essential thing that is in me, and that I have not yet said ... something that is not love or hate or pity or contempt, but the very breath of life, burning and as if coming from far away, which brings the immensity and frightening dispassionate force of non-human things into human life ... "
In short, it was not a night like other nights, but a night colored by escapes, inks and ambushes, where the fugitive met his Assassin, dispassionate and non-human, more beautiful than the Aurora. "But what does this Aurora want, and that other, called Night, where for so many missteps ...βSaid a little voice. Dressed only in stars and moon, haloed by a typical golden light, Lampo believed he could burn without burning. He then saw himself and myriads of creatures, the countless existing in a halo of black fire that seemed to belong and not belong to the world. He squinted to see the world more clearly and it was thus, between illumination and dazzle, that he was enveloped by the breath of a divine light. He then thought he perceived a smell of incense rising from the earth: they were simply all the trees of Heaven, burning quietly, gently, without burning. Or maybe it was the slab of the empty tomb, which suddenly reopened with a kick given from within. It wasn't the usualΒ vampire, a parasite of the mind that came over all eyes and mold. The tomb reopened andΒ she simply blew lots of fresh, real rose petals on his face.
It was difficult, almost impossible to keep the register of vertigo, such was the profusion of gods, resurrected ones, fairies and elves with the typical pointed cap. Not to mention the bursting, in waves, of Angels as tall as skyscrapers, with enormous and glittering robes and wide electric eyes. They were the typical eyes of the terrible Cherubim and Seraphim, which, when closed, seemed open, and, when opened, seemed closed. Whether they were open or closed, those archangelic eyes immediately vanished in waving dots, blue phosphorescences, flights of butterflies. AndΒ there were those immense meadows of true green,Β in which billions of blades of grass could be distinguished which, when the wind blew, seemed to bow like so many question marks: Your account has been terminated.
The world appeared as a flow of colors and luminous shapes. For a moment, as if he had reached some immense belvedere or in a theater, he who knows which astral gallery, witnessed the light and immaculate dance of the blessed. They were all there, in the sky of the decisive authors: Arthur Rimbaud, Antonin Artaud, Charles Baudelaire and Bertrand Roussel who encouraged him. They were together with Carl Gustav Jung, Ioan Couliano,Β in Sohrawardi and a myriad of transparent aids. Just like in the Pink Floyd song, which according to Terence McKenna's good soul, "talks about how gnomes have learned a new way of saying Hooray. " Joyful apocalypse in Tangier in the Cosmos. lightningΒ he had to refrain from applauding, because the lines of his palms were filled with fire. A little voice - presumably the Guardian Angel - suggested that perhaps there was no need to applaud, since up there, where there is nowhere, nothing more claps, drags, pushes, or shouts. Hooray and plant some dirty flag:
Who does not become ashes
He will never rise again with the Phoenix.
So they sang in Heaven, where it seems that music is more important than hate or love. And there wasn't even Beauty, which in addition to being bitter, is also a nostalgic word. Not an asceticism, but a fall. And enough of this nostalgia for Heaven. Only descent towards the future and rain which - in the words of the poet - "falls on the dark earth in Spring." Having reached those axial boundaries, let's say, Lampo talked and played with numerous dead children, free and happy as perhaps all the dead are and in any case much more vivid than those who absent-mindedly say themselves alive, or semi-alive. The acid head underwent many changes, and amid the billions of northern lights and sparkling rainbows that were three-dimensional mandalas, tangles of diamonds, he lost that common belief in the substantiality of objects about which the senses continually give information. Lampo did not believeΒ in the substantiality of an I, of mine or of a God, whose concepts covered the light of the mind. To get to the point, intense and ferocious, where minds dare and life goes beyond, one had to be intrepid. And let it flow in, flow out. Welcoming an unexpected guest, the mystery of glory of the radiant face of a haloed Angel from that typical ghostly sex appeal of him.
THEY CALLED IT TRIP IN GERGO CANAGLIESCO
Between the stars of God and the depths of the Accuser, Lightning closed his eyes to see the world more clearly. There were peaks and chasms. It was when the boys and girls wentΒ inalaya-vijnana, to seek fortune and syzygy (union) with his own Angel in the void. And in a trance, as if doubled ininner space,Β the chest covered with armor of little lightning,Β contemplated the mystery of the Oven. They called it "trip-of-light-and-love", in rogue jargon. In other times it was the abyss: when from all horizons andΒ the Athanor - who is also Man himself, in whom the elaboration of the virtues takes placeΒ - that which we could not name was spilled over us, and in the mind of the traveler the cry of Baudelaire still resounded:
Ah ne jamais sortir
des Nombres et des Etres!
For tranquility, the pundits called it the Unconscious, but this term did not say anything about that sparkling nativity scene, that intense visitation of energy and northern lights, which, behind them, still hid billions of celestial bodies and lands of resurrection. In contemplation of the mystery of the Forno, the sky of Tangier, near Cape Spartel, became a dome of burning fire. "Our sound is an ultrasound, our space is beyond space ", the Angels exclaimed in a low voice, almost voiceless, in fear, perhaps, that everything might perish, everything would flourish again. In the sky,Β in all its splendor, the famous one appeared with a buzz Cauda Pavonis, made up of a vast array of myriads of hyperluminous particles.Β Who will explain the mystery of the Oven to you? The Alchemist, the Shaman, or some rascal who laughs from "up there" in the sky.
It was then that, between a lot of arrogance and the sleeping bag, Lampo rummaged in his blue backpack;Β and among the I Ching, the Tibetan Book of the Dead, Psychology and Alchemy, Rimbaud and Laing, stuffed as if they were the same culture, dug out the liturgical stanzas of his beloved brother Sohravardi dedicated with ardent desire to the buzz of the angelic wings. Here they are, with some variations and a cut-up, right under your eyesΒ and, if applicable, near your third ear:
O Principle of the Universe, Person of light who attracts me so much, the last term of the suns that rise in the East, while in the West they decline! Dry all the eyes of the Lovers who have cried and let us meet and see, even if slightly cross-eyed,Β the Dove of Mystery through nihilism. Tell us that joy is the essence of experience down here and brings up the litany of Light. Come to the aid of the people of the Light. Guide the Light to the Light. And if we really can't reach it in flight, you finally bring us home, even if we limp a little.
Like those faithful lovers, who will cry out each other's name even in the dust, I celebrate, let us celebrate the liturgy of the Angel-Fire, so that through him the fire that will rise at the cremation of the body of flesh and blood may be consecrated. And that of the Angel which is the Air, so that for him the air is consecrated. And that of the Angel which is the Water, so that for him the water is consecrated, and that of the Angel of the Earth, so that for him our humble remnant of earth that remains is consecrated.
And I celebrate, we celebrate the theurgy of the Angels of the theurgies which are the minerals, that the mineral kingdom be consecrated for them. And that of the Angels of the theurgies who are vegetables, the holy and noble Hemp and the divine Mushroom, so that the vegetable kingdom may be consecrated for them. And that of the Angels of the theurgies who are animals (including my dear cat named Sardina), so that the animal kingdom is consecrated for them.
Finally, I celebrate, maintaining a strange balance in the dazzling assault of all the elements, the liturgy of the Victorian Light of Glory, both light and destiny,Β whose discovery is always singular, the Archangel of human theurgy, the Holy Spirit, who gives life and perfection, ruler of the world of the Elements, Agent Intelligence from which our souls emanate, Angel-Light, so that through him the noble human species and may he wake up and survive his collective dark night.
All that remained was to accuse the acid generation of having done and said too much, always too much. As if it wasn't the excess, this quasi-mystical excess, that opened the famous doors of perception and constituted one of the secrets of language.Β Normality, as we know, must be at least a little phobic to be such. And therefore, loyal to an imaginary duty, it must be reduced, cut zac! zac !, cut and snapΒ a trap in the heart to the cry of: "But where are we going to end up?" Such a cry, uttered with exhilarated handling by reasonable and prudent oppressed chests, believed that the acid-lit boys were all "high". It was therefore necessary to force them, I do not say to bleed, as the punks will do, but at least to piss out of themselves, in sparkling waves of original grace, the embryo of the Angel and the Other Man of the Future. Pious illusion. Now no longer locked up in a small idea of ββthe relationship with themselves, with others and with the universe, the young acid heads have unleashed on this planet hovering over dizziness of stars another desire, higher and faster than usual death. . And the fact ("fact", as they say in the jargon of the so-called drug addicts), is that the acid, for luck or misfortune, has remained in the salt of the bones, forever.
Small, not great experience of the ancient mystical rays, which with the passage of time are replaced by the powerful and more generalized technological rays. In addition to new narcotic therapies, offered "a moment" by fierce guardians of needs to the Titans with interconnected pouch that will come. You wait next to the empty tomb, waiting not inert and without waiting or spying on a sign. There will be no signs, the writing also and above all says so. And the book pierced by the fire of heaven says it and repeats it. Dear Lampo, you are not a lamp and writing is not a tombstone. And if here, in an axial angle that never closes,Β the immense distance simply passes through you, you could finally save yourself any trip or trip. And like AiΓ΄n, the child who plays on the beach, instead of doing the Black Bloc and reducing everything to ashes, try calmly and calmly to do the most difficult thing: draw and then erase a wave with a steady hand.
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