Author Archives: J H S

Icarus and The Wind



Icarus and The Wind  (link)




Real Kamut Peasant Bread Recipie!



kamut breadggggranmas-kamut

Thought I would share my quadruple great grandmothers kamut bread recipe, found in the family spell book while attempting a love potion. This may not be for prudes, you know who you are.


On Peasant Bread

Firstly, most of the hyped Peasant Bread is actually Bread made by us peasants for our feudal masters. Proper Peasants are much to busy making such nutritionally incomplete fluffy stuff for our whipmasters. There is not time outside of the listless Paris Commune, to be making dreamy stuff for ourselves.

So, now that even peasants can pull out a carde and steal the next door mannors “free internets’, let us therefore call upon Amazon and have James send a box of the Kings own whole Kamut grain.

Since the card says no payments until March 20016, might as well order a nice Pelikan m600, a red one shall do boldly well.

Shortly after Christmass, ye whole Kamut grain shall arrive. Gather then, the spilled grains from about the boxe, And put a handful into the blender. Fear not! It doth no goode. Add some unchlorinated water if you like, more kamut berries, and press go, grinding the stately berries into a coarse grind, such as the doves eat in gravel. Or more finely if you have traded a daughter for a Vita-mix.

Dump in a bowl (the grain), and cover with more unchlorinated water, so not from the masters pool, stirre, and set the uncovered bowl upon ye counter, before rushing forward to serve your master and pilfer the butter.

Come home, as it may be called, and stir the soupy Kamut and water mix before collapsing into your repast. Between first and seconde sleep, soon after the embrace of your wench, stirr again the grain and water, adding handfuls of fresh ground coarse grain, and water to maintain a batter similar to the mistresses pancake batter she likes so well, and just the same, stick ye calloused finger in, to taste, as you do for her.

Repeat until Thorsday, whence there shall be a bubbley souring appearance rising about the bowl and that special twang upon yeor callus ye shall only know by age and experience. Now then, speed ye to slavery once more and steal only so much whey and olive oil as will not be noticed. This is important, for if noticed, your bread shall surely go bad and surley as you swing in the good sherrifs’ wind.

Assuming you are not greedy, or at least that you are clever, empty your prize into the bowl and stirr in some soak softened sprouting kamut berries, salt to the taste of sweat after fresh spring water and stirr like there is a tomorrow. Add more grain till it is like the thick steppe clay which clings to the soul-less boot, and walk away. Or run, it matters not, for where shall ye go if you would?

Perhaps now be a fine time to return the masters horse, all the while collecting some guilded frames for the fire your bread wishes. No, moldy peat will not do. Coke does help but is not the ultimate answer as it results in an unsavory crust to those who use it for long.

When the bread dough has risen, as it is written it will, and this time it’s true, strike your fire to 400f. I would use Centigrade but they hang those who venture beyond the kings foot so ye shall have to do your own math if you do live in pretty much any other country in the worlde beyond this one.

Place Risen bread, doused in the last of the olive oil into the oven, for it is likely Sonday, and all but you are playing croquet, napping, or bothe, which leaves only you, the time for the baking.

Reduce frame pieces to the fire, and baske at 325 until a Ravens foot cries out 180 or 200f, it matters not, but to the crumbe. Cool down and rest the bread while you gather the butter and honey. This is real peasant bread, and worthy of any sting.

Youres, with love,

GranGranGranGran Ma

PS ask questions if you like, but remember, I’ve been ded a long long time.



Nothing To Do With Fish



There is a secret and this is it:

Whatever the practice; the effect is to stop abstraction.

In the absence of abstract thinking; reality fills.

Trained juxtaposition of the two states: ultimate human consciousness.




Mantra 1957





Flat World ramble



Not so very long ago the world was flat.


For all practical purposes,

Beyond cognitive awareness,

There was only a very real end of the Flat World,

A sure falling into terminal mystery.

This folly did not make the human mind less intelligent,

Only less knowledgeable.

Given heath and nurturing,

Levels of intelligence seem quite stable through-out history.


Knowledge rises and falls in eras,

Directed by ever shifting social mores.


Long before that sincere time when the world was flat,

The earth was mathematically proven round.

Few believed it.


Truth died at the stake of a more simple awareness;

The blind faith tradition of faith.




The fundamental human mind transcends race and defines the species.


The body’s versatility and fine motor control are guided by our intelligence,

In a culmination that defines our presence in the physical world.

This trait is common to all life forms.




And so enters Art: The application of the body to express the mind.


The concept of modern art includes wild degradations from the more primitive reality.

In this day, to qualify as art, works must be intrinsically valueless in the physical world of necessity;

This, the common definition of trophy.



The modern artist must incite belief, and establish faith to succeed commercially-

An abstraction immediately surpassing the art object itself,

Thus stripping the creative act of producing of that which is raw expression.


As a result,

Art expression in 2012 is largely a matter of fashion;

The art is largely secondary;

Shotgunned to an excluded public

Whose only way in

Is commerced.


Yet the artist is working now in her kitchen; preserving berries into jam.

Another just discovered how to cut and fit another final piece of some dream-house.


Art is simply the expression of the abstract mind by the body into the physical world.

It is the intimate practice of living in the physical world.

Any refined expression of intent satisfies the definition.

If you are doing anything, you are creating your way.




Fine Art is that which expresses the minds raw intent clearly,

Using refined techniques of production.


The difficulty with art is the culture of the artist;

As defined by contemporary society at large;

A finely tooned image at best,

Which requires restraint of impulse

To satisfy rules of ever repeating trends.



Done well and done badly in variance

With schedules of necessary elusive desire,

Art on demand is doomed to the erosive effects of cultivation.


Still, I know of no one I could find

Not doing art.



Art is the human condition.

We are all artists.

Further designations are a matter of fashion and are thus exclusionary in practice.


Some of our greatest art treasures are simple primitive tools of life.

Stone, clay, wood, metals,

Raw stuff of utility transformed into lasting expression by it’s very nature.




The highest art remains the most base expression of elements.


Until the most primitive methods are mastered,

Technical ability trained has little to express.

Indeed, the growing collection of techniques to master stunts every artist

No matter how flowing the line.


Some rise by falling.

To a lower frequency.




To exercise the mind to it’s maximum potential

Is to enter the world abstracted;

Abstracting reality; for better or for worse.




The road to peace in self

Is slick with snake oil.


The various trials and enrollments offered by society

Extend the road to the event of return

With the requirement of dedicated practice;

Allegiance, and elusive faith that dulls intelligence

With the pledge of belief.


The common icon of the old wise one

Ignores the clarity of the infant mind

Available to us all.


At best, a given discipline for exploration should last no longer than human infancy.

Beyond that;

Lies religion.




Religion is exclusionary by definition.

The only path to acceptance is to abort common tolerance,

Which soon becomes a chip to bear

In this simmering stew of humanity.


We are one world in reality.

Every being is as valid as the next.

In this way; we are all born noble.


Beyond this universal foundation of common truth

Lies the abstraction of ever-shifting social controls.




We are stuck in the cage of language.

Even the best examples we have

Struggle to evolve beyond coffee house anarchy.


There is sound reason to preserve the essential syntax and grammatical structure

That ensure solid building blocks of logic.

Above that ground Eagles fly.




There is nothing to attain but fearlessness.

There is nothing to attain but fearlessness.

There is nothing to attain but fearlessness.







To Embrace;

One must present empty arms.