Aerendel Magazine Archives

Aerendel Magazine

from Hard Copy Issue #4

(Back when I tried to be cute and call it “AERENDEL KUHL-tCHURAL REVIEW —

(( thinkin that would be the way an illiterate might try to spell ‘Cultural’? ))

and one of my friends asked me if I was a Nazi ?)


( Summer 1997 – Autumn 1997 )                            (Not in the order anything appeared in the Magazine)


 { This was fun-  the kind of Title page – explanation column you see in most magazines and this was our take on that: }




The Aerendel Creative Cooperative
(Soon to be a legal Non-Profit Organization)



This Issue’s Managing Editor

Stanley Freeboingen

This Issue’s Poetry Editor

Jim Wellington

This Issue’s ‘Reality and Politics’ Editor

Trouble D. Phoxx

On-Line Editor

( If we ever go ‘On-Line’ )
Tjum Dao

This Issue’s Fiction Editor

dj otterson

Resident Psycho-Cosmographer

Stanley Freeboingen

Staff Writers

Tjum Dao
DJ Otterson
Trouble D Phoxx
Jim Wellington
Stanley Freeboingen

     The Aerendel Kuhl-Tchural Review is (or will try to continue to be) published every once in a while by the Aerendel Creative Co-operative Writer’s Workshop [with a Post Office Box address that we no longer pay for… in Milford, CT 06460,]
     Unless otherwise noted, the Entire Contents of this issue of the Aerendel Kuhl-Tchural Review is Copyrighted © 1997 by the Aerendel Creative Co-operative and in the name of Each Story’s, Poem’s or Article’s Author. All Rights are Reserved.
     The Suggested Donation for a copy of the ‘Kuhl-tChural Review’ has been suggested at “One or two bucks a copy” — Contributions ( if we ever cover expenses ) will be used to help struggling writers, authors and “other creative individuals” pay their bills and/or improve their standard of living.
     Subscription Rates have been suggested at a rate of ten dollars’ Donation for six issues.


Lost or Found?

one blinding flash
showed me all my blind spots
(and yours) revealing
too many darkened corners
in my own mind

I’m frightened now
no hand-me-down vision
can help me close my eyes
in any calm comfortable happy
or safe

part of me
has grown to search
beyond your limits
for things you
never knew
we needed
     dj otterson (4-7-82)


(or: Is This cinematic accuracy?){ Did they jail Columbus
for treating ‘lowly natives’
almost as if
they were equal to Spaniards
(of ‘Noble Blood’)
? It appears the ‘powerful’
will always seek to destroy
discredit and condemn
to anonymity or public shame
whose ideas conflict with
(and thereby threaten?)
their ownI do not contest the notion
that the (man) commissioned by Isabella
had his flaws, neither do I argue
this world is any better
or worse
than it might be
had the Europeans
never ‘discovered’
this un-lost continent
they later renamed ‘America’
(unlike you
I know I don’t have
understanding of this
mysterious and beautiful
universe-)I do believe
I had ancestors
before ol’ Christoforo
argued the ’roundness’
of this sphere
But- }“You never learned
       to speak
              my language
yet demand perfection
       from my mastery
              of yours
You say you believe
       in freedom and equality
but, do you
       perceive ‘Nobility’?
    in the form of a selected few
       whose reflections
            remind you most nearly
                of your own image?              dj otterson
              30 june 1997


(more later, I have to go do something in the ‘real world’—–Jim)



{{{ Adding to “Copied and Pasted from a Friend’s Site Because he asked me to save a copy of a poem I’d Liked” : }}

{{{{{ Aerendel Magazine was founded online by a friend I met in Ithaca, and refuses to fade away completely. Last weekend the founder emptied a storage unit his niece filled with stuff that had been stored in her step father’s barn after her step father set his home on fire and blew his own brains out, never quite got over the cancer death of his long time spouse. Going through the stuff in the storage unit, the magazine’s founder discovered stuff he’d written way the bleep back in the sixties, seventies, eighties an nineties. He believes some of it might be worth reading. }}}}}




Tom Rush

(A Tribute To Tom Rush And Crazier, more Hope Filled Days / Daze)




( This Is To Tom Rush /
But That’s Not A Title )

I’ve seen you reaching
to understand the feelings
of everyone around you,
like you thoughts yours didn’t matter,
you remind me
of the things I like best in people

People; we’ve known our share
(pass the wine friend)
we know that our heaviest burden
is that we care
too much for things
that never give us a second thought,
we’re soldiers in a war
to bring love to our friends
who fear it the most

have to admit it though,
we sure know how to live,
if livin is losin,
if livin is losin your soul
twenty times a day
(tied off with a crumpled bow
and tossed) at the feet of the living
whose dreams are bound to die
before their time

they’ll be back, Tom, the people
when their losing
brings them to the questions
we gave them answers for
when they were too young to ask,
when their breasts were new
and full of energy,
full of idealism
that told them
the world was theirs

they’ll drag their heals
and feel their tears
and wonder about dying,
the way we did,
before we saw them ready to fall
before we were ready
to fight all manner of gods
for their happieness,
to strain every muscle
in our hearts
to keep them from crying

pass the wine, Tom,
the waiting is on us,
empty as a corpse.

Jim Wellington (1971)



(( I came home from work one morning, to an empty house. All my “hippy friends” and house mates had gotten up early to zoom off to New Haven to the farmers’ market.

I’d had a rough couple days, with a new friend named Richie, whose parents had kicked him out of their house- he’d scored some really bad acid and spent a couple hours puking his brains out in our reassuring bathroom.

-And a fifteen year old girl had wondered into the house, wide eyed and helpless, looking like somebody’s perfect daughter, flawless skin, beautiful eyes, thin young body wearing bell bottoms and soft suede shoes, a tight tee shirt of brown textured material with a wide cut between her hinted at breasts- the tee shirt held closed by criss crossed shoe laced leather. Long straight dark hair, innocent brown eyes. She was just barely hanging on to her sanity after some idiot had given her a first taste of Lysergic Acid Diethalimide .25 and she was calmly trying not to explode into millions of fragments that might never come back together right. I managed to let he know we believed she mattered, she was a wonderful human being with better than infinite potential. She wanted to hold my hands and look into my eyes and absorb that truth and feel really good about herself and the universe that was coming together to save her from her parents’ particular form of insanity. But that inrush of truth and beauty and hope and love threatened to explode her again. I think, somehow, I said something that had her laughing with joy and launched her bad trip into a much better field of exploration.

And I had to go to work in the midst of all this, leave Annie surrounded by friends I trusted to stand back and stand guard to make sure she was safe and happy and learning as much positive information as possible without exploding all over the place… (a poster of Jimi Hendrix turned and looked at her and said, “What are you doing? … What did I do?…” ) And Richie from Long Island finished puking his brains out and sat around for a while staring at a very frightening panorama of monstrous faces forming the air around him and later asked for a ride to the emergency room, and he survived- ((( a couple days later he was playing his guitar and teaching me licks from Pink Floyd and Jefferson Airplane… )))

-But I was freakin drained, dealing with long haul truck drivers who told me my beard looked like their girl friend’s private parts, and the clerk work at the trucking company office kept coming and never gave me a chance to sit down and catch my breath.

-So I came home to our hippy beach house and put on my newish copy of Tom Rush- the album that starts with Driving Wheel. And I cranked it a little louder than I would if anybody was sleeping upstairs or on the couch or passed out half hugging the washing machine… life was that kind of an adventure….

And I fried myself a couple brown eggs and got the toaster to work and found enough coffee left in the pot to bring it all together into one of the better breakfasts I’d tried to cook myself…

And I sat down in the living room (in the mix-matched furniture that only looked right in a rented beach house)

And the music filled the universe with magic- every note relaxed and soothed another part of me that I hadn’t realized was on fire. And Tom’s voice was the soul of compassion and I could see the old man with white hair sitting on a park bench, looking through fading eyes at a world worth loving, and I wanted to get up and dance to stuff my momma would have warned me I better not dance to, all night long. and I wanted to drop my guard and feel the pain of crazy people who had a lot more to offer than I’d ever realized.

Star Children from the other side of the universe were coming to earth and infiltrating our wild and crazy hippy get togethers and donating secret bits of love and wisdom and compassion and hope. And they were using unassuming genius folk singers to help them spread their message.

I had to sit down and write the above poem, straining to feel and find the words that fit together just right

I typed up two copies and gave one to Annie (the fifteen year old hope of my lost tribe’s wildest uncontrollable generation)  She kept a crumpled up copy with her and read it read many times after being used and abused by flower children and people who hated flower children. She went to a Tom Rush concert because of that poem and loved every second of it.

And I thought I lost my last copy of that typewritten poem but found it yesterday in a stinkin mildew and mold ridden mess in a storage unit a family member had filled with stuff that my brother in law had not burned when he set his house and fire and blew his brains out, never getting over the loss of my sister to cancer….

And the original is inside a plastic page protector and this copy will be saved on five or six hard drives and on the web in at least three sites.

Yeah, life is still worth living. Even if the only wine I want is the spiritual kind that warms you to the core of our universal soul and spirit.

—–Jim, July 12, 2014 (Full moon tonight) ))




I’ve Seen A Lot Of Green

Posted by Jim – July 14th, 2014

I’ve seen a lot of green things lately
growing, trimmed to fit a grasping
need to feel our power over life
and cars still speed past my window
in a hurry to get to somewhere
they’ll probably wish they weren’t
yet their noises sometimes call me
to follow as far as your door.

Don’t ask me how I feel
I’ll tell you, whenever something touches me
or reaches for my eyes or mind
some complicated network
made of things like telephone lines
somehow pulls impressions
to a place where they’re measured and
set in line with things that have

Don’t ask what turns me on
the music that once filled me
echoes of small ideas and wasted energy
though I’m sick of reacting to things
I can’t control
I’m lazy and lagging
I want to start something
that makes sense
beyond all this
but I’m tired.

Don’t ask me what I want
I’m afraid to tell you
someone with soft hair
whose eyes I wouldn’t push
away from my mind, leaves
an image that won’t let me think
to the time I’ll stop my dreaming.

Don’t ask me what I’ve found
I’ll skip over the rulers of darkness
and light
and mathematical formulas
that can teach you why
the Earth moves and grass grows
and forty thousand people a year
have to die in cars;

And I’d tell you
I’ve learned that I need her
and daily look for reasons
to make her laugh
which set aside
fears that keep my hand
from reaching for hers.

Jim Wellington (4th try, August 24, 1971)




Swapping Old Poems

July 28, 2014

Monday, 28 July, 2014. -( 21˚C / 70˚F @ 11:00 pm in our neck of the woods. )-

I think the following is actually the first poem that I’d written that Doug ever saw. (it was not quite all the way out of the typewriter when Doug stumbled onto it.) (I hardly ever left stuff lying around like that where just any weirdo (( who would have had to been let in, or broken in, or invited – in this case )) could happen to glance the wrong way and realize I wrote poetry now and then. Most of the guys I worked with in those days would have respected the hell out of a porn writer, but would have stepped a couple steps back and wondered how far they were from the nearest door if they know I wasn’t afraid to write poetry.)


from a bus
and its many meanings
(armies of idiots smiling
at something they know
but couldn’t understand)
while many of our good ford’s cars
string home with
how many
telephone wires for guides
to how many
finite kitchens
dining rooms and
smiling drunk barbecues and
back yards full of screaming kids and
wives who love
or nag, depending
on how long
their marriage has lasted

—————Jim Wellington (1970)


I had typed this on my old electric (suitcase model) portable typewriter. I don’t remember the make or model, but I do remember it was light blue in colour.

Both Doug and I were feeling dumped by our ‘significant others’ (but I had no idea at that time, that he’d been married and forgot something on his way to work, came home to get it and caught his wife ((Now ex-wife)) emptying their house and about to run off “with a van full of crazies from some whacko California Evangelic Christian Commune” with their daughter in tow. Doug, a security guard with a license to carry firearms, was in uniform with the gun on his hip and the crazies took off in a hurry. His wife ran out the back door and across a couple neighbours’ back yards and jumped in the van and left the baby in her car seat on the kitchen table.) So Doug’s suffering was a whole lot deeper and more profound than mine at the time. I hadn’t had a clue.

I also didn’t realize he’d read the piece of paper in the typewriter until a couple days later when he handed me one of his poems (and swore me to secrecy, the company he worked for might not trust a gun toting poet to guard their clients in those days ((1991-ish?)) )





I think this might be a song I tried to write on a piece of cardboard that came inside a new shirt.



To a Waterfall

You kept my love alive—

Sometimes the slightest thought of you
Could tear my crazy soul in two
When I’m
too far gone to cry

But you
You kept my love alive
you kept my love

I saw you
in another time
when I was lost
inside my mind
you shook me
to my hidden roots
and on that day
my love came loose—

Ah you—
you kept my soul alive
you kept my love

The night sails away
and time flashes free
then the world of man
took it all from me
my dreams all died
the world went mad
I tried to believe
I was all I had

But you-
you kept my soul alive
you kept my love

I found my wings
I loved the sky
alone I flew
I thought I knew why

From time to time
I looked your way
I felt your tears
and flew away

The higher I flew
the deeper I went
the more I knew
I was nowhere yet

I watched you stumble
I watched you fall
You screamed in the night
I heard it all

And you-
you held my fire for me-
you kept my love—

I stood in the wind
I heard life begin
I watched through the rain
closed my eyes to pain

And you—
you kept my soul alive
you kept my love—

a million years
fall away in an instant
and all the earth
opens to my heart
one word rushes in
like a flood from a trumpet
I see life end
—and start—- Again

And you-
You kept my soul alive
you kept my dreams

I knew you from a timeless dream
I didn’t know what you would mean
to me
I asked the sky
what everything means
-saw the universe die
in one violent scream

And you-
you kept my love- alive
you taught my soul
to survive

Out here where there’s no live to be seen
you die in your own ashes
or live your own dream
the dreams you resurrected
led me straight to you
I don’t have to tell you
that I didn’t
know what to do-

But you—
you kept my soul alive
you kept my love

and me—
I was running from day to day
feeling empty and starved
I turned to you
in the dark – no one there
I closed my eyes
and I saw you smile

On the edge of a cliff I took the plunge
through life and the cold
past caution and fear
to the bottom of the lake
with no hope of ever
reaching fresh air….
But I rose somehow and I saw you

And you
you laughed my soul Awake
You kept my love

You needed me
you know
I needed you
and, no-
we were both afraid
of fear
we were terrified
of love

but you
you took my hand and cried
and you-
you brought my love
to life-

and where?
from deep inside you
When you life was hell
from where
did you find the strength
to try
in a world so ungrateful
cast your lot with the dying?
do we keep on trying?
when everyone’s lying–
did you look at me and smile?

You might have saved both our lives with that smile-

Times haven’t changed
they’re getting worse
you ask for a blessing
they give you a curse
all these lost crazy humans
we’re all dying of thirst
and your brought them your water
and a smile full of grace
and the way that they thanked you
was a slap in the face

But you-
you kept my dreams alive
you kept my love

I hear you crying
once again in a dream
your soul is on fire
and your mind wants to scream
your wings are unfolding
there’s a light in your eyes
and I know you are ready
for the view from the sky

And You!
You kept my soul alive
you- you kept my dreams
you taught my heart
to survive
make my pain feel like nothing
taught me magic is growing

You kept my love

……….Jim Wellington (duh- I think I started trying to write this in the early 70’s and wrote it out in this form on that piece of shirt cardboard around 1989.)

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