Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances.”

29 April 2008


Bright Idea #5: Own your cruelty, ignorance and rage, then work to Transform that Energy.
"The essence of superrich is absence. They like to demonstrate they can afford to be elsewhere. Don't let them in. Their riches form a kind of poverty." Better now. Some mystery school inside me practiced potions poisoned the drinking water with dark hormone elixir i was not my self i was other murderous mother woman scorned elsewhere. ashamed of my anger that it was there harbored like a ship full of gunpowder and gasoline i paint the postcard of quaint seaside fishing village theres a harpy a charybdis that roosts on the bluff left out of the frame a woman scorned so lets pack a picnic and hike up there. a loaf of bread a bottle of wine and thou, great teacher, blackest shadow the light of Everything shines behind me. greetings. you are loved you are free in all honesty you are me and a house divided cannot stand lets sign on the line and make peace from poison clean up my inner landscape let it rest and be beautiful. make peace. the weight of this sorrow is enormous it fashioned anger to keep it safe from any intrusion of light relax. eat something that doesnt taste of ashes. see how the flower dies to the ground, skeletal stumps sentinels in the snow? see how new green braves the light breaks the ground makes way for more flowers beauty freedom love? be that. be here. quit worrying the hollow bone of regret. bury it. make peace. turn your eyes to the sky washed palest blue and smelling of rain. have some wine. thank you, i made the bread myself. now lets get you out of those rags. and how bout you come down to the shore and play in the waves feel the sun on your wings let those talons sink deep in the sand and sing a song of where you are right now not a dirge written so many lifetimes ago.

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Blessed Be.

"And if the question were asked: What is more real, the mundane or the sublime? most would hesitate before they gave an answer. On the one side, details: say, the aftermath of a breakfast, dirty chipped plates in the sink, their rims encrusted with egg yolk. Against this, the unnameable: small aching heart with boasts, what can you know? Outside the cage of everything we ever heard or saw, beyond, outside, above, there lies the real, hiding as long as we shall live, there stretch and trail the millions of names of God burning across the eons. When all through this our end will come before we even know the names of us.

For many the egg yolk prevails." -L.M.

"Love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is done well."
-V.V.G.

"The perfection of the Absolute where all Becoming stops and pure Being, immutable, timeless, unchanging, hangs forever like a ripe peach upon the bough." -E.A.

"...and the whole incident was incredibly frazzling and angst-rod and filled almost a whole mead notebook and is here recounted in only its barest psycho-skeletal outline." -D.F.W.

"At the top of the mountain, we are all snow leopards." -H.S.T.

"Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live." -D.T.
"Cometh a voice: My children, hear; From the crowded street and the close-packed mart I call you back with my message clear, back to my lap and my loving heart. Long have ye left me, journeying on by range and river and grassy plain, to the teeming towns where the rest have gone - come back, come back to my arms again. So shall ye lose the foolish needs that gnaw your souls; and my touch shall serve to heal the fretted nerve. Treading the turf that ye once loved well, instead of the stones of the city's street, ye shall hear nor din nor drunken yell, but the wind that croons in the ripening wheat. I that am old have seen long since ruin of palaces made with hands for the soldier-king and the priest and prince whose cities crumble in desert sands. But still the furrow in many a clime yields softly under the ploughman's feet; still there is seeding and harvest time, and the wind still croons in the ripening wheat. The works of man are but little worth; for a time they stand, for a space endure; but turn once more to your mother - Earth, my gifts are gracious, my works are sure. Instead of the strife and pain I give you peace, with its blessing sweet. Come back, come back to my arms again, for the wind still croons in the ripening wheat."
-John Sandes, The Earth-Mother (excerpt, 1918)