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

16 May 2008


Bright Idea #18: Don't pack whatever is easiest into the emptiness.
"Life has a rhythm; there's already momentum. The world has needs and expectations as do you, creating some likelihoods that are vastly more predictable and smaller in number (though still infinite) than others. And for those who see this and work within these "likelihoods," dancing to their own beat within life's greater rhythm, paradise shall appear at their feet and abundance shall come as easily as breathing." its comin on summer theyre spray painting the sheep angels drop first lines into the passenger side of my brain and they fall away like a dream unwritten down the deep purple hedge the lake changes every day silver to half blue as it turns pull up on the empty end of abandoned strip mall parking lot and off we go two friends adventuring while everyone else paces dutiful in 1938 habitrail fled sour smelling salvation for potion shop where the dog didnt like me for empty crowded den of skin iniquity for ramble bangle to show where weve been for green spirit greenhouse the discovery of sensation and echiveria i forgot the succulent garden in my awe. for lovely house of passages ruby inlaid food smelling jo-el and jimi my happy loud laughing lets do this together, no? when we are old we will remember because we are together and sentimental its easier now theres more air more blood flowing between us the door opened to let the Light in she reminds me to be kind and true she reminds me im okay im okay im okay it starts to rain a car full of green spirits and three kinds of beer pet food fruit cheese crackers is that for one week or two? down the valley for good coffee and donuts strawberries and i forgot bags of dirt white bread im tired its grey im glad for home. thank you beautiful for a beautiful day theres so much wrong in this world o blessed we who wander free.
"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)