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

11 June 2008


Bright Idea #34: Grow a Garden
“You need to resign yourself to the awkwardness of life. Only if you find peace within yourself will you find true connection with others.” Thought about the Holocaust today there were at least eighty thousand jews from my country that were murdered and i saw a photo of Gypsy children little bundles looking forward and they were smothered incinerated murdered two weeks later in another country and i had to put that book down years ago at the part where they were throwing the newborn babies out the window onto waiting bayonetes where the little boy was found hiding in the offal and thats how he saved his own life. its inconceivable. purity is not a human condition. it should not be strived for in any respect save consciousness and even that is only an ideal to strive for not a reality to be attained. not here at least. we are a glorious amalgam of everything. all the colors mixed together are brown. the brown earth the brown rabbit the brown tree trunk the brown bread the brown rice in a blue bowl. we are all different and all the same. we are here to love and be loved and continue in the Beautiful Experiment in Love. we are not here to divide and hate and exterminate our brothers and sisters mothers fathers family friends not here to succumb to the illusion of separation. i am ruminating on the banner to read One Love or All is One or maybe Love All Serve All in latin even though thats the hard rock mantra ive always loved it and taken it for my own. i cannot bring back the mothers daughters sons brothers. i cannot take back the pain grief fear the hands that played violin or made a birthday cake the lips that kissed so perfectly the eyes that saw birth and sunrise and the hearts that felt purity of Hope Love Joy. i can only deserve my own blessed life by living toward my own ideal. living in honor of those that were led away from their lives so peacefully who believed their peace would win their breath back again.
"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)