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

13 July 2008


Bright Idea #56: An it harm None, do what Thou wilt.
"To label such products as 'disposable' is to falsify the reality. In the natural world there is no such problem as that of disposing of some product. The waste product from one lifeform is the nourishment of another. We, on the other hand, are making a world of universal waste and maximal entropy." Rain this morning into afternoon baked bread read popcorn and lemonade laundry and a phonecall from BFF theres a tension in her voice of things shes not saying but its not me. Went out into misty garden for greens ruby chard parsley forellenschuss romaine the lovely gourd blossoms luxurious pumpkin blossoms fragile melon blossoms tomatoes green i dig a little to chart dragon carrot progress and notice tiny chartreuse heads of broccoli. its a crazy quilt stitched with succulent purslane stars and for the first time i notice the cathedral architecture of cleome, the flowers like candles on a yule tree. the cleome emerge everywhere in the gardens and their presence is intelligent they wait for us to catch up with the universal math. the mans quote goes on to say that women are usually the clean-up crew, theres something encoded in our gender identities that say as much and men who have taken it on to make the rules make the mess too but have no idea how to clean it up. men to make a generalization are goal oriented, product oriented, with no consideration for whats sacrificed, whats left over, whats extinct. women know process, our biological storyline is a process whether we choose to bear Life or not. every month is a process the waxing and the waning the creating and the shedding of potential and if we choose to bring Life to bear its one cell at a time a strong gentle vessel for the Great Good. the alchemy of feeding others is a process raising a child is a process growing a garden is a process a Circle that echoes the Oldest Circle of All. man send his bucket down the Well and expects wine. we are no more evolved than we were a thousand years ago. were still killing one another theres still hunger and injustice cruelty and withholding. were letting them get away with it. why?
"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)