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

07 August 2008


Bright Idea #69: "You want to scare away the vampires, guide them into the light."
"The caterpillar on the leaf/Repeats to thee thy mother's grief./Kill not the moth nor butterfly,/For the last judgement draweth nigh./He who shall train the horse to war /Shall never pass the polar bar./The beggar's dog and widow's cat,/Feed them and thou wilt grow fat." Yesterday reached my SoulBrother after a decade in the absence of his Light. drove into the city to pick through the remains and see what the world does in my absence. gorgeous golden gossamer wrap from the silk alleys of spain two swords and a mosaic bull from the niece dark and specific pre-med on a diving scholarship at seventeen my life was already chaos and darkness while hers is an open road of morning light. but ive learned my lessons and for it my soul is lighter. we reach a mesa of peace driving home singing along just quiet and being together like it should be. guru helped, told me to really want for others what i want for myself. tenderness acceptance amity concord. grey pre-storm morning a dream of being in hiding being pursued i hide under my golden wrap from the searching visage of emptiness. not beautiful munificent emptiness of buddha but ravenous howling emptiness of some malignant sheol you work lifetimes at escaping. domestic duties a backlog of laundry and dishes sitting and stretching this is my august and it wont be long before were pulled onto the track of september. my heart is open to all and every one but the world of man offers no enticement. id happily spend my days with the earth and the sky free from skyline or macadam, free from air choked with technological waves polluting gaia vibe like invasive sea plants. give me the cry of a hawk the song of a coyote the weather and the wind. give me light on the water and stars in the sky. give me space and time to grow out of my skin into the infinite being of Light i am after all.
"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)