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

27 August 2008


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Day Nine: Let It Be.
"...covet nothing that is your neighbor's except his kindness of heart and gentleness of manners." Flame sky last night and maxfield parrish this morning with B2 and new Z. over my shoulders into the cool morning. woke from dreamless sleep and the low tide reveals what deep waters been hiding. bones bearing a sleek new skin that summer slumbers offered up from the shipwreck of my last thirty-two years. but its not too late i tell myself. she changes everything she touches. clean towels and pumpkin cake its late september cold today, edinburgh drizzle manchester sky. Z. falls asleep in my arms but not for long her heart-shaped cloud and faerie colors the two coats i read about a magick cape for flying. #4 into portuguese death metal #3 would like his ashes incorporated into his art. ive abandoned the illusion of control and lead by example. my good deed resulted in a million invisible prickers in my thumb and fingers i wrapped the tips in duct tape for a day and lo, it did the trick. blessed be. i did nothing but rub my hands on rough surfaces, my hands were the antlers of a buck in rut, i was blindfolded from the wrists, a bag on the head of my tactile perception. in the rain #3, Z. and i go out hunting grape tomatoes and green beans, remark on the heads of nodding sunflowers, dance enormous purple carrots from the deep rich of this garden im gifted with, this space to grow.
"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)