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

20 September 2008


Day Thirty-Two: Do it Anyway.
"But an archetypal anxiety out there is calling me to the fkng rocks and i dont want to have to be tied to the mast. Ive got the rope. Ive got the knot. But what i really should do is fkng go clean the deck or something." Relentless vicious apocalyptic desperate horrifying nightmares brought on no doubt by acute antihistamine withdrawl assuaged somewhat by a sunny morning with no tang of lurking psychotic secret societies and shamefully aborted art projects (brain sucking alien invaders and missing plaster of paris) or maybe the elections. but we celebrate my grandfathers birthday, the one who shook hitlers hand, then eisenhowers, the one who kept the train alive in siberia while italian armies died in their boots the one who slept with this new wifes mother on his wedding night because he was stinking drunk and she didnt want anything to do with him the one who has a million impossible true stories hell never tell. my ancestors were all mad cossacks and mead brewing hill farmers, farther back theyre mongols and vikings and we speak a language most closely related to sanskrit which sauces our blood with gypsy. my otherness, which my mother tried desperately to wallpaper over in late-century american white-out, seeped through with an animal smell and refused to be ignored after millenia of perfecting.
"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)