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

06 November 2008



Bright Idea #109: "We are the ones for whom we have been waiting."

Heavy mist lifted quickly. 3am B1 woke me up and L1 sick all over the second floor, kind enough to get off the bed to barf. after a long but stepping stone sleep im up and determined to un-crazy the house. more crazy dreadful dreams looking looking explanations negotiations lack. but a clean floor and a sunny day and fresh sheets and ill get mennonite eggs on the way to the meeting and bake those bread and honey muffins something happy and sweet. and the boys in the boiler room loved the monkey bread and it feels good, this shout-out, like sunlight after solitary. and the sec. calls to say im not allowed on the bus anymore and of course im thinking "but i stayed in my seat and didnt shout and said thank you!" but thanks to the bottomless-ukie-spirit-bike (and the equally generous spirit of my dear Louise) theres enough to get me there and back maybe a day or two. grateful i can get a little housework done and the hearth will be in soon and a bookshelf to house the yearning masses and an easy day tomorrow being someone else and making a wage at it. as the day progresses so does the sick and i ferret out some random otc capsule just to see if it heads off the rising army that ive tracked for a month now like its My Internal Weather Report, which i suppose it is. out to get mennonite eggs and positive reinforcement as to my parenting which means the world to me laughing loud at the meeting reading about dog woman vs. evil chicken and his minions. post office shout-outs she remembers #4 im buoyant down the road to home a yard full of boys and feeling good enough for dinner maybe cheese omelet and toast then bed and work and a long weekend. blessed be.

"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)