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

15 January 2009



"I swear I will not dishonor my soul with hatred, but offer myself humbly as a guardian of nature, as a healer of misery, as a messenger of wonder, as an architect of peace."

im supposed to go to mexican with w. but she gets distracted by pike because its their third anniversary and im at school theres a movie and i sit next to the missionary baptist lady and we both have wheat stalks embedded in our toes and theres a fork in my foot (i must be done?) and it didnt hurt to pull the fork away but the wheat stalks stung. another awkward lavatory segment. #4 tells me his
extraordinarily disturbing dream this morning. ten years ago today it was the coldest day of the year. i remember being sad. there was no ring, no flowers. it was a secret. i loved that old land rover, though.



the sky a perfect pearl blue, peace blue, aura blue. when she gave me the georgia orange tears came. and i hoarded that orange and didnt give it away. today i ate the georgia orange. there was no bitterness, the peel was pliant and fragrant and radiant. everything sparkles all light reflected and refracted. pale sky morning and night, everyone home, the ice-spirits outside sheathed in sharp transparent shrouds. thinking about my night of reading, warm cozies and cabernet ahead, thinking about all the death and grieving falling like black-hole snow from the sky elsewhere. dowstairs the pink geranium blooms upstairs the pink cyclamen. gentle spring spirits in the depth of winter. made apple crisp and washed the sofa covers for weekend movie marathon. lost? deadwood? bladerunner? i need a shower. im thawing at the edges, showing snowdrops of soul.



15 of 365:

1. "The oldest mitten in the world was found in Latvia. It is a staggering 1,000
years old."
2. The Radiant Georgia Orange.
3. Dream Telling.
4. Barack Obama and Joe Biden.
5. Homemade Bread with Butter.
6. Colin Meloy of the Decembrists.
7. My Health.
8. Creative Blogs.
9. Getting a Little Feeling Back in My Spirit.

"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)