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

26 January 2009



"No human being who devotes his life and energy to the manufacture of fantasies can be anything but fundamentally inadequate."



inadequate is as subjective as art. and is art not the manufacture of fantasies, at least in its broadest sense. and is not life art? not much clarity but i dont presume to offer. early early morning, clear sky with million stars, million million, a song to the stars the teeth and tongue of my mammalian vertebrate self inadequate to sing the song of the stars but my song is art, doomed from the start, forever and ever amen. the sky this winter has been so clear and vicious cold, liquid cold, a cold you need not fall through the ice to feel. ive been letting myself get more sleep, the sleep my monkey brain craves in the rime-laced cave of january. but i can tell were on the upside, riding out from the trough, still staring at a wall of snow but soon soon well feel the sun full on our face rolling in the grass and smelling of pollen and mud.




"Desire change. Be enthusiastic for that flame in which a thing escapes your grasp
while it makes a glorious display of transformation. That designing Spirit, the master mind of all things on earth loves nothing so much in the sweeping movement of the dance as the turning point."



brought a lot of wood in, baked brownies and painted a bit with #4 when he came home. getting the paperwork in, no paper here, nothing new, we make do. thinking about my friend suzie, thinking about the wonder of the world, seasons, trees, dogs, pregnant women, everything dancing atoms and theres more space than anything else. breathing. believing. pink geraniums. we blow through straws to spread the ink, let it bleed and grow into other colors, let it run, fingers of ink gripping the day of the page like light. i am the paint, the day and the light. be well, suzie, and ill see you soon under the sky.

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"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)