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

03 February 2009



"Each minute of life should be a divine quest."

A long hard sleep wherein i dream a life lived from a type of gypsy wagon full of books and candles (thanks, Rima)and the kindergarten teacher sent me for skewers there was some big party (todays her birthday) and again im running through the mall (why always with the mall? i dont care for malls at all) looking for skewers. and at some point im looking out at a place out in the south west where all the stones are picturesque and worn away and i realize all the stones contain the souls of people, all the stones smooth encasements of people.

"The cure for anything is salt water—sweat, tears, or the sea."

cuddled in with #4 and The Golden Compass. craving sweets. the sky last night magnificent after so many days of boiled wool. the craving for spring is strong but torpor is hard to fight, february a short month with a long holiday. sleeping more just to be away, out of the way, out of the fight into the light of dreams where people sleep under stones. february: Judgement, Sulis, Womb, Bat. radical soul change, creative chaos, transformation. thinking about the smell of mud and water, sleeping to the sound of the creek swollen rushing sending my wishes to Greater Waters, the strength of seeds, the soft wind. the winters been long and cold, and changes have come with it for me and the world. the beginning of a greater change, our ship just leaving the harbor, not even having lost sight of the land we leave behind.



21 of 365:

1. The Dark Materials Trilogy, again.
2. Popcorn.
3. Coffee.
4. Music.
5. Dogs.
6. Walking.
7. New Friends from Far Away.
8. Something Stirring.
9. Changing Light.



“The entire being of a woman is a secret which should be kept."

No comments:

Post a Comment

Blessed Be.

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)
"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)