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

11 February 2009



the sky a pale slate, chalk dust drowned, rag of blue sky upper left corner a bright idea left to sleep under advancing doubt cloud. long walk the camera battery gives in long before i do right before the going gets good, the other edge of our territory. so we turn around and i wont wield my eye until we cross over again. warmish and damp, tricky weather.



the valley is full of the sound of water and crows. the smell of water and still the cling of ice the dust smell of snow. sweet water from the morning side of the mountain down to the creek that runs through the valley and pours quiet into the lake of motorboats and expensive houses. but give me the red wing blackbird on the bat post in the fen the water chiming over sticks and rocks beside the road, the faerie kissed tufts of moss and the ancient angry faces in the trees.



lyra and her death. pinned like a note from home at your birth, an itch or a shiver when the heavy wind hits it right. the black shapes he saw around me. the things at the edge of seeing. letting my subconscious swirl the oil and dust and light around in a bowl, last night #4 and i up later, hes reading to me at the kitchen table, i showed him my ulu and my spirit lamp. we made popcorn. it was lovely.



went with the boys to coraline. the only ones in the theatre. at one point that was especially sad #4 took my hand and kissed it. pizza. squeeze on the radio hurtling through the fog what comes out of the fog? a faerie queen on a heavy horse? an electric pokemon? #3 wouldnt say. but we didnt hit any deer.



25 of 365:

1. bento boxes
2. the coffee maker works
3. cash to take the boys to coraline
4. snow on the way (im not ready for mud season)
5. i didnt fall getting firewood today
6. the crafty blogosphere
7. cadbury mini eggs (just...one...more...)
8. pizza
9. ian mcshane

1 comment:

Blessed Be.

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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)