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

24 February 2009



“To write is to write is to write is to write is to write is to write is to write is to write”



ive been away. a few days of being depleted completely, not even the energy to read, to focus word to word. just space and sleep, no appetite, no sensation. then it lifts and a well of phlegm and no air. my teeth ache. everyone is sick. februarys nadir. the new bed, big enough for all of us and i move in. there are candles and roses and ferns, feathers and photos and books. its cold and colder and everythings dry and frozen hard, the stepping stones of firewood attached to the grass im out there in the afternoon glare kicking at it, nothing smells of anything, but it could be the congestion. went back to work, everyone talking about death and the boy had photos of the newborn lambs. this ones name is iris. this is the afterbirth. were in the little room, engaged in animated conversation about trapezoids and right isosceles triangles, computing at a fever pitch. its lovely. its lovely to connect to these children, these children lost in the wash of teaching to the test. its lovely sharing my love of learning and seeing it catch. the little boys uncle died and he wondered how i knew. were all connected. these stories, these ghost stories told around the campfire, the spirits, our deaths, are so close. we speak of them. we have not forgotten you, our deaths, the spirits of undissolved strangers, the rain and light that holds all the atoms of our histories. theres a tornado in me, bright and whirling. sparks and sharp stars. im skittering, bouncing around the room (the echo of whoever spoke) a seed splitting in the dark earth, a lamb rolling in the womb, ready.




“Generally speaking, everyone is more interesting doing nothing than doing anything”



26 of 365:

1. al, the polar bear
2. blue sky tibetan incense
3. the bed
3. getting to spend all vacation with #4
4. cheap french red
5. its a cold, not lymphoma
6. chocolate
7. money to get the trucks fixed
8. i done got over it
9. im experiencing an expansive block of time without free floating anxiety and
self-loathing and im GIDDY with it

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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)