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

05 April 2009

“If the stars should appear but one night every thousand years how man would marvel and stare.”



the first birthday sleepover. a success. blessedly self-regulating, movies, legos, pizza, sweets. up all night under one blanket in the tv room. breakfast of huge cheese omelette, bacon, buttered toast. i make cinnamon rolls from a dough of yukon gold potato and cream. theyve all called their mothers and are off to the parking lot to skate illegally. i eat an enormous cinnamon roll that far exceeds expectations alone at the kitchen table.

“The age of a woman doesn't mean a thing. The best tunes are played on the oldest fiddles.”



the day is brilliant and clear. i go out to the creek in my bare feet and stand on the plank bridge #4 built. spring baptism. i feel good that he has friends and that he also isnt afraid to go his own way as he sees fit. the teacher says hes an independent thinker and i think ive done my job, so far. #3 farther and farther away on the burning boat. one for you, one for me.


“We do not have to visit a madhouse to find disordered minds; our planet is the mental institution of the universe.”



theres a rift in the clan, two women on one farm is never a good idea. everyone listens and no one thinks. got up after having gone to bed, drink two glasses of lovely beaujolais and wonder at how he can simultaneously defend me and deride me. i was tense and took a hot shower. im supposed to be worried about her sabotaging my job because we let her in. me, with the witch bumperstickers in the company parking lot. there are few left to surprise with the shock and awe of and did you know...

“We must be our own before we can be another's.”



i should be walking but need to man the HQ in case moms call or boys break a bone or both. theres one straggler that stays behind to watch godzilla with the cowboy. the day will go quickly, birthday dinner and a little lego shopping, get the cowboy his fishing license. the hoard disperses. cowboy and i unused to the rock-n-roll lifestyle drag through the afternoon. my peas show no sign, but there are lettuce and marigold and some tomato spirits reaching up toward the steady artificial basement light.


“If I accept you as you are, I will make you worse; however if I treat you as though you are what you are capable of becoming, I help you become that”

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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)