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

12 May 2009

"How do you know this is the experience you need? Because this is the experience you’re having."



my from-seed tomato plants are TANKING. last year they were lame but proved prolific and lovely in the end. this years batch is perhaps beyond even my pollyanna overlook. so ill knuckle under and get some off the hillstreet phantom and some off the mennonites and tuck my short-bus sad buddies in between to either put out or compost. i dream of a functioning greenhouse, even the plastic quonset hut stylee would rock. hell, its what most of the mennonites use.



there are rumblings that i may indeed be voted onto the employment island but i just keep breathing and wearing my "to be of use is a blessing" bracelet. the weekend will be a small but productive affair. cleaning, dusting, organizing, brad pitt movies and hopefully some more inspirational-bracelet-making time. were all here together for the weekend which is insanely rare. #4 and i have a date tomorrow at the "rollerdrome" for a birthday celebration. im hoping they play incredibly dreadful seventies and eighties numbers (im thinking along the lines of "billie jean" if you ask me m.j. made def rollerskate music) but you can hope in one hand and...



hot and then heavy clouds. the kittens are showing their colors, the one huge lumbering bully, the one that actually runs to me when i come into the room (coincidentally the one we def. intend to keep), the little black meowling who id also like to have stick around and the tuxedo cat that plays perfectly the role of middle child. mama is attentive still, still looking for her extra wet rations, surreptitiously sneaking treats.



#3 attacked by the neighbors pair of maltese. i still remember being chased down by my neighbors toy poodle, cinnamon, and being terrified to tears. i was eight or nine. in the book i read today (a handbook for children and their dogs) it said, "dont forget that no matter how big or how small, your dog is a domesticated wolf."

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Blessed Be.

"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)