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

07 August 2009

a high geek heart-throb o mine (and a randy one at that, i hear) is a year older --

"I love dogs. They live in the moment and don't care about anything except affection and food. They're loyal and happy. Humans are just too damn complicated."

and happy birthday to the radio crooner of this little gem (ol' paul as bonus, and the sound quality is reminiscent of my old portable tape deck...is that a fixed gear?)--



got it done today, paid the man, donated clothes and books, straighted up, funneled myself into the old 30/30 carhartt overhauls. bright and cool and the sister calls from nyc, beacon theatre, hobnobbing with an all access pass, wish you were here.


from this womans work, just how the whole foray felt.

dusk floating up from the roots of trees. the smell of dusk sleek liminal feel of twilight space waiting crenelated. prayer prayer the grim things in my head reflected in the above erratic parabolas of hunting bats rebirth rebirth casting a globe of light about me the old names on my lips it tracks me on the right woodside unsubtle so it seems either reckless or human. either possibility is deeply unsettling. then quiet. more unsettling still. and quickly quickly then the steady skitch of claws on the road behind me, approaching. the dogs and i turn around and i SHOUT i shout it away from me and it stops in a skid and retreats back into the deep dark of the woods before the empty farmstead and the road opens into home. it was tall and long-legged, pale white and red patches. todays card the chalice page and the tower. autumn comes early, thick with omen. blessed be.

this is what went through my mind.

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)