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

14 August 2009

"If he told me all the world was a river of unconsciousness, that all of us here are nothing more or less than the dream of the universe, I could almost believe it."




"We sweep through fields of knowledge and later all we can see is the dirt that clings to the hems of our clothes."



"...refused to admit that the feral urges of man, his bloodlust and his will to power, most often trump his capacity for logic and empathy."

one day the first tomato and mayo sandwich on white bread of the summer will be my last.



last night the wandering elite im channeling wavy gravy banana bread straw hat laughing smiling curious. i ask too many questions. i get a little too interested in your history with the seventh day adventists, what you get out of alpine skiing, the place in the world you like the least. im sorry, i said at one point after asking the man how fast he went at the racetrack, i see everything. which of course isnt true but what is true is my willingness to try to see everything, to give it all an equal shot through the open gate of my awareness. i did, however, restrain my self from saying that circumcision began in the middle east as logic cloaked in mysticism when he complained that karachi was the dirtiest place in the world.



we wandered down to the lake and i put my two-piece on, the one ive had for ten years, and i floated around with an operations manager and we talked a little about the minimum wage. the man from the next beach came over and started a fire. i hope that instead of seeming annoying people feel good that some elaborate stranger finds them interesting. but now im rationalizing.






"In the center were the two of them, bound together, and what rotated, what clung, what distant satellite might orbit them in a faint attraction, far out from the core held fast, was mostly empty space."


i told my coyote story and we sang a little of three coins in the fountain. the little house in the trees, pandoras box, raspberry pie. it was a fine time.



"The bodies beg us to go free."

today is humid hot again the invitation to be down on the water but i decline with difficulty, heartstrings and a hard sell but i decline and sit in front of the enormous factory floor fan reading.



"The hat actually posed alone for photographs."

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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)