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

24 August 2009

after i posted i saw there were dupli-duplicates of photos. oh well.



its okay. i can be open and soft but i think ive earned the right to say, "its probably not a good idea for me to do this," and stay home and read. theres a part of me that believes its environment. that if i were elsewhere i certainly wouldnt stand out like a peacock in a henhouse. ive been places like that. ive been with folks who dont make me feel like a lumbering toxin. but in all things ive planted myself square in the henhouse and i should be surprised? if i cant communicate my feelings with the cowboy without causing a row when all i wanted to say was this is how i feel what do you think i should do? then silence is a golden cage. back to the old dancehall, the same steps. the red shoes. i should be surprised?



im having so much trouble with posting external etcetera that im not gonna do it anymore. just me and mine and that probably makes more sense. i will occasionally hyperlink to a photo. like this.



rough seas. but a morning spent drifting in peace, puttering, homemade bread into toast with good preserves and english tea. sunshine. couldnt save the dragonfly. dont panic. the film that didnt have a happy ending but the lesson was let it go. decide whats important. it was a crazy downward spiral of a film and my mouth was literally hanging open at the long and dreadful end. what is home? what is important? and how our choices are not vacuum packed. they affect everyone forever. i was angry because i felt i was not being heard by the only person i felt i needed to hear me.



D. back from his summer away, so tall and the beautiful eyes, the long hair, my gentle headbanger. talking to him about how it is with me on the way home in the flaming dusk trying to explain my lifetime. his lifetime in the context of others. desperate to be honest and not then shouted down. yesterday the sounds of small boys with legos and young men with electric guitars. between sets at the show the three of us ate cheddar kettle corn and i talked to some guy about a town with eight lanes and a good korean restaurant. is there still that cornfield at the end of that road? i asked his friend. most of it, he said.



"...poor emotional contact with other people...talks all too freely...an impaired sense of what is socially appropriate...to show a mood state not apparently congruous with what is being discussed...to have some unusual, metaphorical way of expressing oneself...to find tidiness and punctuality difficult to achieve..."



and i danced and danced and danced and danced and danced and danced.



T's first show, with me in the ladies talking to two peggys neither margaret my batik wraparound goes from bottom to muumuu its hot in the paddle and sway of the crowd and my body wants space and air. space and air. im so glad the boys will both be home soon and we settle into the winter routine. the going in. the deep quiet. i was so angry the other day i felt like all the talking in the world had been into a hole. like a bad dream where no one is listening.



i get so soft and then the hard hurt comes. it waits. foot in the door, boot on the neck, and my failure is in fighting back. i need to be peace, let go, breathe. but it hurts so much when he doesnt hear me. because there isnt anyone else for there to hear. he is my one phone call from the cell of exile and he does not accept. we do our best, lay a clean cloth over the wound and eat together from the plate of time. but the wound is there, and hurts us both.



"...of superior intelligence...prefers animals to people...conversations characterized by emotional detachment, literalness and much use of metaphor...the sense of being different from everyone else..."



39 of 365:

1. tulsi sweet rose tea.
2. having food from the garden to share.
3. starting to bake beautiful bread again.
4. dagoba chocolate with lavender and blueberry.
5. this book.
6. a washing machine in the house.
7. line drying.
8. soft clean sheets.
9. derek trucks.
10. being home.

1 comment:

  1. Suzie DeGrasse24 August, 2009

    I wrote a comment and your blog ate it. So I will say instead that I like the giant-cigar smoking lady photo and the skirt photo which took me a bit to decipher, that was cool. And I have some books you recommend on hold. I checked out Lonliness as a way of life, totally independent of your theme, and it's got too many King Lear references. I retain little Shakespeare.

    ReplyDelete

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)