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

16 October 2009

"Being caribou means not having fixed goals, objectives, or destinations...swamps, muskeg, mud bogs, bears, bugs, raging rivers, stabbing cold and thin ice."




saw the wood man he was lost letter in the road rolling pointing furiously on the verge i am at the glass and he understands.  snow this morning.  tonight when its all but washed by the doings of day he pulls out a snowball from the freezer what he came to show me this morning.  brown cloak black boots in the opening atmosphere.  in halfdark corner kitchen repotting geraniums at an early hour late at night bright oil burning. 

"To all that has run its course, and to the vast unsayable numbers of beings abounding in Nature, add yourself gladly, and cancel the cost."



antler feathers golden ring waning year dragon chalice abalone rabbit egg lady lady horse boat of banyan rabbit candle cauldron feathers amber rabbit ravens compass rose.


"...in a unique combination of cytoplasmic withdrawls and amalgamations."



garlic corn stalks pumpkin frost.  leavins' from a beautiful weekend still good there were elk, for heavens sake.  elk and a pig with wretched tusks at sundown.  hearth, creatures, bed.  the reemergence of unicorns.  you know where you stand with an animal.  theres a certainty in their instinct.  in my journal, "stuff the hat."  mourning the particular pleasures of a girlbaby.  moving into the next skin im newly in. 


"Distracted by each day's doings, how can we hear the signals?"



a bit mad, liminal, how something describes a curve in the air a line drawn a certain way means water.  everywhere there are portals once he said.  these are the pictures put apart from an inconceivable whole tatters and shining bits of mirror broken.  my hands are getting old.  i start to watch my body aging  time drags the flesh away from the mind.  farther and farther until its only smoke and at the same time in the most unlikely of places we smelled pipesmoke and it pleased us. 


"Nostalgia for utopia:  a return home to no place.  O lungo drom.  The long road...such yearning is the impetus to travel...the complete progression from the collective and the abstract to a private, minutely observed world."



"The tale is never as important as the telling."

another ten i wont any longer number:

1.  dogs
2.  sd
3.  this book
4.  this book
5.  panther
6.  raven
7.  caribou
8.  many children singing me a happy birthday
9. smudge
10.  happy plans

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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)