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

31 October 2009




"The sun, an hour above the horizon, is poised like a bloody egg upon a crest of thunderheads;  the light has turned copper;  in the eye portentious, in the nose sulphurous, smelling like lightning."

today was fruit and flowers rolled oats and ripe pears

i want everyone out There to get a copy of a cd i made Samhin this.

email your address to me at blackcaribou at live dot com and i will pay postage.

 

"The nihilists say it is the end;  the fundamentalists, the beginning;  when in reality it is no more than a single tenant or family moving out of a tenement or a town."


rain.  epic skies like the yukon and the south of france.  i clean.  i bought a  pink cutoff tshirt for goodwill thats from the breakfast club soft line saying "mess with the bull you get the horns."  they wont let me play i make the dough you get the glory so i call customer service and i dont even have speakers right now its an internal frenzy moment and i feel like someones out there jamming the line, and howling.  six seven tries in i get this guy who sounds something like the men i grew up with a spicy smell like plowed earth dark hair shining moving from the hips turns out hes a cypriot and were suddenly discussin the cypriot war shouting turks!  the boats!  there were not enough boats!  and he gets me to a webpage like he was dragging me out of the ocean. and in my booeffusiveness i thanked him for hearing the mellifulent oratory he said ohokhayhokay hey im getting paid. but i still have no speakers and still cant play i make the dough you get the glory which was really important today.


 


"...as though they doubted even yet the actuality of rest, guarding with horned and penurious alertness the cessation which they know cannot last."



theyre paintings.  i think about you every day i lovelove the photoscan of us i see something i never see someone who looks like me.  i just cant get my shit together with anything involving a stamp.

suzie, remember beers?  W&B?  love is a dog from hell?

i saw t walking down the street i gave him my address here.

i walked up to the house ive watched for a million years side door like i belong there its real and peaceful and i gave her a postcard of snow on vineyards cause it was in the car somehow and wrote this websegment down and she maybe gave it to her brother and i wondered if y'all were somehow connected.


 

"It is as though the dark were resolving him out of his integrity, into an unrelated scattering of components...detatched and secret and familiar, an is different from my is."


the fitted sheet went pilly its driving me mad.  rain and dirt in a dumptruck little red leaves the endless sweeping.  red wine and christmas lights washer dryer johnlennonlplasticono christmas tshirt
catch my breath the phonejob was a quantum rag but the christmas cactus is blooming impossible birds Quetzalcohuatl in evanescent hybrid sisters stirring all over the house and the brown dress came in today something swoopy fancy ribbon dairymaids day out number.  samhain and i cant find the broom.

 


"...pale with lesser dark and with empty seeing, the pine clumps blotched up the tilted slope, secret and waiting."

ten for today:

1.  red wine
2.  pumpkin soullanterns
3.  yarn needles and safety pins
4.  roasted tubers with greek yogurt and salt
5.  washer dryer
6.  erratic chance meetings of dear acquaintancese
7.  sharp scissors
8.  night
9.  heartstone goldring
10.  air






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)