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

21 November 2009

"You'd be surprised what people pay for a porthole, even though they got no use for it."

 "Certain dogs are so ornery they can't learn from their first porcupine experience.  He washed Sam's mouth out with whiskey and water, then the dog jumped in the truck and went to sleep, so we had a dog...We buried Sam with the chicken still in his mouth."

a lot of thoughts.  perfect beautiful waxing crescent way over the ridge now suddenly veiled in cloud.  a walk with the mamadog in unfamiliar territory the surprise energy of highendcityhouses but on the edge of a farm.  there were so many messages today walking on a sidewalk in late november that i didnt know and all the trees had boneflowers and burningleaves.

boneflowers and burningleaves.


"If you're hoeing raspberries for thirty cents an hour in the hot sun what you want is secret powers."

cutting it close.  more and more i see how craft comes into everything craft or mindfulness initiate an alchemy of human energy into what is now refered to as prayer.  the shakers said labor is truly made worship in the abecedarius i bought in a bookshop on park when my older was wee.  head hand heart the fingertips extraordinary shoreline that moves through innumerable matrix waves.

(tip#17:   try taking the out)

always now the purplehandprint green and brown now last purple really the eggplant tarp for olderwithin with green suede clogs and ate krautdogs from the man at the bigutility. that was the year kurt cobain died.


"It was somewhere between watercress and a rock you pick out of a river, way up near the top along with wild violets and muskmelon."

lessons will be learned, no matter how long it takes.

i woke this morning to the sound of musket guns sharp and diffuse and later the sound of sirens.

later i dance around my livingroom hips and wrists to just like tom thumb's blues.  theres dogs and wine and pixie lights.  i have one regret.

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Blessed Be.

"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."

"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)