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

27 February 2010

The more it snows                             
(Tiddly Pom)
The more it goes
(Tiddly Pom)
The more it goes
(Tiddly Pom)
On snowing.

snow.  tired, between worlds, put it all in boxes and shift.  gypsy canticle in my dreams, a wedding for the RH.  bone weary, the kind of weary that wants to go out walking in deep snow and sleep.  
to trudge. 
the squirrels and the cowbirds are fed, thinking on my poor goldfinches by the creek in the valley wondering where all the Love has gone.   this last week ahead of active labor, the long hour of doubt of why did i do this i cant do this please someone just pull the thing out of me and set it quietly aside because animal fear of death has fallen on me and this load is far greater than i can get across.  roll quietly the boat to one side and set me over no farther can i go.  maybe its just all the snow.  the deep sleep of those that live by wits and deep wisdom passed down without words.  deep wisdom has no words.  but stupefied.  all this static and no satisfaction of blood, no relieved release of unnecessary energy just this incessant revving that makes me prickly and foreign to myself.  nausea and ache, 
no breath no rest everything hurts like day-after whiplash.
i remember at The Show with lots of paper angels exploding inside me and the Snake Charmer and the Ice Bear and the silver chiming balls i rolled between my fingers until there was blood on the ground.  the hot rush of relief like a contact negative of birth, the wombs small fist abandoning its latest dream.  this my latest dream still squatting over the bowl of my bones, awaiting afterbirth, awaiting anything that will put this travail behind me. 

i sit here blank behind the eyes and watch him do things.  he forgives me my broken self my blackhole damage brings me gentle milk and eggs lets me watch the snow plays his rambling guitar lets me listen to the sad songs that send me off into dense elsewheres and waits.  
well, there you go, utters Time laughing,  have at it.  
call it salvation or sanctuary or the synchronicity of second chances.  call it a mire, a mirage a midlife crisis a mistake.  its just a name, a shirt to throw over the nakedness, a box begging deconstruction.  coming out of the desert my brain is a dune in the moonlight struck dumb after oceans leave only pulverized bones behind.
i will admit to lightning strikes of worry, panic, the satisfying urge to flee, to be going.
but he feeds me secret words between courses of compromise and ice cream and i breathe through the electrocuting impulses and i hold on to his hand in the whirring dark and without words he says he sees me.

 but my lungs are stumbling with the grief and uncertainty,the pressure of reentry, The Bends, the thin air of the threshold, i left the big guns behind and hobble behind the parade of days with a puff of a crutch my scrips run out but a cowboys charity keeps me on the dole for meds until middle summer when i return to my familiar precarious nature floating free falling the celestial trajectory of Spirit unencumbered by obligations and triplicate forms.
i dont have many rules to play by so i adjust to foreign parameters, try them on like learning a language.  who shall i be now?  if i turn my head this way and not look directly at the figure between the trees will she let me see her?  if i sit quietly in dappled shadow for hours infinitum will she come toward me telling her truth?  i assume theres truth to tell, and that may be my greatest flaw.  so i crouch down beneath the lintel my entrails fornicating snakes sweating venom waiting for cool moonrise and a chance to close my eyes.

happy birthday to the man whos motto was 
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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)