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

31 March 2010

 "pagan pacifist witch hippie"

“Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident...we had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossoms had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two." 
  this place is crows, woods and water.  even with the struggle you manage to be soft, and keep a little space for me. i water plants and wash the floor, i make the bed and take the call.  all i am is belief and wishful thinking, blood and patience and prayer.  you brought me bright stones and a wand, you brought me flowers, made a nest of your flesh for me to rest in.  you ask for all of me, for everything ive lost, asphyxiated, neglected, dragged to death behind me.  you ask for nothing less than resurrection.  but can we really imagine augusts garden in february?  you ask me to believe in my own Becoming.  you ask me to believe in something other than anything besides myself.  and it reminds me that im here indeed for a reason other than to hold the door.

for me.

 the song that saved my life today

like this?  try "Dream a Little Dream"

Happy Birthday, Brother Al.  i thought this could be applied to anything and be useful. 

"Pathwalker, there is no path.  You must make the path as you walk."

these reflection photos are like batik, and when i looked at them in the gallery i noticed that i had completely unconsciously done them all in a white light spectrum of sorts.   i love how the eye slides around, diving and resurfacing like a seal underwater.  that one sketch of eschers, with the fish.  the ruby in the dust palette, listening to GDlive'72 and thinking my quiet forest thoughts, your hand over the edge of the boat in the water.

birthday of Octavio Paz

"...a crystal willow, a poplar of water,
a tall fountain the wind arches over,
a tree deep-rooted yet dancing still,
a course of a river that turns, moves on,
doubles back, and comes full circle,
forever arriving..."

branches veins little buds ready to breathe the water softens everything for receiving.  my world made ready for reclaiming and emergence.  gentle and present are my aspirations, joyful, peaceful, of service.  these are my vernal resolutions, the seeds i plant in the good giving ground rising from rest around me, open hungry mouths of sprouts, frosthaw and rainwater collecting in thimbles of unfurling, the happy spangled hems of ladys mantle, the strong pale swords of what will grow to roadside lily.  this season of emergence, becoming, sacred earth and holy water

what Sanctuary would look like:
                                                                                                     thanks to Blessed Wild Apple Girl

ten for today:

1.   donovan
2.   singing with T. before the bus comes
3.   walking
4.   morning
5.   the wisdom of Guy de Maupassant, who "hated the [eiffel] tower so much that he started eating in its    restaurant every day, because, he said, "It is the only place in Paris where I don't have to see it."
6.   carl spackler...so i have that going for me.
7.   red wine, caramelized onions and balsamic vinegar
8.   a good long stretch
9.   Thich Nhat Hanh
10.  the Heroines Journey

(one of my favorite moments from the Woodstock film)

song sent to me that took me completely by surprise and its gonna carry me a long while.

today mostly pictures.  not much to say out loud, very active and internal.  the weather should turn soon, bring a fresh frame of mind, let some air in.  the earth could have fed, the air filled my sail, the fire fed me, kept me warm.  but i brought out the worst in them all it seems, and stand now before this iceberg, 1/100 of its humming immensity above the surface of the infinite ocean of Love and Time, holding my heart out in my hand, hoping for miraculous transubstantiation of my bodys life into Light.  my breath my body my Being braided into prayer that after the last task is past i will walk through my own open door.

30 March 2010

 "And we are put on earth a little space / That we may learn to bear the beams of love."

 the first was earth.  heavy steps upon the ground, heavy clods heaved upon my head.  dirt under the nails, a stone, a landslide.  fertile insatiable offering up the pleasure and the plague.  a garden overgrown in excess and neglect.  a junglebrain teeming with poison and gorgeousness.  a mountain you climb to find the gurucave empty.  seeds on the ground read like bones but left to the sun to suck and burn away.
the second was air.  a wind the blows down your throat displaces the breath in your cells with its own invisibility you cant see yourself for whats gone, blown away by the breeze smelling of cigarettes sweat and gear oil i remember the landscaper came to the office smelling of you and behind my desk i wept.  scathing, excoriating, black sand tornado leaving on the arid bed a beautiful outline of who id once been, a stark sketch, dust and ash in the eye.  driving the empty space deeper into me until theres nothing but the sound of a foreign engine and howling.
the third was fire.  a small wooden boat on a lake of fire im bailing blood and dreams back into the burning my body doesnt feel a thing.  fantastic spiral dance of biting gyrations a circle of fire a cornfield ablaze with pain and celebration, gunfire salute.  the bullets come down a little later leaving hissing holes in the boat the smell of woodsmoke the sound of something being dragged behind.  
its all been ravenous and unpredictable, intrinsic, essential.
the fourth is water.  learn to not struggle.  let go let it go breathe.  and the churn will cease to pull with ropes of foam youll find yourself buoyed up, the sun on your face, the reflection of stars in the pools of your hands.   remember, you are mostly water.  fill your body with light and dive down to whats been driven neath the waves, unwind her from the ropes, let her rise.
for water will feed the seed in the ground.  water will fill the dry bed with music.  water will bring the boat home. 

for Suzie, if shes out there.

from wag, bark, love.

 song of the day, for the kid at my old liquor store:

ten for today:

1.    waking up with toots and abba in my head
2.    the music of carla bruni, of all things
3.    unexpected breakfast rendezvous
4.    followed by a wander in my favorite place
5.    feeling the way i do, more settled, more true
6.    i get to go
7.    the blinkythingy just started working, as did the ice machine
8.    the moon this morning, a magickal, miraculous rosygolden form in the morning air
9.    music
10.  love, despite it all.

happy birthday, brother vincent
"But I always think that the best way to know God is to love many things."

todays random wordticket poem:
sparks float
pools, falls
ready to fly

this ones for Beloved

29 March 2010

"So here we have indigo Ajna .. the sixth chakra, a wise white haired owl-riding woman holding a crystal ball of magic mushrooms. This point on the body is the third eye, and it symbolizes far-seeing, intuition, psychic perception, imagination, dream interpretation, luminescence." 
-quote from The Hermitage

there are angels everywhere.  angels and aliens, traveling souls, ourselves reflected into the face of ourselves everyday to remind us of the one thing so many of us seem to have forgotten.  we are each other.  we are cells bound by a greater organism, toward the goal of unity consciousness.  liberation from the illusion of separation.  stop sleepwalking.  breathe and be present.  welcome all the Love and Beauty the world waits to afford you.  
thats the message on the madwomans lawn.  that, and Laugh.  
take action toward your hearts truth, and the world will roll toward you like a tide, wash over you with exactly what you need to be happy, contented and whole.  we all struggle.  we are all at times gravely afraid.  but it should be a great comfort that nothing in the Universe is static.  nothing doesnt vibrate, move, dance in a cycle, a circle, a spiral.  everything changes, grows into itself, slow or fast but does indeed.  look at a seed.  where is the flower?

sexyfunky pagan Latvian dude plays the bagpipes for you!  big fires!  flower crowns!  stars!

todays random word ticket poem:


endlessly restless
spinning chrysalises

 heres a site for  Guerilla Artists everywhere.  love the rhumba pants.

the song that saved my life today:

ten for today:

1.    flowers
2.    not getting aggravated because my enter key doesnt chaperone the blinkythingy to the next line
3.    quiet monday getting things done
4.    T.
5.    Jerry
6.    clean water
7.    Kevin Spacey
8.    still here
9.    veggie tacos and masala tea
10.  making time to be with me

this stretch of road has been blind.  but i believe.  and even if the whole narrative trajectory of my life has been a hoax, a farce, a waste of time and resources, i still think i learned a lot.  i think i left behind some light, just a little love.  at this point in my life i just want to keep the aperture wide open, just let the light through and not count the cost.  i want to laugh and dance and dream and grow a little garden i can sit in of an afternoon and breathe.  i want to do some good.  i want to untether my heart, watch it like a chinese skylantern on a clear night.  just let it go.  i just want to let it all go.


and one for the cowboy:

and then this one for everyone in the neighborhood who hasnt taken their shamrock flags down, and King:

feeding two birds with one seed, as they say, propaganda monday will recognize the birthday of coca-cola, originally advertised as an "Esteemed Brain Tonic and Intellectual Beverage."

and happy birthday to this gem of a human, and a song that always helps me keep it in perspective.

and happy birthday to the author of this, my go-to housewarming gift.
for T., and the Beloved.  Blessed Be.

28 March 2010

"We're fools whether we dance or not, so we might as well dance." 

 this is for what is Now, for the Great Leap, for Love.
this is for being afraid, and being not afraid.

What About Me? Love and Need
Uploaded by whataboutme. - Explore more music videos.

"Millions long for immortality who dont know what to do on a rainy afternoon."

todays random word ticket poem:

our butterflies
small house
the moon
the sweet smell
that rises.

27 March 2010

 without all this talking id be done.  the souls navigation, negotiation of trains.  remember all the talk about trains?  i think the 'there is no spoon' thing fits here.  you only think youre choosing between trains.  but youre on every train there is.  its the Illusion of Separation that keeps us thinking we need to choose a train.  that there is This Side and That Side.  more like a sphere of webs, a web of spheres.  let go of what you think.  you could say now is not the time, but the devastation is a perfect place, Blessed Be MahaKali Om.
this breaking down lets so much Light in.  so much space.  the tower falls, and we see at last the stars.  i cried at the thought of fourteen percent.  unheard of outside shermans secret hollow and the shade of cherry hill.  we think we can pick and choose the rules, but that dam building is a high price to pay.

 "its not where you take things from but where you take them to."

i leave the door open and let the neighborhood in on a little Cannonball Adderley.  northwest incense, some candles its pretty groovy wherever it is i am.  these moments with rainbows on the ceiling, the leaves of houseplants shining with afternoon sunlight, the flowers succulent and extraordinary even my scented geranium, over ten years old, is blooming.  inspires me to keep blooming, too.

"we just want to talk and let it all go and say hey im interested in you what have you got to tell me?"

"abandon the personality.  abandon the individual.  abandon the i because its a lie and it has held us down."

in the dream the baby was monstrous, two dimensional like a flounder, the mouth all picasso.  put the baby to my breast and he threw his head back laughing, perfect and beautiful.  but you were furious with me.  you had all my dreams in garbage bags, bags i had buried and you had somehow retrieved.  i begged you with wringing and impotence and wrest myself from the dream and into your arms on the other side and you assured me.  the sun was in her track, up over the pastures and pines down along the main road and over other souls in other places waiting on the light.  watching the birds, morning chores, potatoes and eggs. 

"Never allow someone to be your priority while allowing yourself to be their option."
("good advice you just cant take")

happy birthday to QT, who said,

“This CGI bullshit is the death knell of cinema. If I'd wanted all that computer game bullshit, I'd have stuck my dick in a Nintendo.”

"the totality of the imagination of the dreamer currently projecting reality from within."

 (photo found on paganbuddha blog)

"If the words ‘life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness’ doesn’t include the right to experiment with your own consciousness, then the Declaration of Independence isn’t worth the hemp it was written on."

on a spring expotition (cf. piglet) T. and i ankle deep in mudseason the highground multiflora floribunda clawing at my sweater and my hat i lost my mitten on the way an absentminded offering to the Good Folk for safe passage and Blessings Bright to come.  slowgrown ice crystals indescribable faerie cathedrals in the mould, spry forests of mossflower everywhere their humunculus heads inspiring birth growth living.  the air smells of sweetgrass.  everything is real, quiet and wonderful.  the two of us with nothing but secondgrowth and bramble for a mile either way but there are no birds, no squirrels, and the dog is nervous.  so up and up we follow as the springfed gully dries up by an old stump and someones backyard were walking through like tinkers we stood at the cusp of Them and considered our options.  picking quickly through sog and pachysandra between clean houses onto the hard gray road and down to home.  i think of my mitten there, somewhere, waiting to release itself back into the world, belonging to no one.

 todays song that makes life worth living:

"Thomas Edison’s last words were ‘It’s very beautiful over there’. I don’t know where there is, but I believe it’s somewhere, and I hope it’s beautiful."

Golden Artifact from Nadia Husain on Vimeo.

now go out and dig the sky.
and remember:

"Everyone is going to hurt you.  You just have to find the ones worth suffering for."
-Bob Marley

26 March 2010


AFOOT and light-hearted, I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose.
Henceforth I ask not good-fortune—I myself am good fortune;
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,         5
Strong and content, I travel the open road.
The earth—that is sufficient;
I do not want the constellations any nearer;
I know they are very well where they are;
I know they suffice for those who belong to them.  10
(Still here I carry my old delicious burdens;
I carry them, men and women—I carry them with me wherever I go;
I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them;
I am fill’d with them, and I will fill them in return.)


You road I enter upon and look around!  I believe you are not all that is here;
I believe that much unseen is also here.
Here the profound lesson of reception, neither preference or denial;
The black with his woolly head, the felon, the diseas’d, the illiterate person, are not denied;
The birth, the hasting after the physician, the beggar’s tramp, the drunkard’s stagger, the laughing party of mechanics,
The escaped youth, the rich person’s carriage, the fop, the eloping couple,  20
The early market-man, the hearse, the moving of furniture into the town, the return back from the town,
They pass—I also pass—anything passes—none can be interdicted;
None but are accepted—none but are dear to me.


You air that serves me with breath to speak!
You objects that call from diffusion my meanings, and give them shape!  25
You light that wraps me and all things in delicate equable showers
You paths worn in the irregular hollows by the roadsides!
I think you are latent with unseen existences—you are so dear to me.
You flagg’d walks of the cities! you strong curbs at the edges!
You ferries! you planks and posts of wharves! you timber-lined sides! you distant ships!  30
You rows of houses! you window-pierc’d façades! you roofs!
You porches and entrances! you copings and iron guards!
You windows whose transparent shells might expose so much!
You doors and ascending steps! you arches!
You gray stones of interminable pavements! you trodden crossings!  35
From all that has been near you, I believe you have imparted to yourselves, and now would impart the same secretly to me;
From the living and the dead I think you have peopled your impassive surfaces, and the spirits thereof would be evident and amicable with me.


The earth expanding right hand and left hand,
The picture alive, every part in its best light,
The music falling in where it is wanted, and stopping where it is not wanted,  40
The cheerful voice of the public road—the gay fresh sentiment of the road.
O highway I travel! O public road! do you say to me, Do not leave me?
Do you say, Venture not? If you leave me, you are lost?
Do you say, I am already prepared—I am well-beaten and undenied—adhere to me?
O public road! I say back, I am not afraid to leave you—yet I love you;  45
You express me better than I can express myself;
You shall be more to me than my poem.
I think heroic deeds were all conceiv’d in the open air, and all great poems also;
I think I could stop here myself, and do miracles;
(My judgments, thoughts, I henceforth try by the open air, the road;)  50
I think whatever I shall meet on the road I shall like, and whoever beholds me shall like me;
I think whoever I see must be happy.


From this hour, freedom!
From this hour I ordain myself loos’d of limits and imaginary lines,
Going where I list, my own master, total and absolute,  55
Listening to others, and considering well what they say,
Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,
Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.
I inhale great draughts of space;
The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine.  60
I am larger, better than I thought;
I did not know I held so much goodness.
All seems beautiful to me;
I can repeat over to men and women, You have done such good to me, I would do the same to you.
I will recruit for myself and you as I go;  65
I will scatter myself among men and women as I go;
I will toss the new gladness and roughness among them;
Whoever denies me, it shall not trouble me;
Whoever accepts me, he or she shall be blessed, and shall bless me.


Now if a thousand perfect men were to appear, it would not amaze me;
Now if a thousand beautiful forms of women appear’d, it would not astonish me.
Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons,
It is to grow in the open air, and to eat and sleep with the earth.
Here a  great personal deed has room;
A great deed seizes upon the hearts of the whole race of men,  75
Its effusion of strength and will overwhelms law, and mocks all authority and all argument against it.
Here is the test of wisdom;
Wisdom is not finally tested in schools;
Wisdom cannot be pass’d from one having it, to another not having it;
Wisdom is of the Soul, is not susceptible of proof, is its own proof,  80
Applies to all stages and objects and qualities, and is content,
Is the certainty of the reality and immortality of things, and the excellence of things;
Something there is in the float of the sight of things that provokes it out of the Soul.
Now I reëxamine philosophies and religions,
They may prove well in lecture-rooms, yet not prove at all under the spacious clouds, and along the landscape and flowing currents.  85
Here is realization;
Here is a man tallied—he realizes here what he has in him;
The past, the future, majesty, love—if they are vacant of you, you are vacant of them.
Only the kernel of every object nourishes;
Where is he who tears off the husks for you and me?  90
Where is he that undoes stratagems and envelopes for you and me?
Here is adhesiveness—it is not previously fashion’d—it is apropos;
Do you know what it is, as you pass, to be loved by strangers?
Do you know the talk of those turning eye-balls?


Here is the efflux of the Soul;
The efflux of the Soul comes from within, through embower’d gates, ever provoking questions:
These yearnings, why are they? These thoughts in the darkness, why are they?
Why are there men and women that while they are nigh me, the sun-light expands my blood?
Why, when they leave me, do my pennants of joy sink flat and lank?
Why are there trees I never walk under, but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me? 100
(I think they hang there winter and summer on those trees, and always drop fruit as I pass;)
What is it I interchange so suddenly with strangers?
What with some driver, as I ride on the seat by his side?
What with some fisherman, drawing his seine by the shore, as I walk by, and pause?
What gives me to be free to a woman’s or man’s good-will? What gives them to be free to mine? 105


The efflux of the Soul is happiness—here is happiness;
I think it pervades the open air, waiting at all times;
Now it flows unto us—we are rightly charged.
Here rises the fluid and attaching character;
The fluid and attaching character is the freshness and sweetness of man and woman; 110
(The herbs of the morning sprout no fresher and sweeter every day out of the roots of themselves, than it sprouts fresh and sweet continually out of itself.)
Toward the fluid and attaching character exudes the sweat of the love of young and old;
From it falls distill’d the charm that mocks beauty and attainments;
Toward it heaves the shuddering longing ache of contact.


Allons! whoever you are, come travel with me!
Traveling with me, you find what never tires.
The earth never tires;
The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first—Nature is rude and incomprehensible at first;
Be not discouraged—keep on—there are divine things, well envelop’d;
I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell. 120
Allons! we must not stop here!
However sweet these laid-up stores—however convenient this dwelling, we cannot remain here;
However shelter’d this port, and however calm these waters, we must not anchor here;
However welcome the hospitality that surrounds us, we are permitted to receive it but a little while.


Allons! the inducements shall be greater;
We will sail pathless and wild seas;
We will go where winds blow, waves dash, and the Yankee clipper speeds by under full sail.
Allons! with power, liberty, the earth, the elements!
Health, defiance, gayety, self-esteem, curiosity;
Allons! from all formules! 130
From your formules, O bat-eyed and materialistic priests!
The stale cadaver blocks up the passage—the burial waits no longer.
Allons! yet take warning!
He traveling with me needs the best blood, thews, endurance;
None may come to the trial, till he or she bring courage and health. 135
Come not here if you have already spent the best of yourself;
Only those may come, who come in sweet and determin’d bodies;
No diseas’d person—no rum-drinker or venereal taint is permitted here.
I and mine do not convince by arguments, similes, rhymes;
We convince by our presence. 140


Listen! I will be honest with you;
I do not offer the old smooth prizes, but offer rough new prizes;
These are the days that must happen to you:
You shall not heap up what is call’d riches,
You shall scatter with lavish hand all that you earn or achieve, 145
You but arrive at the city to which you were destin’d—you hardly settle yourself to satisfaction, before you are call’d by an irresistible call to depart,
You shall be treated to the ironical smiles and mockings of those who remain behind you;
What beckonings of love you receive, you shall only answer with passionate kisses of parting,
You shall not allow the hold of those who spread their reach’d hands toward you.


Allons! after the GREAT COMPANIONS! and to belong to them!
They too are on the road! they are the swift and majestic men; they are the greatest women.
Over that which hinder’d them—over that which retarded—passing impediments large or small,
Committers of crimes, committers of many beautiful virtues,
Enjoyers of calms of seas, and storms of seas,
Sailors of many a ship, walkers of many a mile of land, 155
Habitués of many distant countries, habitués of far-distant dwellings,
Trusters of men and women, observers of cities, solitary toilers,
Pausers and contemplators of tufts, blossoms, shells of the shore,
Dancers at wedding-dances, kissers of brides, tender helpers of children, bearers of children,
Soldiers of revolts, standers by gaping graves, lowerers down of coffins, 160
Journeyers over consecutive seasons, over the years—the curious years, each emerging from that which preceded it,
Journeyers as with companions, namely, their own diverse phases,
Forth-steppers from the latent unrealized baby-days,
Journeyers gayly with their own youth—Journeyers with their bearded and well-grain’d manhood,
Journeyers with their womanhood, ample, unsurpass’d, content, 165
Journeyers with their own sublime old age of manhood or womanhood,
Old age, calm, expanded, broad with the haughty breadth of the universe,
Old age, flowing free with the delicious near-by freedom of death.


Allons! to that which is endless, as it was beginningless,
To undergo much, tramps of days, rests of nights, 170
To merge all in the travel they tend to, and the days and nights they tend to,
Again to merge them in the start of superior journeys;
To see nothing anywhere but what you may reach it and pass it,
To conceive no time, however distant, but what you may reach it and pass it,
To look up or down no road but it stretches and waits for you—however long, but it stretches and waits for you; 175
To see no being, not God’s or any, but you also go thither,
To see no possession but you may possess it—enjoying all without labor or purchase—abstracting the feast, yet not abstracting one particle of it;
To take the best of the farmer’s farm and the rich man’s elegant villa, and the chaste blessings of the well-married couple, and the fruits of orchards and flowers of gardens,
To take to your use out of the compact cities as you pass through,
To carry buildings and streets with you afterward wherever you go, 180
To gather the minds of men out of their brains as you encounter them—to gather the love out of their hearts,
To take your lovers on the road with you, for all that you leave them behind you,
To know the universe itself as a road—as many roads—as roads for traveling souls.


The Soul travels;
The body does not travel as much as the soul; 185
The body has just as great a work as the soul, and parts away at last for the journeys of the soul.
All parts away for the progress of souls;
All religion, all solid things, arts, governments,—all that was or is apparent upon this globe or any globe, falls into niches and corners before the procession of Souls along the grand roads of the universe.
Of the progress of the souls of men and women along the grand roads of the universe, all other progress is the needed emblem and sustenance.
Forever alive, forever forward, 190
Stately, solemn, sad, withdrawn, baffled, mad, turbulent, feeble, dissatisfied,
Desperate, proud, fond, sick, accepted by men, rejected by men,
They go! they go! I know that they go, but I know not where they go;
But I know that they go toward the best—toward something great.


Allons! whoever you are! come forth!
You must not stay sleeping and dallying there in the house, though you built it, or though it has been built for you.
Allons! out of the dark confinement!
It is useless to protest—I know all, and expose it.
Behold, through you as bad as the rest,
Through the laughter, dancing, dining, supping, of people, 200
Inside of dresses and ornaments, inside of those wash’d and trimm’d faces,
Behold a secret silent loathing and despair.
No husband, no wife, no friend, trusted to hear the confession;
Another self, a duplicate of every one, skulking and hiding it goes;
Formless and wordless through the streets of the cities, polite and bland in the parlors, 205
In the cars of rail-roads, in steamboats, in the public assembly,
Home to the houses of men and women, at the table, in the bed-room, everywhere,
Smartly attired, countenance smiling, form upright, death under the breast-bones, hell under the skull-bones,
Under the broadcloth and gloves, under the ribbons and artificial flowers,
Keeping fair with the customs, speaking not a syllable of itself, 210
Speaking of anything else, but never of itself.


Allons! through struggles and wars!
The goal that was named cannot be countermanded.
Have the past struggles succeeded?
What has succeeded? yourself? your nation? nature? 215
Now understand me well—It is provided in the essence of things, that from any fruition of success, no matter what, shall come forth something to make a greater struggle necessary.
My call is the call of battle—I nourish active rebellion;
He going with me must go well arm’d;
He going with me goes often with spare diet, poverty, angry enemies, desertions.


Allons! the road is before us!
It is safe—I have tried it—my own feet have tried it well.
Allons! be not detain’d!
Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the shelf unopen’d!
Let the tools remain in the workshop! let the money remain unearn’d!
Let the school stand! mind not the cry of the teacher! 225
Let the preacher preach in his pulpit! let the lawyer plead in the court, and the judge expound the law.
Mon enfant! I give you my hand!
I give you my love, more precious than money,
I give you myself, before preaching or law;
Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me? 230
Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

-Walt Whitman
"twelve highlanders and a bagpipe make a rebellion."

"Ted Tice already understood his attachment to Caro as intensification of his strongest qualities, if not of his strengths:  not a youthful adventure, fresh and tentative, but a gauge of all effort, joy, and suffering known or imagined.  The possibility that he might never, in a lifetime, arouse her love in return was a discovery touching all existence.  In his desire and foreboding, he was like a man awake who watches a woman sleeping." 
 had a beautiful dream last night i cant remember but knowing i was there at all makes me feel happy and hopeful inside. stood in the icewater morning long listening to wind through high wires sounded like angels overhead, or nebulae.  im okay now for a little while, and brave enough to just let it show, light under the door, hoping youre too preoccupied to notice, or care.  so much will happen to me while youre away.  and when you get back, and you still want me, ill be more.  and when the assignments over id like to stay, settle into the station, take it in from the perspective of human, not relief worker, peace corps pilgrim playing search and rescue, my wings are ragged and smell of dust and wayfires.  im tired.  i want something past the assignment.  i want something that doesnt lead to locked doors and burnt bridges.  i want a home on this lab rock, and with you if youll let me. 

cold today, the mud freeze-dry and deep veins of ice along the supersaturated ground.  the sun is strong but the wind makes for hardbreathing.  red branches of some prolific wasteland shrubbery are a comfort of bloodcolor in the overwhelming dun.  tight buds burst out into slow tipped antennae flowers while the crocus fall back into their bulbs until their light cue comes again.

ten for today:
1.  "exquisite humiliations"
2.  "You are disturbing me. I am picking mushrooms."
3.  "too many OBGYNs arent able to practice their love with women all across this country."
 4.  "I'm not anything that you think I am anyway...I'm full of dust and guitars."
 5.  "Do you think Leslie West is better than me?"
6.  "uncertain, deductive, entirely personal"
(and this one)
7.  "When Paul Ivory walked in espadrilles on the paths and passages of Peverel, the sound inaugurated, softly, the modern era."
8.  "Today is the right time separate from your beloved temporary."
(i strongly suggest getting your horoscope here for its jarring random pidgin oracle)
(and this one) 

 ok.  so now that everyones getting the cure, maybe ill chance an airing of the lost tsarina.  ready to retreat at a moments notice, but fingers wiggling in the freshness, the suchness of what seems like the first stage of an authentic rebirth.  or not.  whos to say.  id like to thank Dispatch, dogs, stars, literacy and Mahavishnu Orchestra, along with the hope for an unbound heart, and horses.

"I've heard it said that within our deathly culture, the most revolutionary thing anyone can do is follow one's heart. I would add that once you've begun to do that–to follow your own heart–the most moral and revolutionary thing you can do is help others find their hearts, to find themselves. It's much easier than it seems."
how i feel today, a gem:

birthday of Robert Frost

Asking for Roses

A house that lacks, seemingly, mistress and master,
With doors that none but the wind ever closes,
Its floor all littered with glass and with plaster;
It stands in a garden of old-fashioned roses.

I pass by that way in the gloaming with Mary;

'I wonder,' I say, 'who the owner of those is.'
'Oh, no one you know,' she answers me airy,
'But one we must ask if we want any roses.'

So we must join hands in the dew coming coldly

There in the hush of the wood that reposes,
And turn and go up to the open door boldly,
And knock to the echoes as beggars for roses.

'Pray, are you within there, Mistress Who-were-you?'

'Tis Mary that speaks and our errand discloses.
'Pray, are you within there? Bestir you, bestir you!
'Tis summer again; there's two come for roses.

'A word with you, that of the singer recalling--

Old Herrick: a saying that every maid knows is
A flower unplucked is but left to the falling,
And nothing is gained by not gathering roses.'

We do not loosen our hands' intertwining

(Not caring so very much what she supposes),
There when she comes on us mistily shining
And grants us by silence the boon of her roses.

25 March 2010

Mumford & Sons 'Gentlemen of the Road' Pt1 from Ben Magahy on Vimeo.

this totally put the wind in my sails, and im good for another week.  a beautiful world that has such souls in it. 
"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)