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

19 March 2010

"She lives / below luck-level, never imagining some lottery / will change her load of pottery to wings. / Her only levity is patience, / the sport of truly chastened things." 

(my spring offering to the King of the Faeries)

morning sometimes difficult to navigate.  want to shake my tambourine and twirl across the yard, sing hosannas to the precious absolute of a new day, but it would only make you wince and turn away.  so i keep the levels low and try not to stare.  but inside my heart is aching to grab your hand and run, wet grass and morning making merry across the quiet distances between us.  and it makes my belly ache.  but then you come to me with your soft hands and your sad eyes and kiss me there in the sunlit  kitchen and it makes the waking worthwhile.  and i listen to midlake and get lost on the moors of my headspace and its a long time til i see you again.

sometimes you are so far away from me i am a stranger in this house a spectre projected by what you could not leave behind, i feel as if at any moment my bones will float through and away from my insubstantial flesh, separate like something slowly cooked and left uneaten.  on the rocks at the edge of the deep blue bay of your life apart from me the lighthouse fire turned away and theres a rush of blood to my head to my hands i hold my breath until it comes around again the wind blowing clouds away from the face of the moon the light is air to me the light draws my heart my hands away from the cage of self and toward something beautiful, greater than any of us expected.


so i put on hunter and garcia and tried to work the pain out of me through the spiral of my hips and flight feathers of fingertips.  this relentless nausea and ache has left me desperate.  your kiss is this disease tied to a hundred doves that lift away from me carry away from me all doubt and desperation.  for one thin minute i can breathe, loose the grappling hooks that cord between my belly and my neck.  vertebral conduit constrains a suffocating chakral snake, pale and puffy from neglect, sick cervical bulge where energy pools and stagnates in grim eddies of energy i need to stretch and dance back into the living.  i need to shrug the wet lead mantle of resignation off my shoulders and show my wings, stretched rosysnowy in the sunlight just like a turkey vulture on a barn roof.


but im off into the sunlight on merry errands, a hummingbird feeder and making many friends.  oh how the hammock calls me!  but peas and spinach have been planted, and tomorrow is a long walk and prayer flags.  ive been ravenous lately with a mighty thirst, easy to fall into the bilgewater of nausea.  not one hundred percent yet but getting it done, with frequent breaks for breath and hydration, face to a benevolent sun.  tonight west along the wide road and back to you, this Eve of Ostara.


the birthday of Josef Albers
 "I count all the time on resonance."

for you, and your bad dreams i cant relieve


"...All this automatic writing I have tried to understand
From a psychedelic angel who was tugging on my hand
It's an infinite coincidence but it doesn't form a plan
So I'm headed for New England or the Paris of the South
Gonna find myself somewhere to level out

I tried to pass for nothing
But my dreams gave me away..."

1 comment:

  1. Anonymous19 March, 2010

    beware, you can only live on someone elses energy just so long .....and his you will find thin frail and pale. teacher

    ReplyDelete

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)