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

26 March 2010

"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.

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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)