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

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

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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)