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

16 April 2010

"...with mad, dynamic precision the way that imbalanced yet brilliant people talk when they try to talk about everything at once..."

mothsilk and burr in the wool.   as a craft i can see the sane hesitation but what a life, a birth.  wrestling with the angel, music with no words black coffee seasons every minute i am healed violets grape hyacinth velocepides you carried the stone all the way home and it seemed happy to be holding your hand.  life is meant to be lived at a walking pace.  where does the green sock summer from its station on the cross?  daffodils give the well away.     

extraordinary light.  beautiful here with you and the first leaves like minnows a million spined lights among the ironwood the wave of Life along the hill, a ripple if you stood long enough you would see, the rise of it all, the Light that animates every cell, that is all and everywhere, shuddering with celestial electricity point to point a timelapse of april in the valley but from The Beginning to Now.  and the Life Energy revered, the circle made sacred, this late understanding.  this great shift, and everything is better and entirely possible. 

for the enormous effort of mast the nut trees sleep in, but fruit trees allow for green filaments made flamepoints in long afternoon sun.  sumac boneclawed birch tree hellebore and the white rose broomstick dipped in moonlight.  i rise further from the weave and believe it makes a pattern.  believe in the weavers craft.   believe in the mathematical certainty of perfection, that the world is only a mirror for some infinitely greater impulse is only one single cell animated in a Being broad as the loom.  

 a series of becomings, pearls on a string.  wider to light and revelation, deeper to understanding.  think more.  think more in metaphor, matrix, metamorphoses.  open curious breathing smooth the face of the water.
occupied by an angel itself.  someone/thing desperately curious about the world, fallen into the blackhole of my surrender.  some extraordinarily bright, strong presence filtered through a glass darkly and completely innocent of egoflesh drive.  so its let the dog drive but behind the dog behind the wheel is an angel, after all.
theres a point, i believe, where the blackhole becomes a wormhole and its at that event horizon i desire to arrive.  its nothing short of rebirth, resurrection, for me.  this ironmaiden of grief, self-loathing, despair. take the thorn out of the lock and let the light into the holes. 

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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)