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

30 April 2010

"But paradise is locked and bolted… We must make a journey around the world to see if a back door has perhaps been left open."

 wet dream courtesy of libraryland

(what i got accomplished today.  go me.)

i grew up listening to willie nelson.  my father had all the lps.  a very clear childhood memory of mine is riding on my fathers shoulders, i was four maybe, and him singing Pancho and Lefty,  the Outlaw version.  i worked at a diner where i got to play Red Headed Stranger over and over again.  i married a man my father instantly named Willie, for his aspect similarity.  Willie is an american institution, and it will be a less perfect union when he leaves it.


 my heart gets all soft and mushy listening to Willie.  that entirely singular jazz sincerity.  that personal childhood familiarity.  the way Cowboy just ends up looking more and more like him every day, with a little Merle (and his M&M flip-top) in there for good measure.  you see Willie and Merle and it makes me feel the same way i felt seeing that photo of Kurt Vonnegut and Tom Wolfe.  the worlds within those men.  the lifetimes.  were all just dust and blood, an electrical current running through intelligent cells, and blessed to have these highplains philosophers to inspire us to be better than we are right now.  like Willie said, forgive your enemies.  it messes with their heads.  happy birthday, high priest.

"So far 1,698 Kindle users have underlined this passage from Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell
"three things--autonomy, complexity, and a connection between effort and reward--are, most people agree, the three qualities that work has to have if it is to be satisfying."

 the whole electronic book thing escapes me.  im struggling right now with wanting the words to sound a certain way and just saying what wants said.  ive heard the Byrds cover of Wild Mountain Thyme twice this week, having never heard it before.  Beltane is a-cummin' in.  i remember you asking after my plans.  these photos taken in the creek houseby.  i dont want to hear ryan adams sing wonderwall for a long time.  went out and dug more dandelions, cool in the house hot in the yard.  i love the easy rumpled stinky human household have we.   the lighthanded laissez-faire living reached by silent consensus the day we rearrived.  its ridiculous, it might as well be fun, cf. yonder ruler rant.  my boys are so good to me, always smiling in my eyes, hands rubbing my heart like a bird in the hand, the faces i love more than any the eyes and hands that are all their own that i know them by.  sometimes altogether in the ship of night and how more perfect and beautiful can life be? 

"The Internet is full of old growlers, of course, and if you opine on public issues, you'll get anonymous mail calling you a baby-killer, torturer, tool of Satan, cat strangler and babbling idiot, which you accept as your due, like the static electricity you collect walking across a carpet. A slight shock, but it doesn't turn on any lightbulbs."

and when i said i didnt give a f**k i didnt mean id go around hauling off on everyone i just meant i cant bear laying down any more along the ruler youve got there to measure me up, assess my dimensions, if ill fit like a loveseat in the corner of the room instead of a ficus or whatever.  what i meant was im not even going to acknowledge the ruler whatsoever at all.  show me a straight line out in the wildwood.  show me a straight line on you, for that matter.  we are the wildwood and rulers are what oncelers make of our suchness after were cut down.  flowers in water are being deceived.

"Let me tell you this: if you meet a loner, no matter what they tell you, it’s not because they enjoy solitude. It’s because they have tried to blend into the world before, and people continue to disappoint them."

 ten for today:

1.  willie!
2.  this, definitely.
3.  trees!
4.  this ones for cowboy.
5.  this blog!
6.  ryan adams.
7.  wilco!
8.  liberation through major appliances
9.  coffee!
10. the shifting tide of consciousness

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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)