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

29 April 2010

"In his Micromegas Voltaire has an immensely wise alien come to visit earth. He has dozens of senses and can thus perceive much more of reality than humans can. He comes from a race devoted to the acquisiton of wisdom and that lives thousands of years. On leaving earth, he leaves philosophers there a book containing all the knowledge that can ever be gained about the pure and ultimate nature of things. It has only blank pages."

"Now I caress him back, my shepherd.
Now I caress his curly hair.
Now I caress my faithful one.
Now I grant him a happy future."

healed by wind and water and blessed quiet you can hear the roar of air through branches on the far side of the valley.  the widows nut trees rise with wise constraint, only the faintest match heads to pressage bold growth in may.  wind blowing through me carrying lilac scent seducing the air only a mile from our own still witholding in dark virginal bud wind erasing scattered valentine of doe tracks down the road headed for sweet creekwater singing liberation song from hilltop melt and april rain.  wind and water blessed quiet nest and blossom home where green intelligence reaches up from wise waiting into frond and feathered forms every day is an awakening of infinite possibility.

"You will do many foolish things.  Do them with enthusiasm."

open letter, s.o.c.:   looking back it was a reset button.  like tilt on the old pinball games maybe not sure what tilt was about but the jeep had reached that point where gravity takes over.  and you climb out the passenger window and the mangled innards are smoking and glunking fluids toxic rainbow rivulets and youre not in the least interested in jacking the shit back upright.  you walk.  and the world is more real without the cage of what went before.  and i sincerely dont give a f**k what y'all are thinking.  ye without sin and all that, dig.
this is carte blanche tabula rasa chapter one chapter and verse of whoever it is i am and dont ask me.  one ticket.  keep this coupon.  those last seven breaths remember theres no do-over.  live.  what did goethe say had magic in it?  i for one from now on plan to live my life.  laugh and dance and one hand waving free, all that.  the mojo hat of wendy rover.  shooting stars.  for me breathing is a goddamn miracle and i plan to treat it that way.  y'all looking at me down your clean noses.  who are you?  why are you wasting your life judging me?  thats another thing.  like sister becky say.  no judge.  no judge.  any of you catch me judging you call me on it.  i find myself intact after this neardeath crash and burn of everything that meant anything to me ever and im going to sanctify this second act with all i got.  so if theres no smile on your face when you and i behold then ill just walk on by.  you have every right to choose how to honor the blood and breath and vibe of your life.  if its safe behind walls, i hope you paint them prettier on the inside than they seem on the out.  i got this here man and he chose Love.  he took a damn deep bet on me and for that i am grateful, ever and after.  maybe not on me, but on something out there over the wall take a chance on.  open your heart.  ride til gravity takes over and realize the worlds worth more with you in it.  blessed be.

"I know that for thousands of lifetimes,
you and I have been one,
and the distance between us is only a flash of thought."

as the splendid orb of the moon begins her wane, theres a palpable relief within the bounds of this form.  as if the power oppressed me, a lunatic, my waters drawn against skin unbearable bloat of the drowned.  some lunar manacle unlocked, blood feeding starved steppe of flesh spring rain relief inhalation cessation of frustration and disgust.  of late felt so unwell, and this morning find the incubus fled on ragged stinking wings the sunlight bright across the broad bedframe allowing me a lightness far too long foreign from me.  inspired enough to dig dandelions from the the garden, life seems entirely manageable again, or for once.   and a sign of the turning tide last night the appearance of my lost witches star, lost before i left, another sign of folly fate even Charlotte had something to say.  after weeks the windows open again, late april winds through the rooms the smell of blossoms and grass, occasional scarves of smoke from small sweetwood brushfires or the deep ripe of manure (consider for a moment the beautiful perfect earth clockwork of a cow).

"Salvation does not come through simplicities."

"The relative immortality of the very large and very small serve as a stable stage set for us. Compared with stars and atoms we are the briefest of candles, temporary patterns of peculiarly organized matter, blinking on and off upon the surface of a huge planet bathed with steams of steady high-intensity sunlight with bodies composed of super-stable atoms that can be rearranged to create me, or you, then a soil bacterium, and then, say, a traditional symbol of ephemerality, the Japanese plum blossom in the spring."

"To correct a natural indifference I was placed half-way between misery and the sun. Misery kept me from believing that all was well under the sun, and the sun taught me that history wasn’t everything."

 i was thinking i should write something else and then realized hey thats just another shoulda im enforcing.  letting go is a second by second enterprise.

" """Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck."

ten for today:

1.  thank you, Charlotte.  ill take this as a sign.
2.  this
3.  feeling good again
4.  this
5.  Cowboy
6.  a fine walk and looking forward to more
7.  "we must live our own experience.  we cannot inherit it."
8.  the endless insight of the blogosphere
9.  the things i thought looking at this
10. this.

No comments:

Post a Comment

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)