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

05 April 2010

Solvitur ambulando

i have no idea how this is going to go.  any of it, to the last glorious scale of this mad dragon.  ive thrown all the cards into the air and they just drift down infinitely by halves, never reaching the ground.  for not getting anywhere, i feel like stephen hawking.  the vast roiling universe contained in this bonejug of a skull, sitting under a suburban upstate roof on a rainy monday.  how odd.  im not horrified by it at all, really.  lonesome, reckless, prodigal, determined to conceal its purpose until the last empty page perhaps.  so i dont wait anymore for a reason, or an answer.  the questions are much more interesting.  a real pageturner. 

"Only when it is dark enough, can you see the stars."

willow bestows the first green blush to a wyeth landscape.  clouds dissolve in afternoon sun and the smell of rain rises up from the ground.  ransom.  hes so far from the shore i dont even look for the boat anymore.  i tend to my knitting, every now and again trying to remind that theres someone still somehow, even if we pose only the vaguest of outlines, dark shapes on the sand with inconvenient needs and a dog.  we try not to tax, blessed as we are with independent dispositions gained from great experience.  but still here, and adrift, a woman and her child on the shoreline, the tide turning, the piano sucked deeper into sand.  natives will find us under the hoopskirt, inventing some new language.  the conductor never called for all aboard, and in dumb disbelief we watch it roll out of the station, gaining speed, the whistle grim and beautiful in our ears. 
youre a cowboy now, he said.

yesterdays birthdays, two of my favorite famous people:

"I`m not used to feeling like I belong where I am."
 He shakes his head.  "I just didn't expect that we'd be fighting like this."
"I know.  It's like we get in that boat and turn into a couple of five-year-olds.  We need to figure out some way to nip these retarded squabbles in the bud.  Maybe we need a safe word or something."
 "A what?"
"You know, like a word or something we say to stop fighting, to take a time-out and check ourselves," I say.  "What's a good safe word, do you think?"
Dan refills his glass and mulls the notion with a frown.  
"How about 'Quit being such a fucking asshole'?"
from this, a valuable source of the world in my life.

"Every leaf of the tree becomes a page of the Book / Once the heart is opened and it has learnt to read." 

living alone.  always back to the living alone a yurt in the back treetop greenhouse the creamsicle salvaged from weeds.  heavyhorse womans daughter with her two husbands, fun and profit.  because at this point im not going to start reading redbook getting my hair frosted and dinner with the girls.  theres a balance, some truth somewhere between Hedgewitch and Hi and Lois.  youre always picking up pieces, he said.  St. Jude next time, he said.  living someone elses life, he said.   living alone in the broken moon halflight living off air and elsewhere.  what will it take to get closer to whole?  but what a gift this has been, this lostness.

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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)