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

28 April 2010

"There’s a statistical theory that if you gave a million monkeys typewriters and set them to work, they’d eventually come up with the complete works of Shakespeare. Thanks to the Internet, we now know this isn’t true."


"It is characteristic of him that he especially recommended a glass of Guinness as a medium in which to scry."

grateful.  every time you call.  the sound of water in the creek.  the dust and madness, wide margin.  
the sun rises on yarrow elfwand, oak leaves and squill, a happy home. 
bell of awakening, windchime, a lintel of roses.
when the words dont come, dont drag them from their hiding.

"the woman i love."

floating
elementary forces
dancers
branches

play neighbor at the table for a few, practice listening, laughing, tentative connections, tendrils like spring stretching across my recluse heart to reach and recognize the humanity i in a thousand ways welcome and prepare for, my own.  still cold but the sun shines across a blue sheep pasture wide as the valley considering thinning the herd and thinking again, my naive heart hoping for the best.  put together a cornbread for cowboy, getting that now familiar itch waiting for my boys to return to me, watching out the window wandering the rooms remembering the seedlings in the shanty greenhouse going out to water and the zinnias are up already plump succulent little leaves and the garden getting too familiar with the spring weeds, a dense border of dandelion at which my get-go quails. 


the away was so strange.  a breakdown a disconnect it all got pound to nothing nothing held no wall no net it didnt matter what made sense what great mistake was made there was nothing and i walked into it like a hole.  and by the grace of my good angels am i allowed to return to try again to resuscitate love and learn something sustaining, retaining, like muscle and skin.  i dont worry much how it looks on the outside they werent there on the inside when my heart broke a billion times over.  i read today that the world needs my authenticity.  i dont even know what that is and its all i have left to give.


in this season of bloom and expansion i feel hibernate and cold, an old englishwoman on the beach at blackpool in march woolwrapped a thermos of twinings, custard creams.  dont vex me let me lie here in the desolation comforted and unthinking.  maybe its because im understimulated.  im keeping myself away from things but why?  blame it on this spring cold, but its shame, and the deep relief of just being here.
now theres two of you out there, him and her, that i wonder after, one lost before i left and one lost in the leaving.  both blank spaces in my heart, doors closed on rooms to which i set an ear walking past but nothing.  she, couldnt you forgive me?  and for what should i be forgiven?  for being exhausted?  for desiring quiet?  well i have my quiet now in the room where sun comes through a window bricked with leaves and the big bed is full of us again.  i didnt listen, Zu, and left but now im back im only human and broken mad at that, learning to love the light that shines through the cracks in my heart onto my hands that hope one day youll return to me in some form whatsoever, bits of paper, pecans, sequins, stories ive yet to drink the nectar you gave me it sits shiva to what lived only briefly between us.  i wish i was worth more than not knowing.


the oxalis taught me a lesson today.  after a month of living in pale fluorescence i thrust it back into a southern exposure and it quailed, pale and petals decidedly unwell, true light a relentless glare.  but strength returns to stalks and streaked leaves and new growth not knowing any less, fills out the space made from away.

ten for today:

1.  our watchwork universe
2.  this article, which explains a lot
3.  this picture which followed me around the blogosphere today
4.  full moon in scorpio
5.  T.
6.  my home
7.  learning to cut slack
8.  coffee and cornbread
9.  breathing easy
10.  hoping for the best, after all.

"It’s very dear to me, the issue of gay marriage. Or as I like to call it: ‘marriage.’ You know, because I had lunch this afternoon, not gay lunch. I parked my car; I didn’t gay park it."

 


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"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." -V.V.G.

"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)