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

06 May 2010


"All my life I have been haunted by the obsession that to desire a thing or to love a thing intensely is to place yourself in a vulnerable position, to be a possible, if not a probable, loser of what you most want."

or else its madness and rambling and then again its madness and rambling .

its a matter of us ready to be ourselves, we ready to be us.  and theres a long way to go, having spent the last six years doing burnouts on a dead end.  both of us.  and were finally pioneers.  lets give eachother covered wagons and ride off into the sunset.  hickoryforge and the greenhouse, morning thunder and proudbelly, R. and O., luminous and vital from the alembic into the well. 
so when theres some songkissing and i cry its only the light on most true and tender self as i have never known exposed from the crack of the cast  it was crucial and evolutionary and absolutely essential.  for us it was bone on bone from the get-go. with the break came the time and the space and let Love in between us, a comet, a door briefly blown open and it doesnt hurt anymore. this tender of flesh is feeling of removing a cast, gifts of wind and sun and water and palms and soles on the sand of the planet and whatever happened turned the glass into sand.

a cool bright day i fashion hearts and stars, i thread these beads of thought and bring them home from school.
dont deny anymore that youre magick. how people should feel i am only now beginning to understand.Great Teacher i am ready.

 how unlikely, us.  but how else could it be?  of course you were angry at the leaving, and the saddle justice that flows from your bones applied.  but i had filled myself with rage to bursting from the beginning and was a year overdue.  so i built the death scaffold and once i could see the sky through its bones, knew it was gone, from the casket of flesh, the way it was, the fear and blood and whiskey drained back into the earth.  the entire tired  life had to go.  im thinking of mr. black,  of possession.  but i didnt hang on, like a heroine.  i let go.  and even though, somewhere there in the absence we were reborn.  like it needed a hollowed-out space, between bones, somewhere for the sun and earth to perform their miracles and the stone got rolled.  daylight that didnt pinch, dark that didnt prey.  somewhere under mutual anesthetic the demons fled from invested angels invading armie of our revolution.  everything we truly were was wagered.  everything we were only briefly allowed to live at the beginning to tightly bind us, a leather band in a tree the bones through which i saw the sun and turned around one turn of moon in her manifold death and rebirth hail Artemis Mary Hecate Changing Woman great thanks to angel armies and Grace.  weaver Grace of every thread the sail that carries soul across shoals with the anchorboat of flesh broken over and over but the soul a cycle of something that evaporates precipitates and for a beat bears a heart and a face and you learn its name and if youre lucky it loves you. 


thank you for letting me be.  thank you for letting me go.  and thank you even more for wanting me back.  thank you for being who i thought you were.  thank you for the thistle, and then for the butterfly.  thank you for making me laugh, and for taking me seriously.  thank you for letting me play with the radio.  thank you for your stories thank you for being kind, and being earnest  thank you for never showing me how you do it.  thank you for pizza and dvds. thank you for helping to make me Real.  thank you for not laughing when i cry in the truck, or anywhere. thank you for learning how to talk so that i understand.  thank you for walks.  thank you for taking the long way.  thank you for holding my hand.  thank you for trying to explain to me that i dont have to make excuses for who i am.  thank you for coffee under the tree in the afternoon.  thank you for finding me at night across the high Greyhaven plain.  thank you for doing manwork, and guystuff.  thank you for smiling.  thank you for being cool when the house is insane.  thank you for keeping track.  thank you for even considering indian.  thank you for slaying hornets. thank you for wanting another whack at the whole canoe thing.  thank you for not badgering me when i carry two pieces of wood by my fingertips at a time to the pile.  thank you for all the time we spend out in the woods.   thank you for knowing how to fix stuff.  thanks for singing in the car with me sometimes. thank you for dancing.  thank you for letting me let it grow.  thank you first in retrograde and then advance for everything. 

Love, O.

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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)