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

20 May 2010



"How glorious it is, and also how painful, to be an exception."

late may.  everything pollinates.  theres a telegram just for me this morning from a woman i love.  fairy tale cabbage moths cavort and mesmerize in the air.  last night T and i saw five buzzards in the trees above an expired squirrel.  
"i wrote that in my biography," he says.  "i cannot stand the smell of a dead squirrel."
this morning all of it is gone.  
what grand and beautiful clockwork is the earth. 


"The foolish man seeks happiness in the distance;  the wise grows it under his feet."

shout out to the hill st. phantoms for tomato plants, all good green growing things.  pumpkins are in, beans and sunflowers and two nasturtium volunteers i moved to ring the Mother Comfrey.  lupine peeks through one of a hundred eyes.  reading alan watts yesterday, what im looking for rides on the back of my head like a butterfly.  my life a shadow cast by a me shaped hole in the space inside the snake of time.  im it. 


"when one man, for whatever reason,  has the opportunity to lead an extraordinary life, he has no right to keep it to himself."

the first painted lady, indescribable orioles, the jays harder and harder to find in the dim of leafed-out waysides.  alien whir of the machine one road over more dense and invasive today, tire tracks in a sand mandala of bullfrog monks chanting mindfulness along the pond beyond which in the fen geese play small tibetan horns for the yellow bloom of may that offers up its compost to the green of june that spreads up and out in everything.

if i were a bird, which bird would i be?  a heron?  a magpie?  a swan.  i think you said apteryx once, or something like that.  a chickadee?  an albatross?   i dont think id ever be a bird at all.


ten for today:

zuzu
the grateful dead
reading in bed
dr. martens, shoe technology you can feel
"its all good"
synchronicity
orioles
synchronous posting by gurldoggie.  wheres my teleporter?
"Teaching writing is a hustle."  Cormac McCarthy

MAKE THE FUTURE from Alex Dobbin on Vimeo.

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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)