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

03 May 2010


the lps came home, the speakers languish (but wheres the lenny bruce?) today is  apples and cheese, seeds, sunlight, monkey bread.  i effectively problem solve and take phone calls.  the big sunhat comes out, the windows are wide open.  
everything is so much better.  like a second chance on life itself, like the leaving was a neardeath experience and everything is clarified, a shift in the paradigm that lets Way More Light in.  the bad dreams have been away for a few nights now, so i dont feel so oppressed.  the lilac are out around here.  i have a deep thing for lilac.  lilac and violets and i notice i picked a lot of orange to grow in the flowerbeds.  i notice where the foxglove has reseeded herself, and i am grateful.  once hickoryforge is up and done i imagine a bed of hollyhock and sunflowers.  i am so glad to be home.   thank you.


 crumbly and vertiginous, steep and silent hiking trails, the sound of water the smell of hemlock bring apples next time so pleased and complete just to walk with you on this ancient footpath that threads along the precipice, breathing, heels dug in to oak mould meditating on a canopy full of wind and the promise of rain.  
promising me its okay to be me, whomever that happens to be. 


theres pirates on the high seas off galatin road but here i got asperged in the creekbed yesterday and this morning thirty seconds fell followed by a day of seventy, and sunlight.  my red toenails are patina'd in dust like a mummy, me in my babydoll sundress waiting for the red truck to come down the road waiting for wheelweight in the dandelion gravel.   thirteen plays and i cant qualify the leaving, the having left.  took leave of my last handful of senses and leapt into beautiful air.  
like God, you caught me.
 its not a hard feeling.  its so tender i dont even touch it except for times like now but now i know that it dont really want touching it want leaving alone.


Perhaps I had a wicked childhood,
Perhaps I had a miserable youth,
But somwhere in my wicked, miserable past,
There must have been a moment of truth.

For here you are, standing there, loving me,
Whether or not you should,
So somewhere in my youth or childhood,
I must have done something good.

Nothing comes from nothing,
Nothing ever could,
So somewhere in my youth or childhood,
I must have done something good.
(thanks to Pens new blog) 


 listening to patti griffin sing tomorrow night, laura marling sing ghosts.  my fathers speakers!  i make the change (from major to minor) lo am succored in the stereophonic darkness.  i gotta learn wire get a job translating here at the united tabernacle entertainment so the vinyl will sing through the phoenix of my fathers f**king speakers i can listen to The Possum until my ears bleed if i want to.  
those speakers, and macro.  and the wish i wear around my wrist.  thank you.


 richie havens sings freedom and i started the painted veil parablog cause that first picture there of the woman and the scarf and the window.  thats Me, instead of these thousand words.  ah my funnyvoice says ah Me is the Great Illusion, no?  swordfish trombone plays.  gold dust woman plays.  ah the Me that makes us lonely. but the Me i speak of  is also known as You. 
enough blue for a dutchmans breeches and starlight forecast for night.  the monkeybread is perfect food in the afternoon with coffee and dogs and waiting for you.  steve earle plays colorado girl.  everyday that truck makes me cry.  i guess what you wanted was to chisel the angel from the stone if you ever got the chance again.  even now just sittin here theres that hot pressure between my eyes and my throat aches.
whatever broke was a tomb.


 ten for today:

1.  Big Brother and the Holding Company, Cheap Thrills.
2.  Rolling Stones, Let It Bleed. 
3.  Santana, Abraxas.
4.  Traffic, Traffic.
5.  Grateful Dead, Bear's Choice
6.  Taj Mahal, The Real Thing.
7.  Black Sabbath, We Sold Our Soul For Rock'n'Roll
8.  R.E.M.  Can't Get There From Here
9. Atlantic Records 25th Anniversary, The Jazz Years
10. Neil Young,On the Beach.

where im at, of late:

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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)