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

23 May 2010

“No matter how fast light travels it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it.”

my horoscope says, "Instead of spending your time fearfully battening down the hatches, raise your sails and get ready for an amazing adventure."  so thats what i do. 

"The motive for metaphor, according to Wallace Stevens, is a desire to associate, and finally to identify, the human mind with what goes on outside it, because the only genuine joy you can have is in those rare moments when you feel that although we may know in part, as Paul says, we are also a part of what we know." 

a sunday well navigated.  early in the garden and reading.  to the road and the modulated mid-spring endofthewoods where the dog and i walk.   we wade into the encroaching tide to spy sketched-out grapevine nurseries and the appaloosa phlox.  beyond our sway cardinals engage in ancient terretorial duels and the chipmunk metropolis hesistates along our pause.  writing it down i notice in both the notebooks the work of the leftbrain are like legos in a cup of tea.  

"It is absurd to divide people into either good or bad. People are either charming or tedious."

ribcage clouds and the locust blossoms smell like snow and something baking.
the widow throws her mothers day roses over the bank to feed next years crocus.  last week the old woman at the turn rolled the snapneck skunk carcass down into her far ditch and today not even the dog is curious.

recent random word poems:

"swans and tigers"


third rail
an intricate web
the woman i love.

the northern border
lays bare

the dog doesnt like heat, water or riding so i scribble in the rare shadow on the verge with paganini crickets vibrating crescendos in the tall grass.   out and about of an evening a walk about the shire to see how folk are buttoning up for the flirting darkness.   waves of dames rocket and fresh hummingbird food, an apple and a kiss.  i get hired to play Chauncey ("This is just like television, only you can see much further") Gardiner for The Business.  even that relationship is clarified, brass tacks all around like stars in the reborn sky.
Remeber, "Life is a state of mind."

"How can a woman be expected to be happy with a man who insists on treating her as if she were a perfectly normal human being?"

the house had been condemned and then abandoned.  i razed it.
we can build something now together.
something strong and safe and worth living in.
blessed be.

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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)