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

04 May 2010

on the beach by neil young and we make out.  theres something about vinyl that turns me on.  theres something about vinyl that turns.  i lost my little pony but a big horse is comin down the road.  the troika down to the general store for sugarskulls and slimjims.  easy with the windows open you hear them halfway down the road.  coolwater breeze of evening with goslings and venus and thin spring fluttermice low under the wire.  went out for the dim and beautiful, this quiet valley, bringing the blue cause she withers in the heat.  one at a time ive decided.  playing waiting by santana.  i put all my rings back on.  i need a shower and theres like three pages left of Suttree but i just cant take it anymore, it was death of a thousand cuts, the dense relentless onslaught of Nothing it gave me bad dreams.  so im reading this, very aware that my readings been androcentric and aggressive and thinking about rereading this cause libraryland said so. 

"Anyone who has a library and a garden wants for nothing."  - Cicero

soft may rain fell on the dog and me, a gentle cleansing. the light was amazing.  colors were more than themselves, emeralds and earth saturate and fae.  then just as soon morningside bunted in bright blank blue and southill draped in miss havishams flannel, complete with silver threads of thunder that rolled west and left what the neighbor called a beautiful day. 

when i was little i had this thing about capybaras.   and today in libraryland i discovered this gem (one of us!):

Unit of Measure 
All can be measured by the standard of the capybara.
Everyone is lesser than or greater than the capybara.
Everything is taller or shorter than the capybara.
Everything is mistaken for a Brazilian dance craze
more or less frequently than the capybara.
Everyone eats greater or fewer watermelons
than the capybara. Everyone eats more or less bark.
Everyone barks more than or less than the capybara,
who also whistles, clicks, grunts, and emits what is known
as his alarm squeal. Everyone is more or less alarmed
than a capybara, who—because his back legs
are longer than his front legs—feels like
he is going downhill at all times.
Everyone is more or less a master of grasses
than the capybara. Or going by the scientific name,
more or less Hydrochoerus hydrochaeris
or, going by the Greek translation, more or less
water hog. Everyone is more or less
of a fish than the capybara, defined as the outermost realm
of fishdom by the 16th-century Catholic Church.
Everyone is eaten more or less often for Lent than
the capybara. Shredded, spiced, and served over plantains,
everything tastes more or less like pork
than the capybara. Before you decide that you are
greater than or lesser than a capybara, consider
that while the Brazilian capybara breeds only once a year,
the Venezuelan variety mates continuously.
Consider the last time you mated continuously.
Consider the year of your childhood when you had
exactly as many teeth as the capybara—
twenty—and all yours fell out, and all his
kept growing. Consider how his skin stretches
in only one direction. Accept that you are stretchier
than the capybara. Accept that you have foolishly
distributed your eyes, ears, and nostrils
all over your face. Accept that now you will never be able
to sleep underwater. Accept that the fish
will never gather to your capybara body offering
their soft, finned love. One of us, they say, one of us,
but they will not say it to you.


"You see to me these strange little people are indeed people...the odd ones, the marginal ones, the ones who are not noticed or noticed for the wrong reasons. They are my fairies."

from:  davidhorvitz.tumblr.com
 (i followed him and his incredible suggestions last year)

Mail an empty envelope to the Tate Modern in London to be included in 
an exhibition in May. 
All received mailings will be displayed unopened, and 
the audience will be encouraged to look through them. 
To make sure your envelope is accepted write all of the following 
information clearly on the envelope:
Loading Bay 2, TATE MODERN
Park Street
London SE1 9TG
(attention of Capucine Perrot
Assistant Curator
Curatrial Department
Contact: +44(0)2074015011)
Write this information to the left:
Organization: Rhizome
Name: (write your name here)
Project: NO SOUL FOR SALE, TURBINE HALL 14th-16th May 2010 

"Every story has got a happy end - you just got to know when you stop telling."

ten for today:

1.   You Got the Silver, Rolling Stones
2.   Sirius Radio
3.   Sirius Rising
4.   Cowboy
5.   Keith Richards
6.   Fractals
7.   Cheese and Crackers
8.   Red-Winged Blackbirds
9.   Rain
10. The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, by Tom Wolfe

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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)