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

29 May 2010

“We need another and a wiser and perhaps a more mystical concept of animals... In a world older and more complete than ours they move finished and complete, gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not brethren, they are not underlings; they are other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendour and travail of the earth.”

  if i had a parasol i could star in my own post-apocalyptic merchant-ivory film.  i found my hat and my hanky, now i need the bag and the shoes.  a travelers friends after Earth and the Sky.  hot.  impromptu lake rendezvous and the dyslexian prophecy, iris and Isis and fruit. 

"...too prodigal, too amorous, too weak, too indolent, and too melancholy..."in short, “a rotten lot, and nearly all stark-staring mad”. 

Love is the message.
went out later and watched the moon rise out of dusky cloudsfound a light to guide me who helps to  make me worthy of my Soul.  this incremental awakening.
dancing seems to be a big part of it.  ive been gone so long.
practice Being.  practice feeling okay. 

"Your assignment is to stop reacting to 
every little blip that leaps into your field of vision, and start surveying the 
long-term cycles of your life from an expansive vista. Be a proactive 
visionary. Be a high-minded explorer...The next phase of 
your liberation requires you to slough off petty concerns and trivial 
he twice in the cards, the clutcher, the keeper, his energy all under his shoes, 
pressed against his chest.  and She, prism of all Light, giving.
he cut the strands away from me, i put back the redcoral and the star. 
flash flood knockout to get away from the spinning sick. 
 and today for the first time i practice restraint.  
the last of the plants go in, the tropicals, and some cleome, snapdragons for T. 
greek oregano and a lavender for the bed. 
this is the year i watch how the flowers grow, where the spaces really are.
"The price of freedom is eternal vigilance."

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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)