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

04 June 2010


i want the words to want to come through.  settling, the water gets clearer near the top.  mexican coca-cola and the white horse, the kerouac documentary makes me covet the angels that raged above around and through him the sparks words strung like stars relentless.  
stretch, more art, any art at all after such a while, the garden, the dogs.  i went out into the world and returned kissing the dirty kitchen floor.  sun house smokestack lightning and tomorrow i play at lunchlady.
brand new day spent picking oak leaves out of rosebushes, pulling maple sprouts from out behind the yew.  i had a lemonade and an ice cream sandwich and theres like seven different christian evangelist radio stations now so i switch from frequency to amplitude.  and theres the local talk guy wasp and snarky and theyre talking about keith richards and robert johnson and the guy kept using the word saturated.


home we hoe and the rain makes the hard ground good and brown again.  the marvelous sage blossoms and the bees in everything my strawberry plants settling in red at the root and reaching with one succulent fuzzy trefoil the mother strawberry babies are big but bloodless.  i go out fed and clean in the evening to marvel at the iris, draw the scent of sage blossoms to my fingers, the lavender, the rampant chamomile.  
i sense a certain lack of vitality somewhere in there, though, some obstacle or resistance.  i intend to spend more mindful time in there listening for what it needs.  this is an incredibly new patch of land were attempting to translate into food, soil is something built over time.  but i think i need to sow some light in there as well.  keep up the esbats, invest soul and time. 


chardonnay light of summer evening that makes you look around for a rainbow the dogs in front of the fan everyone quiet and keeping to their lives the whole valley peaceful.  
art and the garden.


what does it represent?  skulls in the vetch.  horse people vs. cow and sheep people.  reading broken hearts in the dirt and turkey feathers in your back pocket.  i didnt write anything down.  
wind through the trees, spiked lemonade, laundry on the line, your hand through dry sand the ocean.
what it represented to him was liberation.  the first taste.
and i see that liberation does not make us strangers then we are the same.  it was my strength card before it was the tale and then it was the burden and then passage and then now it is strength.  bone colored background of the machine age and the colored tassels and the beast.  


"The love that you withhold, is the pain that you carry, from lifetime to lifetime."
 


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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)