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

29 June 2010


"The loneliness of clothes draped over the backs of chairs is blue; undies, empty lobbies, rumpled spreads are blue, especially when chenille and if orange; not body warmth or body smell or the acidulous salts of the vagina -- no -- blue belongs to the past -- to the minutes after masturbation, to thought, to detachment and removal, fading, to the inside side of sex and the self that in the midst of pitch and toss has slipped away like a lucky penny fallen from a dresser."

high summer of strawberries blueberries peaches and cherries, melon, peas and salad greens.  some kind of grass poking up through the straw, tall and rather lovely but it needs attending to, my perennial bed needs tending and i worry over the cucumber beetles.  going out early to drown the japanese beetles there isnt one to be found, they must hole up deep in the black raspberries when the weather proves rainy and gray.  neighborhood eggs and new yarn for the summer project, a coffee cake to bring to breakfast on the water tomorrow.  rain and public radio. 


weeding baking knitting napping walking watching.
its apparent what the intensive application of composted manure does to the tilth in the garden, and this fall well start from the other side to give the lower footage a chance.  the straw mulch sprouts lithe green swords of oat, a volunteer cover crop we let live.  the tomatoes begin to amaze, the corn begins something one can hide in.  the sunflowers are suddenly enormous and grand.  everything is suddenly enormous and grand.  the wind is a gift in the two o'clock sun.  once a day the deer run across the road into the brushlot on the corner.  the evenings are gentle.  i plumb the depths of my library for some story that i dont slide off of like mercury (buying a pile isnt an option right now, and when it is ill know ive exhausted the shelves).  this years garden cost next to nothing, with last years seeds and gifts from friends and neighbors.  weeding under the beans and chard i continue to find nasturtium.  for hours in this mad weather with the tin pans banging on the tomato cages like a tibetan oracle orchestra and the windchime under the prayer flags and the hawk that came today describing low circles just above the oaks along the creekbed.  im happy.


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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)