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

11 June 2010

my recent attempt at connection.  theres a part of me, an old part, that says its me.  that im just plain unlovable.  thats the vintage tickertape, the classic reel.  but im discovering an even older part, wiser perhaps, that says be alive.  dont be a bit part in your own play.  these wonderful leaps i make some times, and even if i fall arms windmilling back so slow i dont even feel the time pass i remember being there.  Being There.  

ive got my life.  and sometimes i forget and  go smiling,  jousting windmills, quasimodo.  and i must not get it at all because i dont get it at all.  its a relief to return to the garden, walk the dog, kiss the kitchen floor.  a poorly assimilated alien.  theres the part that aches and its that hurt that feels good to rub it.  but i dont have to hurt there anymore.  because thats just where the old part wore through. 

shakedown and im wondering what to wear for the saturday night return debutante ball.  its like tv or processed food.  you can spend your entire life with it and you end up the hungry dead.  the wiser part says be alive.   

i use all my quotes for tumblr.  the bass player said i had the mark of cain.  this was high school, and i carried demian around for a decade, giving copies away like zippo lighters.  i listen to turcoaica angali and thats the density i deeply crave.  the sound packed together raindrops to waves and all the information of the birth of the world.  with derek those waves are light.  i discover king crimson.  that was your density, you said, king crimson and cnn and am radio.  and then the casting off with an omphalos tether into formless night.   dead on avenue d i got your rock.  i still remember the look in your eyes and the kitchen on pearl street over strawberry tea.  dig the olfactories, man.  moving out i found some works you had stashed.  i was peace and shelter.  when i turned you away you died. 

i went outside and dug around a little and realized its what i should be doing.  the purselane and pigweed little hydras my sweet tulsi and monarda and mugwort babies such different creatures than the sunflowers and the corn.  even one practically prenatal columbine pinched carelessly (what stratify?) into heat wave potting soil elbows out up against the edge of the pool, growing.   my wee white tomato allotted her own hoosie, and the gap in the sunflowers will stay so.  more nasturtium volunteers ill never need buy that seed again.  but pigweed and purselane like some sort of mulch my cultivator a square blade on a stick and i think about amending my soil and realize that ive become a person who can look forward.  my treasure lies in the now, but dread does not presage with every breath.  theres so much to learn in the time left.  im allowed to choose what to do.  im blessed with these fleeting little leaps, they save me like angels.  and theyre such basic things but things ive never known.  when i was very young they called me an old soul.  but im just a babe in the woods, only now understanding that there is no spoon.

tide comes up and my chirons in aries my moon is in pisces lilith in scorpio.  they get married moon void of course but so did we.  looking forward to afternoon coffee under the tree and a quiet friday.  it would be nice to know some folks, but thats not where i need to be.  i need to be here, now, they cast ashes wherever i went and im taking my cue.  something is obviously not ready.  thwarted aborted time-suck.  
dig your own garden.  
the sun is our star, radiating Life across a human infinitude.  
our heart is our sun.  

(for those of you playing at home, these photos are two weeks behind)

No comments:

Post a Comment

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)