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

23 July 2010

"...everything else is unconfirmable rumor, useless, probably lies.  liberate yourself from the illusion of culture."

today rainy i catch up with my tumblr,  bake cookies for the weekend, arrange those cds im making to give away, the tape intensive cardstock flipcase i contrive clever cutty-pasty birthday package for the dark niece in med school.  this house has a bog corner thats like living with a dead body and the book im looking for is over there.  the gaiter im making, these tiny bamboo needles the stitches come off like beads of blood from a pinprick.  and the little pincushion cactus keeps coming up to coax my understanding.  i need to start taking better notes.  

"never buy a cheap parachute."

kin-kaku and lemonade, my sense of intimacy has been completely severed from my sexuality, excommunicated in a backwards baptism, offered openhearted to the failure of good to prevail.  i put all his little tractors on a tarnished silver tray for his returning, a mason jar of legomen and little plastic pigs, helmets and swords and tiny brown swiss.  my boundaries have always been vague sketches bereft of conviction.  the aloes prickly kraken propped up and contorted but they keep coming in tiny terracotta pots, spotted as fawn.  

"the pharmaceutical companies own billions in fast food franchise stock."

did i mention hummingbird food?  i ran out of white and used turbinado and the syrup came extra thick and golden the lady rubythroats are my favorite, and i read the little boys dress in drag for a year before they claim their ascot.  my best birdfeeder is broken i tried to make it do with duct tape ive gone so long without my goldfinches the price of a birdfeeder is the weight of my winter soul. 

"feminism ain't about equality, it's about reprieve."

cookies for the farrier, for the phantom, for the celebrated return of mr. snugglepants.  my hands are sticky, distracting, the floor weeps.  out at sea we sail, happiness off the port side, following unnamed constellations.  the cookies taste like toasted marshmallow.  this week i sweat, and weeded, and read.  i canned carrots and beets and beans, watched a passel of movies (u and dystopian), had very strange dreams.  i decide to name the mixtape cd birthday project "hippie nonsense and liberal propaganda."  the sun returns.

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)