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

06 July 2010

"Hear the lark and harken to the barking of the dog fox gone to ground."

the bat didnt show until we turned out the bedroom light for the night and the click and whir of fledermaus shuffled the air above us and brushed against the cowboys arm.  the bat was cooperative (while i hid under the duvet) and released into the thick night. 

prohibitively hot, but i go out early and water and prune the tomato plants (among these my bonny peacevine cherries and the mysterious white!), pull weeds pick lettuce and peas. when we evacuated the closet, i took the opportunity to organize.   in a plastic bag from a department store that used to be open when i was a kid were skeins and skeins of this blue woolen yarn and some already on the needles.  what i assumed was the frontpiece of a sweater.  my mother knit elaborate sweaters that we used to call fishermen and dont know what theyre called now.  if i had really absorbed it, took it out and looked at it, i would have seen that it was much too big.  but it was only as i frogged the first row that i unfurled it and considered.  so that first row got frogged and i slipped the whole thing back on the needle and bound it off.  and only when it was bound off did i notice the tassel on the opposite corner, and the whole thing came together but then i saw it some more and thought i should have finished it with a border to make a frame so i unbound it and set it back on the needles and then realized i couldnt replicate the border pattern and i looked in books and on the shining interwebs to no avail so im putting it away until i can find and learn the language of that stitch and do it right and i realized it was a way to not be so haphazard the way she hated me to.

we get cowboy a ticket to dave.  my time is dogs and books in the night kitchen baking brownies, tending hearth.  a cool and magickal evening thinking about sweetgrass aleister crowley reading tequila.  serenity yoga sewing machines fruit.  tom waits art dogs mythology. eggs skin atlantis calm.  i feel a fullness like a sleeping cat and a book with the right slant of light through the steam of tea in a mug and the miracle of breathing.  i feel a fullness like carrot wedding cake under a huge spruce coffee and candles in lanterns leading to the sound of water.  i feel a fullness like gravity on the lawn with woodsmoke and the blind sky receding revealing deep dark and stars.  bells babushkas herbs rebirth.  yarn pelicans utica blueberry.  tarot tension grandfather glass chrysanthemum.  this weekend we should stop and i should bring roses, red this time, get tickets, ice cream, incense.  and im happy, and have less and less i feel i need to say.

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)