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

17 July 2010

"Lovecraft's guiding literary principle was what he termed "cosmicism, or, "cosmic horror," the idea that life is incomprehensible to human minds and that the universe is fundamentally alien."

T. creates a vehicle from legos.  remarkable torque, i tell him, as it is small and towing something larger.
well, its solar powered, he says, and can pull anything that can pull it.
the calm before the zucchini storm.  cucumbers, elegant indeterminate tomato, the miracle of a bean.
the blanket knit and finished, all the ends woven in, thrown into the dryer with some softener sheets purchased for just this occasion so it doesnt smell like us.  on the ride there i rub good feeling into it, soles in the wind, broad humid geology of farmfield, jessica.
i leave trucks feeling calm and peaceful.  it was a weirdly intimate event, mostly locals, that enclosed emptiness i attribute to my hometown.  the event of my summer, and home together for watermelon and onion rings before tuck in, a few pages, and bed.  

the opening band man said you have to give away what you want to receive.  i tried to think of a word to describe the stars.  ripton called them lemon and thats a good one.  sharp, implacable stars.  so many folks never look up at the sky.  the invisible accumulation of clouds into formations you can tell the weather by.  the personal mythologies of stars.  other planets visible with your very own eyes.   spell of dusk or revelation of daybreak.   leaves, trees, sunflowers, hands.  just look at something.  keep looking.

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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)