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

14 July 2010

sleep off yesterday.  hard to breathe the thick dim air outside.  that late summer cicada sound the alien crescendo over crepes T. and i discuss the Big Bang, spirals, original density. 

chanticleer in a breeze pressed from the lowering sky.  some kind of squash fritter.  lots and lots of rain.
as a child i was not praised i was punished and preyed upon.  something in me suddenly matures enough to understand the pandering.  being born, our channel for Love is wide open, and the cement is still wet when some ineffable abacus rations out woolens and bombs.    something reflective collects in the craters. 

avoidance.  prinking into the abyss.   squash fritters and coffee and talking.  children in the water.  these wonderful shoes.  straight legged angels, nautical genres, the attempt to connect.  glad i dont need the meds, that for the most part i can just let myself be.

"The more you are able to integrate the projection and deeply understand that the light which you perceive in the other is a flowering of the light at the essence of everything, the more you will be able to see the light even in those with grotesque human forms and those whose inner light is cocooned within a dense mass of psychological scar tissue. When you can perceive such hidden lights, you can then see the light shining through all living things and all "inanimate" things as well. Everything is made of light in this holographic matrix of ours."

happy birthday, mr. guthrie.

“Was a great high wall there that tried to stop me, A sign was painted said: "Private Property", But on the back side, it didn't say nothing, That side was made for you and me.”

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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)