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

12 July 2010

there is only one god and music is its prophet.  
derek trucks and save my soul and out there shoulda been skyclad tomahawks and shorthandled shovels and the smell of tulsi and sun on your skin.  mintsprig in a masonjar of heavycut lemonade breeze and birdsong.  
my beloved exhausted batik cut in a wide arc and i sport about in my new shoes the first shoes in a long time where im not constantly aware of my feet.  they are geriatric and not my color and i said to the lady maybe these are made of what everything else now is made of and i just dont know it because i dont usually buy things.  i hope they weather well, and pass those blessings along to me. 

fudge constructed (in this humidity!) our respective cold teas attended to, dishes, laundry, something called livity 
loosely related to Irie, livity perhaps the finger that points to Irie.   upon my cucumber there are many flowers.  the corn is tall and strong with pollen.  i left my columbine seedlings out in this sun and lo, they are compost.  the goose girl gets her oracular garden skull.  more daylily out to the road.   the beans begin.

chrysanthemum sunflower sister mother in the glare i sat out a lot of dances and im almost ready to reenter.  baba olatunji the cowbell sound of the sea, rain on water.

one of those anyone have a bodkin? allergy days where im rendered short and pointless.  trying to come up with some workweek breakfast carbohydrate for cowboy, relaxing into the new method.  the little girls dont mind me much, and the couple are gracious and accomodating.  i eat dreadful snackfood out of nerves and am happy in the customary corner, focused on everything  but faces.  zuzu in town, and an old friend from her new home in the town where we began.   i air out the bedclothes wash the whites and consider preparing the mason jars, which must be done.   is it some invisible beasty seeking refuge up my nose, or the cat that slept on my head?  oh soon the antihistamines will lay their catatonic grace on 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)