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

17 September 2010

the themesong (along with Tipitina by dr. john) of This Years Revel.

Once upon a time I was the hurricane boy
There was no eye in me for you to hide
Head low don’t show oceans in my eyes
As the waves clap goodbye to sorrow

Daddy’s on the mountain yellin at the bloody sky
Mama’s in the mirror actin out another life
Children in the schoolyard singin ‘everybody dies’
And I am on the corner with a sentimental eye
I am on the corner singin sentimental lies

Hopped up on a gypsy train with tracks that you can hide
That way no storm could follow our tomorrows
But Shackled to a suitcase full of automatic thunder
All hail to death’s boy-wonder

JJ’s in the kitchen talking bout the end of times
Mo’s throwin Kerouac to Catch Her In the Rye
Tempermental yogis bakin merryweather pie
And I am on the corner with a sentimental eye
I am on the corner singin sentimental lies

Sometimes said it’s suntime
Let it sunshine on my mind

All the same its conscience waiting
Cross the line

Last night I dreamed myself upon a golden glade
The clouds passed in and out of my reflection
And everyone I’ve known held my hands till they were clay
And the storm finally bled from my complexion

Now Jadey’s on the mountain singing ‘We will never die’
The band is in the rainbow playin love for you and I
Heath is riding shotgun aimin at the paper sky
And I am only ‘I am’ now I’ve opened up my eye
I am only ‘I am’ that I’ve opened up my eye

Sometimes said its suntime
Let it sunshine on my mind
Healing I need healing
A good feeling I can Shine
Feel it like you can see it
Like you can dream it in your mind
Sunny Hallelujah comin to ya
Rain or shine

All the same its Conscience waiting
Cross the line
"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)