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

23 August 2012

 Notes from Late July and Early August

Saturn steady and strong in the west, late evening, fireflies high in the canopy of the oaks. Golden digitalis VanGogh stubblefields and deep green swords of feedcorn, most just now flirting their pistilled kerchiefs, everything half-size.

Heavy-magick summer evenings with the roar of the wind and the cricket trill and the heat lightning and all the stars. Savored my first Peacevine tomato today from a volunteer growing between the beans and the birdhouse gourds, the sudden, sweet-earth egg-sac sensation in your mouth when you split the skin. The creek on our side still cradles a few wee pools full of frogs and water-walkers; across the street its an arroyo. What little rain came doesnt seem enough, here on the tatted edge of this years drought. Im keeping things alive using what water im willing.

Took a walk down the old farm dirt road, saw Cherry Hill from behind the fenceline, the cool green groves from afar. Tectonic shifts in my life, light rising up, things falling through. But the omens are auspicious and my hope is high.

That protracted relentless living mirage desert of days came to a close with the void-of-course Dark Moon a fortnight ago, and its been a gentler, tempered heat and some rain, evanescent early morning downpours. So things dont seem so harassed anymore, and it shows in the growth, a hydrated green release. And the days and evenings are blessed with hymns of wind, scented with rain, fine weather for sleeping, regardless of this feeling of something having dropped anchor through the core of me, of dragging through the days. Things go unharvested.

Lughnasadh (John Barleycorn is Dead! Long Live John Barleycorn!) Full Moon in Aquarius, bread, butter and spirits for the Faeries, a little fire, even if its just a covey of flames. Something small to signify my conscious participation in the great Turning of the Wheel. The Hoya blooms profusely.

I find my mood reflected in this oscillating weather, a cumulonimbus sky giving way to grey flannel and back to blue over and over through the days, until the last day of july and the sky lowers and the lightning cracks the grim skin of clouds for less than a second before that great sonic report that characterizes deep summer thunder startles in its invisible immanence. It all makes beautiful sense: why wouldnt we be affected by barometric shifts if we are indeed three-quarters water?

August will no doubt begin that stretch of restlessness that cobbles into the month of September and finds itself at the end of a crepuscular road in October, bringing itself in for the long rest of winter behind the creamy yellow light of windows watched from the night outside.

Travelled down to a lake further on where merry bands were playing and I twirled in circles around beautiful Brother Amos and around me, a pale, red-haired, cornflower frocked little girl step-danced in wee black-ribboned slippers with fierce precision, her arms locked by ancient decree, and me inside her orbit, knees bent, hips shifting, old, long arms everywhere like snakes, or the story of water.

It was beautiful there, the little ewok bridges and narrow wooded paths, the light on the water and the clouds all gold and peach marmalade in the maxfield parrish western evening sky, and to the east, the crazy blue of storm weather that only asperged us briefly and passed on by. Everyone was friendly, and happy, and smiling, mothers nursing their babies and a blue heeler and a woman who hooped with fire.

I talked moth pheromones and Mayan temples and at dusk had a real lemonade that was perfect.

"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)