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

24 October 2013

 Moonrise swings North between the great arms of the Old Cherry Tree from its Summerbed beyond the break in the hedgegrow.  now that the season allows for a view of the southwestward rolling hills, i have taken to sitting and watching the light sink and the dark rise from a white plastic rocking chair in the middle of nothing in particular.  there is no Other to keep a seat for, so i may settle unceremonious and strange without Second Thinking.  on clear, quiet nights i go out and implore the wheeling stars with my mind empty and my heart full.  

there will be Dancing, returning to your body, electron cloud chronicle of incarnate life, compelled to spin and beat and Breathe more deeply, brief reprieve.  there will be Curiosity, voracious vigil candle pilot light shining off the silver spurs that urge you forward across talus passes and wide, unfamiliar creeks, the wind roaring in the trees, Everything at once from Everywhere.  there will be Friction, holy blood transubstantiated, Seelie Cup of Wonder, its glitter and fizz infusing your fingers and soaking the tip of your nose, spilling out and seeking Portals. 

 cold begins to weave through the windows in the evening, and i wake to a high-country killing frost, bright against acres of deep grass in a morning that comes on now so slow.

"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)