Archive | December 2012

desert (n) desert (v)

I am thinking about the lion roaring in the enraging desert:

lioninthedesert_text_qtrsz

What is passive, immobile, asleep in the heart creates a desert which can only be cured by roaring.

The desert is not in Egypt; it is anywhere once we desert the heart.

Our way through the desert is the awakening to it as a desert, the awakening of the beast, that vigil of desire.

the desert is where the lion lives  our guardian

“The lion roars at the enraging desert”  [Wallace Stevens]

The more our desert the more we must rage, which rage is love.

We fear that rage.  We dare not roar.

greedy paw, hot and sleepless as the sun, fulminating as sulfur, setting the soul on fire.

lion in the desert

Happy Winter Solstice.  The days now lengthen.

Live in the leonine passions of the soul.

–The Odalisque

(text excavation from James Hillman.  Read unexcavated text here from The Blue Fire.)

gift exemption

Even if you love me, you don’t have to give me a gift.

gift_exemption_qtrsz

Here’s my gift.  For you:

[                     ]

I hope you like it.  But if you don’t, it’s ok.   It’s already evanescing, like steam from a delicate cup, like a dream whose perimeter you haunt all your waking day, hoping for a glimpse of something concealed in its center–a city or a garden or a copse of wild trees in which–what was it?  You dreamed it, rejoicing.  What was it?

Why won’t I give you a tea cup?  With a handle big enough for your fingers and a deep saucer?  One exquisite cup hand-painted with a clipper ship, or a little house by a lake where a man is fishing, or one perfect peony?  The teacup, it would EXIST.  You could HOLD it.

But you might become tired of it.

Am I in your thoughts when you are not here, when you are not with me?  Do I exist for you?  Do you love me?

-The Odalisque (you can download your own gift exemption voucher here.)

teacup_unicorn_white_qtrsz

**

why does the phoenix (billet 2)

Wake up.  The phoenix staked another billet-doux through my pillow with a splinter of arrowwood.

It is on fire.

Wake up.

Fizzling like a sparkler.

Burning Door

Billets hard to hold through waking.   They sizzle at the edge of dream.   Wake up.   They burn themselves out.  Pillow ash brings intense, peripheral feelings, mis-sequenced, uncertain, numinous.

(click to read the first billet-doux)

***
BURNING DOOR.  IN AND OUT AND IN
LET US BE WITH EACH OTHER
THE DAYS COUNT THEM]S[?]
STAND  BESIDE
PULL CLOSE
IT IS NICE TO BURN
(  OH
INTOXICATING THE LIGHT

crushed cans v/s broken shells

Cans and shells are both abandoned when no longer useful.

One, when empty (by man). One, when full (by glob-footed organisms).

Glob-footed organisms cannot live inside aluminum cans.

Shells do not litter the streets of major cities.

Broken shells can mulch flower beds.

Crushed cans cannot be flower vases.

Neither makes a tasteful ashtray.

Neither illustrates prayers or sells in tourist shops.

Neither is likely to be gilded, to impress ladies at a luncheon party, or to evoke true love.

Either might evoke memories of an ex.

Neither can nor shell should be clutched too tightly to the bosom.

Neither is an apt metaphor for the muse.  Neither inspires odes.  O cracked bit of shell O crushed aluminum can

And so forth.

The shell, broken, reveals a lustrous encapsulation of roseate dawn.  It is pleasing to the thumb.

The can, crushed, is  illegible.  Its crinkled lip flashes in the sun like a razor.

More sea trash (read bones, candy wrappers, a winnowing basket here).

–The Odalisque

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