Summer is here!
All winter I imagined days so long long long I would have nothing left to do by the end of them but wait, far into the evening, for the light to finally fade.
All winter I imagined today.
Let’s stir up some spirits; spirits of evergreens, angelica, ice. Blesséd spirits cool the hot temples. Phoenix fire will lure the fire-flies to the obelisk; I look forward to the show. Black Swan is undoubtedly bringing me a beak-full of beebalm, little red firecrackers just for me. Hawk is hoping to celebrate the solstice with a squirrel. Well, not exactly “with”: the squirrel won’t be celebrating. Hawk promises me the tail–I am supposed to wear it somehow. I don’t want a squirrel tail but Hawk doesn’t listen.
Owl, who knows everything I think and feel, promises to swallow the tail when Hawk, drowsy full with squirrel not-tail, falls asleep.
Owl, oh owl, the-one-who-fills-in. Owl dreams of newborn spring rabbits, velvety soft sausages wriggling through an Owl esophagus.
Dinner can be pretty disgusting around here. It’s not my fault: I only eat art, mostly painted by dutch masters. Very civilized I am, dining nightly on lustrous silver, pewter and crystal.
Black Swan floats upon the table, neatly munching duckweed.
But tonight! Beyond spirits, a fast. I will break-fast tomorrow, perhaps on a Manet bun.
Yes. I will have a Manet bun.
I can make tea from the beebalm leaves, without disturbing the flowers.
They are a favorite flower.
The days only get shorter from here but let’s not think about that now. It will be warm for some time yet.
Happy Summer Solstice!
PS: Crow is hopefully being crow, not parrot, off performing his own rituals. Crow-as-crow, upon a heap of stones.
The starlings are raising their nestlings. Lots of little mouths practically an insecticide fumigating the marsh.
i am writing you it is the longest night of the year. there are astronomical charts and time tables which tell me this is so.
no matter when you read this let it be known: I wrote this on the longest night of my second obelisk year.
I am vigilant. the birds are asleep. crow/parrot is nesting on the teapot. black swan’s head is tucked into a wing with a hammer. hawk’s claw clasps a chisel. starlings sleep in my tree, which is perfect because they will rustle and chirp at exactly the necessary moment.
I have an obelisk-improvement plan which begins with our marking tomorrow’s first ray of light. I’ll show you what we do, but you’ll have to wait until next year.
now, now now, cold and colder (metaphysically). the obelisk receives information on its obtuse cosmic angle as it (as we) tilt far back on our polar heel, away from the atomic crematorium called sun. I am wearing my coat and holding phoenix, who burns my candle at both ends.
i don’t like these long nights.
tomorrow night will be one minute shorter than this night! every minute counts when you’re all alone in an obelisk and your friends are birds who go to sleep with the sun.
correction: owl doesn’t sleep with the sun, but where is owl? out torturing the rodents who plant seeds in my bed when I’m not looking. all kinds of seeds stashed in my bed! will they sprout to my warmth when i sleep sound?
i sleep in sound. mice eat the seeds. owl eats the mice. owl eats the trees, twice-removed. the marsh flowers and the burnet grasses.
i like my solitude, but these dark days weigh heavy on me.
are you awake, too? hush holy in the old days, before people like you and I understood the earth’s axial tilt, how it–not the sun–moves. There was a time when night-wakers-we would labor with rites and song to call back the cold sun. come back, chariot of cosmic fire! run your course directly o’er, you barely crest the distant edge of our apparently flat fields.
people like you and I, night-wakers-we, would worry about star-lit days and moon-less night. the trees are already dead and if the sun said “no, i won’t come back” and didn’t, they would have stayed that way, bare of leaf, electrical snappage in a voltless day-called-night. we would have been eaten by the night-hunters, like owl.
crow-who-is-parrot cracks one eye as if crow were wholly crow, and croaks “some day some day”. it is true. one day the sun will burn out. go back to sleep, parrot-who-is-crow.
I am glad to KNOW that this is the longest night this solar year. Tomorrow night will be a little bit gentler than this one here.
my winter solstice, 2013 scrapbook page. happy hol [ly] days.
As you know, I celebrate astronomical facts.
Today my side of the earth leans close to the sun.
Tomorrow, it begins to tilt away.
Here is a celebratory [j]gif[t] for you.
[If you don’t see this image animated, click to open it!]
I am thinking about the lion roaring in the enraging desert:
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.
Happy Winter Solstice. The days now lengthen.
Live in the leonine passions of the soul.
[email subscribers–owl’s right claw hit the wrong button on Monday when editing this, and you got an incomplete draft sent to you on an astronomically un-important day. Here is the complete, illustrated post for the solstice!]
Today, the earth bows as far as it can towards the sun.
How do you view the world?
Is it the first day of summer or the last long day, the pivot that precedes decline, the inevitable retreat into dark December?
Today is a straightforward crosshatch in the earth’s wobbly pirouette, demanding neither faith nor persuasion. It is an astronomical fact. An undemanding event. No eclipse, no rare hailstorm of ice singeing a slice of visible sky, no celestial alignment approached over multiple life times. Annually the earth tilts forward, equalizes, tilts back, equalizes, and it will do so (most likely) every year of your brief life.
Go out. Stand. Face the sun. Tilt forward. The year will pass. Stand upright. Bend backwards, like grass, like a whole planet repeating, dipping, bowing, turning aside, tilting a-right, never static and yet never deviating from its path, half in, half out, of nuclear light.
(about my heads here.)
- June 2016
- March 2016
- February 2016
- December 2015
- October 2015
- September 2015
- August 2015
- July 2015
- June 2015
- May 2015
- April 2015
- March 2015
- February 2015
- January 2015
- December 2014
- November 2014
- October 2014
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- July 2014
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- March 2014
- February 2014
- January 2014
- December 2013
- November 2013
- October 2013
- September 2013
- August 2013
- July 2013
- June 2013
- May 2013
- April 2013
- March 2013
- February 2013
- January 2013
- December 2012
- November 2012
- October 2012
- September 2012
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- January 2012