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I just re-discovered this passage from Truth or Dare:

Today, I will name [magic] this: the art of liberation, the act that releases the mysteries, that ruptures the fabric of our beliefs and lets us look into the heart of deep space where dwell the immeasurable, life-generating powers.

Those powers live in us also, as we live in them. The mysteries are what is wild in us, what cannot be quantified or contained. But the mysteries are also what is most common to us all: blood, breath, heartbeat, the sprouting of seed, the waxing and waning of the moon, the turning of the earth around the sun, birth, growth, death, and renewal.

To practice magic is to tap that power, to burrow down through the systems of control like roots that crack concrete to find the living soil below.

We are never apart from the power of the mysteries. Every breath we take encompasses the circle of birth, death, and rebirth. The forces that push the blood cells through our veins are the same forces that spun the universe out of the primal ball of fire. We do not know what those forces are. We can invoke them, but we cannot control them, nor can we disconnect from them. They are our life, and when we die, decay, and decompose, we remain still within their cycle.

high tide

Aug. 2nd, 2009 05:39 pm
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It must've rained lots during the night and then it started pouring this morning because the bottom of my road near River Road was flooded, the creek all brown and roaring high on the left and up the banks on the other shoulderless side water rushing down from the rocks. The river is huge and chocolate brown, all the way up past the bench on the Frenchtown side. Colin and his friend Diana and I took an oregon trail tour around Tinicum and Bridgeton, up Headquarters across the flooded dirt plain of Sheephole Road, making every precarious bridge crossing we could think of. Eventually we went up to Ringing Rocks all cool and herbaceous with rain, the mud rising up against our feet, and walked down over puddle-rocks to the waterfall which'd grown huge with rain and pounding endless patterns of shale-red water swirls down. We climbed up onto the rocks above where it gathered force, down below where it crashed in a fine spray, ferns and bugs and spongy mud. On the walk back up I found a little yod-shaped stone.
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It's so gray and foggy here today, it just rolls thick over everything rising off of fields and roads. What does it take to make (allow) people to see the land as sacred? More traffic lights here than ever and if I see one more "___ Acres For Sale" sign I'm gonna puke.
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So I was just making a fairly intertextual mixtape for my cousin when I realized that a poem I wrote is imagistically in conversation with Patti Smith's "Piss Factory," even though I didn't hear the song til years after I wrote the poem. The poem from May 2006 starts:

the sticks of lilac he curls in his clutched hand
bend green where they’ve torn off the bush, wet and splintered their cells exposed
unbudded clumps, hung heavy as a bunch of grapes,
bounce between his legs
each step is light, sunlight is full of seed--

And Patti's poem goes:
I would rather smell the way boys smell--
Oh those schoolboys the way their legs flap under the desk in study hall
That odor rising roses and ammonia
And the way their dicks droop like lilacs...

Whoa! It is 7 o'clock but here it feels much later. Lots of friends to see in the next couple days. Today I took Nellie on a walk down Stagecoach the dirt all gone to red-slate mud, mud on her paws and coat mud on my boots, the sky all wide and blue, cold ground warm sunlight melting all the snow to puddles. I love the country and sometimes it surprises me how well I function away from it.
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I miss the land at home, the sweet dry grass smell as the earth bakes, the cornfields rushing by the river and the way magic catches in the bushes bordering our field.


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