into the dialectic

March 2006. Pescadero BCS:

Well fuck it.

How long have I been here? 3 months? and every single mother fucker is still gonna show up mañana. And like an idiot (read ‘cunt’ if you’re English), I’ve been holding my breath. I’m sick as a parrot, ate something I shouldn’a,

and they stole all my stuff (sorry no more pictures ‘cept from phone), and my baby done gone an’ left me (back North) … and I still can’t lay out the water pipe and mark out the driveways or plant my trees or build my eathbag bodega till the swales are in but the tractor driver didn’t show up yet again this morning, because:
a) he had to go pick up medication for his mother / had a gearbox problem / forgot
b) “mañana temprano a las siete” means maybe some time next month if your still around.
c) he needed a lobotomy / got abducted by aliens and anally probed (actually that’s more an american condition, but you get my drift)
d) he’s just a cunt. They’re all cunts. Every single jive assed turkey mother fucking cocksucking one of them is a cunt. OK.

I’m going to meditate for an hour.

I walk on this infinite beach of deeply rippled velvet sunset sky, purple sea and vermillion sands and the day dissolves into void…

All she wants is for me to give her my love
and she will give me the Moon.
How could she not become the Radiant Goddess.
Aphrodite.
The Ocean and tides.

How could any woman not bloom in Love
like a cactus flower in the desert moon light
it’s beauty born the moment it is beheld
by the undivided self.
And I don’t know how to let go.
I find myself clinging fiercely to the rocks, indignant.
And the waves are lapping at my shores…

let me carry you my love
and I will rise and fall with you,
like the pulsing of your soul,
like the rhythms of your heart
the sun and the moon
come with me my love
be free.

I hold tighter, terrified of (my) life
Love’s dazzling light.
let go… a whisper of the night
be free… an echo from the shore
I love you… the sirens in the mist…
become fainter
as the years go sailing by.

All of a sudden I feel alone.
What happened to the sense of pioneering independence?
My mind was occupied and my heart was closed I suppose.
And then she came and I remained an island for a while
But slowly the tide came in and lapped at my shores and I yielded, remembered.
And now I’m alone again and feel it this time.

My Garden ~
Mehdi Akhavan-e Salis (M. Omid). Tehran- Khordad 1335, May 1956:

Holding its sky tightly in its arms, the cloud,
wrapped in its cold, damp sheepskin.
The garden of leaflessness, is alone,
day and night, with its pure, forlorn silence.
Its instrument the rain, its anthem the wind.
Its clothe is the cloak of nakedness.
And should it need a garment other than this,
the wind has woven many a flame of gold warp and weft.
Let it grow, or not, whatever wherever it wants,
or does not, there is no gardener or a passer by.
The garden of the downhearted,
does not await the arrival of any Spring.
If no warm beam of light emanates from its eyes,
and if no leaf of a smile grows on its face,
who says that the garden of leaflessness is not beautiful?
It foretells of conifers touching the sky,
now asleep in the coffin beneath the earth.
The garden of leaflessness, its laughter is tear-tinged blood.
Eternal, aloft his wild-mane yellow horse,
swaggers therein the king of the seasons, the Autumn.

I would like to leave now. Have had enough this time round, dancing for the neighbours of the Ejido, but to leave now is not an option. Roll with it. It is for a reason that we landed here and I have this work to do and when the time is right we’ll move forward to the next pasture (whether it turns out to be here … or Chile!? or … the Elysian fields?)

I love Big Sur, yet I am tired of being bound in a lifestyle that remains dependent on exhausting consumer society. It wasn’t like this for me before the United States of Anomie. Or perhaps I should blame the times. Or myself? Or you and your daddy, or who he voted for. Of course, I jest, its way beyond the personal, it’s the rapacious soulless corporate mind, but I digress.
I want to talk to my baby bout these things but she’s in transit now for a week or two, and I must orient my feelings and perceptions. I’m living in a large walled house in Todos Santos and the sun is bright outside the window and the hummingbirds and bougainvillea brilliant in the sunlight, but I actually miss camping out on the land, feet in the ground. Time to move back and get back in the dirt.
Gonna see another man about plowing the swales tonight.
Maybe I’ll get lucky now and there will be an unfolding.
Say yes to the universe!?

Zi Ye (6th-3rd C. BC):

All night I could not sleep
because of the moonlight on my bed.
I kept hearing a voice calling: Out of Nowhere, Nothing answered “yes”

And in spite of trouble and anguish, it feels something has shifted and maybe the seven year itch got scratched. I would like to drink a glass off champagne with all of you my friends and lovers of madness and love itself. I really would. But you’re not here. I shall just have to celebratre on my own instead.

This is what happens when you sit here listening to the dissonant harmonies of Arvo Pärt (Tabula Rassa) and the Tosca Tango Orchestra (Waking Life soundtrack) on random loop.

Abrazos muy fuerte.
Nik

PS. Didn’t get part 1 of the ramblers rantings? Don’t care. No problemo.
Otherwise drop me a line or deterant.
Lova ya jus the same. N