The Christian capitalists – spiritualists making money – Fox, et al. - of the early twentieth century were onto something yet it led mostly to urbanity, passivity, unrecognizable heirs. First I was delivered from drinking and then from church basements. Why do I think of Daniel when I write this?
Paris France, through which I went on errant trains. The pink skin beneath scabs, the bright red dot of our blood. The Ninety-First Psalm “scientifically understood.”
Watching finches all afternoon by the rear window, while storm clouds gathered and dissipated, and hawks circled high overhead. Who spilled the sourdough starter if not the only man who cooks with it? For days, giants could be heard lumbering through the far pasture threatening to brain the cows, smash the lambs.
I found the hill, found the cross, kept going and ended up lost. Krishnamurti commanded him to go make money or face a permanent dissolution of their mutual bond. Think about that the next time you don't feel like helping anyone.
Three thousand four hundred plus words before breakfast, hours in the garden following a list, and then the afternoon stretches before you an empty palate from which tomorrow's class must somehow be sketched. Brother can you spare some Thyme? Polished rocks on the front stairs return the light to angels.
Baptism ought to entail some risk as birth itself intimates violence. Lucy on the savannah, watching the sun set golden and large, troubled by a recurring dream of discs. They wore those black shoes that made you think of the Depression, hard times, and simply getting through.
He probably wasn't thinking much of anything, just trying not to shake too visibly. Facing tangles, large teeth, muttering the requisite prayer.
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