Subject: i sing the song of countless blueberry summers

From: Bob Allisat <[email-masked]>
Date: Mon, 26 Jul 1999 22:53:26 +0000

The winds of motion move relentlessly. A drop of water 
 is sufficient to bring down the greatest of mountains
 should that drop persevere over the course of millenia.
 Why do we wonder that change is slow or that rapid movement
 occurs when all along we could simply look and see the
 course of breeze and the cut of water? There are many
 signs. Abundant indications. Copious portents. Of what
 is immanent. The press of what we call time does not cease 
 confronted by a thousand puny voices shouting "There is no
 time! We are the emporers of everything! We rule omnipotent!"
 Nature laughs at such arrogance by simply turning over the
 seasons, playing the rains and sun and frost and heat. In
 succession and without humanly aprehendable patterns. 
 Internally far more potently than without. In each little
 caesar the same down-wearing naturality. Let it rain, let
 the tempests wail and the fucked and wandering fuck and
 wander. It is all the same to the eternal me. For those
 with ears to see and eyes to see there is no hope save the
 all sacred, the all consuming, the all casting earthwards.
 Let us what we call pray in multitudinous voices to the sun,
 to the moon, to the clouds, oceans and lakes, streams and
 creeks! Let us dreamwalk with the beaver and fox, the pigeon
 and seagull, the panther and pocupine! Let us incant to the
 gods, to all gods, to one god and no god! All together now!
 I can't hear you!! Follow the bouncing ball. Ya'll. Love. Bob.