“Into the Mystic” in Van Morrison’s 1970 Moondance Album
We were borne before the wind Also younger than the sun Ere the bonnie boat was won As we sailed into the mystic Hark, now hear the sailors cry Smell the sea and feel the sky Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic And when that foghorn blows I will be coming home And when the foghorn blows I want to hear it I don’t have to fear it and I want to rock your gypsy soul Just like way back in the days of old And magnificently we will flow into the mystic When that fog horn blows You know I will be coming home And when that fog horn whistle blows I got to hear it I don’t have to fear it and I want to rock your gypsy soul Just like way back in the days of old And together we will flow into the mystic Come on, girl Too late to stop now
“Into the Mystic” — the words and melody ethereally flowing together as one — is about a spiritual quest. But over the years the song has become much more — an affirmation of life for me, and I would like to think for my generation, as well, should we choose to embrace its sentiments, an anthem of lives lived as we float down that stream, merrily or otherwise, after leaving this mortal coil. I am honored that my path intersected with friends departed, and I am a better person because it did. The fog horn has blown for them and they will be coming home.
Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth, Wandering companionless Among the stars that have a different birth,— And ever-changing, like a joyless eye That finds no object worth its constancy?
“What if our religion was each other. If our practice was our life. If prayer, our words. What if the temple was the Earth. If forests were our church. If holy water–the rivers, lakes, and ocean. What if meditation was our relationships. If the teacher was life. If wisdom was self-knowledge. If love was the center of our being.”
A Full Moon Night In The Sonoran Desert — Photo-Artistry by kenne
A Clear Midnight
This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless, Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done, Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best. Night, sleep, death and the stars.
Tree by the Tanque Verde Wash — Photo-Artistry by kenne
“Whatever you hold in your mind will tend to occur in your life. If you continue to believe as you have always believed, you will continue to act as you have always acted. If you continue to act as you have always acted, you will continue to receive what you have always received. If you want different results in your life or your work, all you have to do is change your mind.”
My skin is the cover of my body. It keeps me bound to my surroundings. It is the leather over my spine. It is the silk over the corneas of my eyes. Where I am hairless, at the lips and groin, there is pinkness and vulnerability. Despite a protective covering of horny skin, there is no such problem with my fingers, whose ridges and grooves are so gratifying to both the lover and the criminologist. I think perhaps the entire history of me is here—viper of memory, stab of regret, red light of oblivion. Hell would be living without them.
“Body of an Old Man Sitting Under the Stars” — Photo-Artistry by kenne
“There was only our bodies, born to live and die on terms decided by the bodies that had lived and died before us. If he could be said to have located a philosophical niche for himself, that was it – he’d come upon it early and intuitively, and however elemental, that was the whole of it.”
Cape Hatteras Light Station (04/08/07) — Photo-Artistry by kenne
“While rises in the west the coastwise range, slowly the hushed land — Combustion at the astral core — the dorsal change Of energy — convulsive shift of sand … But we, who round the capes, the promontories Where strange tongues vary messages of surf Below grey citadels, repeating to the stars The ancient names — return home to our own Hearths, there to eat an apple and recall The songs that gypsies dealt us at Marseille Or how the priests walked — slowly through Bombay — Or to read you, Walt, — knowing us in thrall”
Balsa Wood Rafting On The Tuichi River In The Bolivian Amazon (8/21/19) — Image by kenne
Desert Abstract Art by kenne
Cape Hatteras Light Station (04/08/07) — Photo-Artistry by kenne
