Below are the 25 most recent journal entries.
"I'm early. I'm early. My world's not got here yet.
This Wonderland's a nightmare,
not the stuff of dream
There's too much crazy sanity.
I want my tea and cream
and other fellow bunnies
jackrabbits, hares, and all.
Machines of madness kill the people here
They live in fear of gladness for
tiny little things;
so they build the giant sadness
the stacks of stacks and stacks
smoking, falling, crumbling under
weight of expectations"
BlackRabbit throws his watch away
It breaks, and loosened springs
fling the gears into the sun
They melt like winter
BlackRabbit waits for his world to come
Lancelot Price 2010 November 08
They say that in the ancient days
writing on sky was commonly done
And yet in these old modern times
we no longer write, but simply haze.
pale moonshine lustre lost in dullest grey
how I wish that we descendents
had still some beautiful words to say
to write within
the untouchable sky
Lancelot Price 2010 August 1
My life is ruined.
By so-called Christians
Damn the Church! Damn it to Hell!
If there is one.
Other than living in the wrong place in the wrong time.
----- 2009 September 19
redwill shall do what it wants, regardless
When I was a giant
Golden friends from pods have come
One by one
Living in the clouds
Supported by the green
The giant green
We call it blue
But it is many colours
Never does it bore
No matter what colour
Whatever hue it wore
In beanstalk days
We are lifted above the earth
A realm where we are kings
We rule our own hearts
But sometimes throw open the castle doors
I let Jack in
and let him rain
He played the music
In beanstalk days
Michael, you magnetised my eyes with moves impossible
I could never look away until you stopped
Yet even now I watch
"...know that your people will judge you on what you can build, not what you destroy." - Barack Hussein Obama
Tonight I balanced on the edge of drunkeness and thought. Alcohol, sugar, and caffeine. If you can get to exactly the right mix you will achieve what I have thought of as zen consciousness, awareness without judgement, where all life flows in and through you, where you are not observing life, not of life, but are life. You become free
every input a delicious delight, a surprise, new
I am a hunter of beauty; I would not kill; I feed, to make it part of me.
Do you ever feel that you were born in the wrong era, the wrong time? That your particular set of interests and abilities makes you better suited to some era in the past or some time that is yet to be?
My primary interest and talents are in mechanical engineering design, and oh, was I born in the wrong time. I should have been born in the 1870s, so that when I had matured enough, it would have been in the 1890s, when it was possible to design and build your own designs for cars, and later, past 1900, airplanes. This was the era of the pioneer, when it was not required to have a giant business culture, and infrastructure of technology and administration to create and 'market' a new design. Nor did it have to be approved in the enormous inertia and lack of vision of a federal government crash test facility that knows nothing of imagination, but only of a little set of rules created by those who know only regulation and not design and function and possibility. The designer was the builder and the seller all in one human, one person. There was flexibility and creative flux with no delay, no waiting for decisions made by the moneymen, no need for huge factories. One could design and make and drive and fly.
Why do so many people think that Wimbledon is the world's greatest tennis tournament?
I think it's 'cause the shoes don't squeak.
My very first memory is of leaving the sea.
That world of zero gravity.
When I came on the land, everything became heavy, no matter how small.
I lost that blessed and blissful lack of knowing
that made the living light.
When can I enter the water again.
Sometimes when I am feeling 'specially brave and needful, I go out into a field during a great thunderstorm; I stand with legs spread apart; stretch up, face lifted to the rain; lift my arms wide and high, fingers spread out and up to catch the lightning.
I sink my talons deep into my rocky flesh and make it let it bleed. Bloody flow gives and is a lusty life and when the river stops the melancholy emptiness begins.
red red red
Red of blood and red of will and find your colour where you may.
In daytime, life is simple, bright, edges clear. In the garden of night all flowers bloom, the scent of all combined unseen in their thousands and thousands. Blurred. Limitless. Tigers of thought prowl the dark indefinite, sometimes pale spirits, sometime massively hard and hot. And hungry. Sometimes morphed into calm cool pythons comfortably wrapped in themselves. Sometime changed into one more unfathomable flower. Spreading its scent in the wind.
Lancelot Price 2008 April 16
Lancelot Price 2008 April 20
This world of bombs.
Let not this warmth be touched
not by blast
not by accelerated lead encased in copper
not by the angry glance of unhappy men
not by the lust for power of men who do not understand their origin in tribe
their mindless urge to be the one
May this warm beloved live to give themselves
and to receive giving in return
Warmth will always die
but let that time be long away
do not choose to put yourself in the way of an edge
in the path of the bullet
in the field of the bombs
We love you dearly
It is no dishonour to live
The music surrounds me as do the trees I walk among. Light shines angling from spaces in the leaves above and makes mist glow softly greyly. Is it morning mist or some strange atmosphere of approaching night and spirit of wood? I hear tambourines and metal reeds and wolven howls. This is not my usual forest. Though wolves are my familiars. The rhythms of these trees are not what I have known. There is smoke in these woods. Somewhere fire. And with it, people of different custom.
I feel dancing. Dancing. Whirls. Stories told of olden time and stories being made today tonight. Tomorrow if it is meant to be.
A flash of red between the trees ahead. Brave colour in this place of green and brown. Do they not fear? Or is it courage? Music made to hide the fear or music made in careless joy?
Move forward. I see. A person of elaborate grace in sudden silence, hand extended far to left, bows deeply with right hand held palm upward before the chin toward someone I cannot yet see. Head bent up and facing invisible one. Dark eyebrows slight smile warm tan skin brown eyes on a face whose sex I cannot tell. They are beautiful in some secret-seeming way. There is no guile in the face but only deepness, mystery. It pervades everything here, not like the simple forest I called home, but perhaps when I was there, my eyes were not open. They are open now wide and pleasantly taking in this new oldness, this ancient lack of time, this eternal wood of dancing.
I once lived in greenwood. Greenwood quiet neither hot nor cold, things not human asleep or on the border of doze. Sometimes at night the watchers watched and dreaming I could see the ones who were not wary. Old calm spirits waited for the time to act, plans made long and long before. I waited drifted in silence and dream in day and night and all the many tones of twilight in between. Hoping the spirits would say nothing. Not to me. Let me see with love the flowers in the clearing, let the deer slip into sight among the trees and turn invisible again. Let the sky be leaves, let vision be near. I am oak and elder. I the owl. The boy the man in greenwood. Leaves of fingernails. Fingernails of leaves. Forest ever.
The caravans are lined up loosely, wooden wheels still for this time of peace and making merry and dancing the dance of love. Deep in the woods the trees from which the wheels were made. This is our time. The forest gives us almost all we need but not quite every thing. The metal we wear and the metal we cook with came from other places. Outside. In that other world where sometimes we must go, where we must make our fortune by telling the outsiders the otherlings what they want to hear. Beyond the forest is a torture; beyond is where we are false to ourselves. Where we are false to the otherlings. I shall wear no bracelets. I shall cook on wooden spits. I shall eat life raw. I shall be true.
In these woods of dancing there is fire, fire and passion in the humans. Even in the night they we I are rarely still, but eyes and metal flash and turn in light of flame. Inside and outside we burn and shine. Clatter and shake and ring. Look into the eyes of feeling and see your own in those. Whirl with me.
Lancelot Price, begun in evening of a Tuesday or a Wednesday. Who can tell when day is said to begin at midnight? The month of the writing is March, for all or nothing this matters.
In the great mirrors of the grand ballroom, reflection of two spirits dancing. On every wall a giant mirror and on the ceiling many smaller ones. From unseen orchestra the huge deep bass of the downbeat. They waltz to Caribbean Blue. Rising and falling with sound as they swirl around the room to the voice of angels. One with hair the black of space and the other with hair like moonlight. They are of equal height, both dressed in black. Swallow-tail coats like Fred Astaire.
As they swing around their common center, we cannot tell who leads. Holding to each other they swirl to right, reverse to left in a path that flows around the enormous room. The ceiling is a sky with chandeliers of a million flashing crystals and the floor is glass so clear it can't be seen. The music plays on and on. Beneath the dancers the land falls away and gradually we see the entire planet where the dancers were born as the ballroom carries them out to eternity.
As they move around and across the floor they create in the brilliant void a figure 8, not the symbol of infinity, but infinity itself. Perhaps the dance began; perhaps it would end. But they would never know. Because it's always now; because they're always dancing.
Being, by Lancelot Price 2008 April the first.
The waltz of heaven.
I'm an outlaw
A rider for free on a train through the desert
Blazing sun, blazing guns
O, that's me
That wind I want to follow
that wind I want to be
that wind I am
I blow the sand against the rigid rocks
Cut them open, bit by bit
blow those dead ideas away
that I'd been told to carry on my living back
as weight and protective Truth eternal
Outlaw mind and life-filled body
make tools to reshape my world
make it what I want to see
Always outlaw shall I be
Lancelot Price 2008 April 14
Back when I'd lost my internet connection:
[ Lancelot Price 2008 January 7 hour 19 minute 23 already night]
I went out to stand and hear the rain, and it brought to me the world. It gently filled my ears with soft sounds from afar, car alarm too brief to scare, a motorcycle from Japan, shifting, slowing down, four cylinders firing in sweet sharp hammerblows smoothing through cranks and flywheels and gears and chains to make such speed on dryer brighter times than this to thrill your soul, to blow excitement through your whole body, your whole mind, your whole you. In this rainy dark, it's now subdued, but only for a while. I find that all the world's implied in the sounds that come; I close my eyes a bit and look away when a white van turns from the cross street a block away shining artificial light through the rain too close to my line of view, travelling home and past my house and down the hill to the hollow. A little pond is down there, ringed by houses. I feel too full of the world's beauty now to think of those houses as a bathtub ring of wrongful dirt. Right now all dirt and water is right in my world. The unpredicted rain has come late in this day of an odd sort of winter that has had only a few days of cold and many where almost anyone would feel warm and surprised to be. Barely past the turn of the sun back north again, and yet we have these T-shirt days.
Somewhere out there miles and miles away in the rainy dark are factories and people who made all these many things I hear and these few I see. The whole world, the whole universe is out there in the night, I can feel it, and it's scary and comforting and so.. so big. I've spent so much time in little boxes in my mind that I've missed this world far too much. Yes, the little boxes have their own imaginary windows on other worlds that multiply the one I see and hear now in this night of beauty, this wet dark dripping beauty. Rarely can I feel the wonder of the everyday world and so have resorted to fantasies of my own and others' devising. If I can't find comfort and ecstasy and love, I have to make it. But on this night, this night, I have only to let myself hear and see. And I can feel it.
They climbed until they got where only young adventurers, archaeologists, and beings that fly would go. They were two of a kind in some parts of their character, but in other parts they were one of a kind, and that is how it should be.
Looking down at the river and off to the north, they could see a barge.
"I bet if the captain has got binoculars, he could see us."
"Let him look. What could he do even if he cares? And I don't care if he does."
"Yeah, you're right. It shouldn't matter to anyone."
"Just you and me."
"Just the way things are."
"Give us a kiss, then."
Romany Dark Forest.
Romany wandering through forest shadow and light. I hear the wolves howl outside up on a hill. Will they dare to enter among the trees where blades can slay and draw images with blood as the ancient violins and spirits play the ancient games full of meaning and empty of significance. Sliding... sliding.... the shadows and the fey lights intertwine with restless neverending glides quickly slowly soothingly shockingly... among the trees.
There. There a face aside the bark and behind the leaves. Oh. I see now. It is me. And it is you, my love. Come. Let us sing in the shadows and light forever.
Lancelot Price - 2008 February 27
The motto on the currency of mY country is: In Odd We Trust.
Lancelot Price 2007 December 29
I wander through this world like a freight train looking like a rapt and happy worm tunnelling its way to Wonderland. Alice would be proud of me as I am proud of her, dreaming impossible, both of us, impossible beauty and fear in the world of the outer but totally alive inside we spirits of life of living of giant world in a tinily marked time of dead or sleeping things that look a lot like humans laid out in their coffins of normality and reasonable judgements and economic feasibility. Poor things. I pity them and fear them for they have power in the outer world of their own damnation as they squeeze themselves and all they see, wringing only worthless nothing from all their work all their planning all their being and I am dreaming .. dream on dream on dream on dream on
There is no answer there is no one way dream on and never stop dream on
Johnny, oh Johnny, you're dreaming again
the cuckoo is crowing yet still you remain
dead to the world and it's very plain
the flat land of feeling is where there's no pain
the river is flowing and cuts through the land
whether it's rock or whether it's sand
the fires down below push up flowers and mountains
the wolves and the leopards drink from blood fountains
the fleece of your ram is sheared with a blade
and from your covering life's fabric is made
parts one parts won - Lancelot Price 2007 December 15 Sunday 18:12