March 11, 2001
"To let each impression and each germ of a feeling come to completion wholly in itself, in the dark, in the inexpressible, the unconscious, beyond the reach of one's own intelligence and await with humility and patience the birth-hour of a new clarity."

Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
"Perceval of Wales ... grew up in the depths of the forest; he had been taken there while still a baby by his mother, who desired that he should know nothing of the ways of men."

"Perceval, knowing little of the world, would come to be known as "the Perfect Fool" because of his innocence." page 32, The Mystic Grail, John Matthews
Dream images

Innkeeper
I saw the innkeeper
and
I asked her for mugs.

The innkeeper is phenomenal
and steady.

She wears her hair composed,
her apron never rumples.

I can't see her face. Her
sweetness blinds me.

What to keep? House,
garden, inn?

What to throw away?

Innkeeper, I'm troubled. I'm troubled by you. How do you know what to keep when I don't?

Your ways smell complacent,
as instinctive as bees'.

Where is the contentment
in clean toilets and spoons?

Where is the comfort
in protocol and bedtimes?

And taking care of people?

Where do you hide the honey?

Innkeeper, I'm careless when I want to be carefree. Today I want to escape to the dawn. A quester keeps nothing.