It has been three years since I last wrote about the spring wildflowers. My lips have been sealed in a loud silence. I have been tumbling through the dreams of California. Words have been far away, changing quickly, they slip past my lips before I speak them. There were dreams then I wished to utter, and I still desire to pronounce them. But I struggle in this golden darkness. The seasons lift me up and humble me. A great riptide keeps me in its powerful gyre, and I do not find the will to escape. I envy the exultant jubilance of green-gold on the jetstreaming sky. Why, and what words form in me here?

Wildflower blooms haunt my imagination with gentility. Ephemeral and ethereal, we crave the superreality suggested by the visual excess that comes from a lavish rainy season. That colorific supersaturation catches our attention with what we long for, a nostalgic quality of perfection and continuity. What do we see in those greenish fields of gold, blue, orange, and sprinkled purple? It is a free and harmless seamlessness akin to happiness. It is like walking through the many-colored aisles of a superstore enrapt in love simply for the free play. Free play. Flower offering. It is not trapped by our attention-spans or evaluation. We did not create the fantasy. It is not a fiction of our imagination. It is not ambitious. It is not overwhelming. It is the corporeal analog of dreams. A solid wildflower bloom is a psychedelic aspiration for even the most conservative aspects of human being. In its muted selfless organic sense, it is real above the xenith of mental coherence, higher than music, film, or literary excellence. It does not consider higher or lower. There is no superbloom. It is a bloom beyond size. Spring is a quality wherever and whenever it arrives. We glance the glory there. It is not a supersubsistence of psychedelia. Our greed is laid bare before the truths of spring. It has grace we in our highest ambitions glance. Our anthropic archetypes are cherubim that once glimpse the glory and flame up into seraphim: the eyes flame. The stamen-pistol truth-flame of existence twirls and leads us into a petallic solar hour slipping into dusk’s steady starlight. When will it end? When will we openly crumble into warm realization?

I cannot write, I do not write, I studder at the door because the completeness I aspire for is fradulent by comparison to an honest spring wildflower bloom. That unforced huefulness is the great envy of my soul, an image stirring up transcendence and transfixion. I and all my efforts sometimes feel entirely corrupt by my rivalry to the truthfulness in spring. It is at moments in the turning seasons the face of God. Who or what it is I idealize is everpresent there. My idea of perfection is an item of nothing, a tiny wilting petal among the panoply trillions. Every word a flower, every thought a pollen grain. What is it that holds me?

True continuums exist in the world of flowers.

“You’ll remember me when the west wind moves upon the fields of barley
You’ll forget the sun in his jealous sky as we walk in fields of gold
So she took her love for to gaze awhile upon the fields of barley
In his arms she fell as her hair came down among the fields of gold

Will you stay with me, will you be my love among the fields of barley?
We’ll forget the sun in his jealous sky as we lie in fields of gold
See the west wind move like a lover so upon the fields of barley.
Feel her body rise when you kiss her mouth among the fields of gold

I never made promises lightly and there have been some that I’ve broken
But I swear in the days still left we’ll walk in fields of gold
We’ll walk in fields of gold

Many years have passed since those summer days among the fields of barley
See the children run as the sun goes down among the fields of gold
You’ll remember me when the west wind moves upon the fields of barley
You can tell the sun in his jealous sky when we walked in fields of gold
When we walked in fields of gold, when we walked in fields of gold“
—Fields of Gold

“Led astray
Before the
Fragile defense of words
Come and stay
Bring the stars
Play with the milky night”
—Come And Play In The Milky Night (Demo)



Good Friday, April 7, 2023
Los Osos, California