The earth is a seed planting itself over and over. We are not the gardeners. We are no benevolent being leaving the house every morning with a watering can and a trowel to dig up weeds, wiping our brows midday to marvel at our handiwork. Instead, we are within the seed itself. We are part of its cells and the hardness of its coat, our place not to marvel at the futility and smallness of ourselves but to keep life moving. What we do now, from the inside, determines the vigor of that seed, how long it might live and plant itself again.
Apocalyptic Planet: Field Guide to the Everending Earth, Craig Childs
I like galactic time-scales. I like feeling small in a giant arm made out of stars. All this movement, rotation, revolution, and somehow we can stand on the rocks of this planet and measure all these things.
…and above all Athshe, which meant the Forest and the World. So Earth, Terra, meant both the soil and the planet, two meanings and one. But to the Athsheans soil, ground, earth, was not that to which the dead return and by which the living live: the substance of their world was not earth, but forest. Terran man was clay, red dust. Athshean man was branch and root. They did not carve figures of themselves in stone, only in wood.
The apeiron is central to the cosmological theory created by Anaximander in the 6th century BC. Anaximander’s work is mostly lost. From the few existing fragments, we learn that he believed the beginning or ultimate reality (arche) is eternal and infinite, or boundless (apeiron), subject to neither old age nor decay, which perpetually yields fresh materials from which everything we can perceive is derived. Apeiron generated the opposites, hot-cold, wet-dry etc., which acted on the creation of the world. Everything is generated from apeiron and then it is destroyed there according to necessity. He believed that infinite worlds are generated from apeiron and then they are destroyed there again.
he came back one day
told me stories I now dream of
take me anywhere
take me there
we have water mouth
sand in pockets and a strained household
when the night falls
there is fire in the bungalow
“… strikes across all divides with networked lightening. Doesn't need a spaceship. All forms of communication in strings of numbers. All questions and all answers are his. So, of course, he has a home, hands that are clever and breathe out elegant equations in black ink or calcium, hands that work, a heart, truly a place to rest that is full of life instead. Never any dust.”