091231 07:57
I have several reasons to celebrate the change of year numerically.
I am oddly conscious of being a day closer to my seventh decade. Yesterday I discovered one of our dumpsters being filled with a resident’s precious identity disposed. There were, for me, several items of interest, had I been willing to dive in and sort the wheat from the chaff.
Discovery, I was viewing my own passing in practical/surrogate.
Our culture and civilization are auguring up and down, a flock in flight. Some, such as myself, accepting life’s experience’s as teaching us humility in passing, day-to-day.
Consciousness, if valuable, is aware of itself, inconvenient--at times.
It is a sense of fearlessness revealed in seeing everything.
Humiliation is no longer on my daily menu, not a season for the stew of my life. The day’s collective in retrospect displays a subtle and often precious intercourse with the numinous that I have difficulty confessing. Moreover I declare myself over the hump of terror; the Season passed and I remained sane. Sanity is difficult to describe to another who, professionally, determines our weal or woe. Remembering my choice to avoid friends and family members for their presumption being my judge. Reminded that I was once one of them and all life. Too quick on the trigger of execution.
With difficulty, I learn for myself--The Issues/The Facts--and this process of gifting you, with yours. What I previously bore as humiliation, I now accept, celebrating it’s teaching me to better be what I am now; no longer victim. Where I was once truant, or truculent, in rage I am now humble in my praise the day overcast or bright; regardless long or short night.
Time lightly bourn, birthing itself, borne infinite, uncounted now.
“ 20:30
Many events insignificant and otherwise have passed between what I last wrote and now that I write again. Muzzled.
By what?
I need only tell you that you are magnificent within yourself and that though I am insignificant I tell you are more than me in humility. All the earth and heavens sing this but you are deaf, dumb and blind to your value appraised by those you kneel for . . . should you be fully conscious you would kneel before God, and Our Parent would then take you by the scruff of your neck and say; Arise!
The resurrection of Jesus is potential in all humanity but the return will not happen until we manifest/incarnate that to one another.
Nothing else is of value higher to me than what I’ve just advocated for us.
All warriors are pacifist who kill, or die, without passion . . . and today is a good day to die.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Preface/Preamble Think notes folded and flown from the prison of time.
091230 06:09
If you read what I write that is wonderful. Think notes folded and flown from the prison of time. And this is a preface to the next three postings in chronological sequence Julian Date System:
year, month, day then the hour of day.
091227
091228
091229
If you read what I write that is wonderful. Think notes folded and flown from the prison of time. And this is a preface to the next three postings in chronological sequence Julian Date System:
year, month, day then the hour of day.
091227
091228
091229
If I did it, so can you.
091227 19:36
Periodically I fall into a bottomless well concerned that I have gone, and lead you, astray.
I am a passionately political animal. In Junior High School, Riverside, Connecticut, I led the Republican half of all debates until our Social Studies teacher took me aside to answer a question. “There are many things I cannot teach due to parental pressure and restrictions.“
My interest in politics and news events disappeared.
I read many resources, mostly alternative to commercial broadcasts, and listen to National Public Radio--sometimes consistently, and at other times I fall to weeping and don’t return for days. I have made of myself a television virgin, not having or viewing one for three years.
That said, I am now moving into an arena of the eternal versus temporal.
I enjoy writing about the options available to everyone having discovered them in my self and the simple, yet profound truth that I have been saved from insanity, as defined by Albert Einstein; “Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”
We, as children, love our parents regardless their choice, behavior and what they tell us to do in life. It has taken me many loses, not the least being my children, to fully apprehend the intention of parenthood; to enable the child to survive in a cruel and indifferent world.
My focus in this case is for those of use who received negatives instead of positive attention: abuse instead of love.
We are a people of significant gifts buried beneath lies bequeathed to us from our parents legacy received from theirs. In the past twenty-four hours I have been lead to understand most of the specifics as described in current psychological research.
I was addicted to dysfunctional relationships; starting with my parents. Initially the sense I now see myself in past choices to fulfill what was implied by their abandonment, rejection and teaching me exactly how incompetent and unworthy of their love they saw me as being.
I have had many dreams that, seen in retrospect, now make perfect sense. And I know, we all dream, both in sleep and life. And in most part retain conclusions drawn from those painful encounters with authority. Worse, we seek partners who replicate our parents dysfunctions and attempt to heal people by helping them cross streets they don’t want to cross. Then, when children result biologically or adopted we do to them what was done to us, knowing nothing better to address the inevitable issues and trials life and death; theirs or ours.
What I suggest is a simple, safe, personal, free healing that is available to everyone. It starts by listening to yourself independent the approval or censure of others.
We are a powerful people and our love is valuable to all others since we are persistent and obviously loyal. But our loyalty is misdirected to parents who no long are present and our lives gone awry because of their teachings.
Using myself, as I am now, I realize, accept and celebrate that I entered my whole life, becoming judge, jury, advocate and execute my daily life free, forgiving and loving both myself and my parents.
If I did it, so can you.
Periodically I fall into a bottomless well concerned that I have gone, and lead you, astray.
I am a passionately political animal. In Junior High School, Riverside, Connecticut, I led the Republican half of all debates until our Social Studies teacher took me aside to answer a question. “There are many things I cannot teach due to parental pressure and restrictions.“
My interest in politics and news events disappeared.
I read many resources, mostly alternative to commercial broadcasts, and listen to National Public Radio--sometimes consistently, and at other times I fall to weeping and don’t return for days. I have made of myself a television virgin, not having or viewing one for three years.
That said, I am now moving into an arena of the eternal versus temporal.
I enjoy writing about the options available to everyone having discovered them in my self and the simple, yet profound truth that I have been saved from insanity, as defined by Albert Einstein; “Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”
We, as children, love our parents regardless their choice, behavior and what they tell us to do in life. It has taken me many loses, not the least being my children, to fully apprehend the intention of parenthood; to enable the child to survive in a cruel and indifferent world.
My focus in this case is for those of use who received negatives instead of positive attention: abuse instead of love.
We are a people of significant gifts buried beneath lies bequeathed to us from our parents legacy received from theirs. In the past twenty-four hours I have been lead to understand most of the specifics as described in current psychological research.
I was addicted to dysfunctional relationships; starting with my parents. Initially the sense I now see myself in past choices to fulfill what was implied by their abandonment, rejection and teaching me exactly how incompetent and unworthy of their love they saw me as being.
I have had many dreams that, seen in retrospect, now make perfect sense. And I know, we all dream, both in sleep and life. And in most part retain conclusions drawn from those painful encounters with authority. Worse, we seek partners who replicate our parents dysfunctions and attempt to heal people by helping them cross streets they don’t want to cross. Then, when children result biologically or adopted we do to them what was done to us, knowing nothing better to address the inevitable issues and trials life and death; theirs or ours.
What I suggest is a simple, safe, personal, free healing that is available to everyone. It starts by listening to yourself independent the approval or censure of others.
We are a powerful people and our love is valuable to all others since we are persistent and obviously loyal. But our loyalty is misdirected to parents who no long are present and our lives gone awry because of their teachings.
Using myself, as I am now, I realize, accept and celebrate that I entered my whole life, becoming judge, jury, advocate and execute my daily life free, forgiving and loving both myself and my parents.
If I did it, so can you.
. . . sustain life itself
091228 04:48
Life’s primary concern is to sustain life itself. We are limited to vocational education dealing with this problem or “how to do it.” We all want safety, security, to be warm in winter and cool in summer for ourselves individually. Obviously we need fuel called food.
We achieve this at a cost since the world is not convenient to our needs between it’s seasons and extreme variations within any one season. It was here long before we appeared. What we are a flash of light compared to an ‘eternity’ of darkness.
Consider yourself as one of the greatest predators in our brief history upon this planet. Balance that between what you want and what you need. There can be a personal balance between these two apposing elements of our lives. Add to that, we tend to be unconscious of the conflict and meaning of either definition: want; need.
Additionally we use words and concepts regarding our perception and experience. The variations of our common life origins define our culture and civilization. There is no common agreement regarding life’s purpose, value and or meaning.
We are born, we live and then we die. The first and the last is the same for all of us. The middle part is where we get into trouble considering “want & need.”
Reductive consciousness teaches me that life is best examined in poverty. Life goes on with/without all the culture/civilization issues and will continue long after I depart.
The more attention I pay to the poor the simpler life becomes.
We are born and die alone. The middle part, short/long, is defined by our relationships and our choices acted out in every moment of our lives. Poverty has taught me that we are just fine and provided for in the basics. Yet we remain essentially very primitive perceptually anticipating threats when there are none, or at the very worst fewer fears than we need pay attention to on a 24/7 365 basis.
Life’s primary concern is to sustain life itself. We are limited to vocational education dealing with this problem or “how to do it.” We all want safety, security, to be warm in winter and cool in summer for ourselves individually. Obviously we need fuel called food.
We achieve this at a cost since the world is not convenient to our needs between it’s seasons and extreme variations within any one season. It was here long before we appeared. What we are a flash of light compared to an ‘eternity’ of darkness.
Consider yourself as one of the greatest predators in our brief history upon this planet. Balance that between what you want and what you need. There can be a personal balance between these two apposing elements of our lives. Add to that, we tend to be unconscious of the conflict and meaning of either definition: want; need.
Additionally we use words and concepts regarding our perception and experience. The variations of our common life origins define our culture and civilization. There is no common agreement regarding life’s purpose, value and or meaning.
We are born, we live and then we die. The first and the last is the same for all of us. The middle part is where we get into trouble considering “want & need.”
Reductive consciousness teaches me that life is best examined in poverty. Life goes on with/without all the culture/civilization issues and will continue long after I depart.
The more attention I pay to the poor the simpler life becomes.
We are born and die alone. The middle part, short/long, is defined by our relationships and our choices acted out in every moment of our lives. Poverty has taught me that we are just fine and provided for in the basics. Yet we remain essentially very primitive perceptually anticipating threats when there are none, or at the very worst fewer fears than we need pay attention to on a 24/7 365 basis.
Looking back, at now and forward . . .
091229 14:34
Life for me draws near its close. Looking back, at now and forward, I wonder why I write. I was told for most of my life I was, ‘too stupid to get in out of the rain’, and well I remember begging my mother for permission to write. She finally said, “you don’t need my permission.” That gift was near the very last days of her life.
Our relationship continues; where she once hurled me nude from her home, I now carry her adored in my arms to God & Heaven. My mercy & forgiveness granted.
At that time I was conscious of a savage rage against her imprecations/maledictions.
Her behaviors were worse. And dear old dad said nothing but watched, indifferent, in silence, mute. Abandonment and rejection were my lot in life.
Throughout my life nightmares were few, far apart, and now seen as gifts, as I do my being taught to stand and, not take it, but deliver love far better than I received.
I define my life now as magnificent and rich beyond counting. Suffocated with values I would share explicitly with those of us who were broken beneath the wheel and drown in sorrows.
The description has no prescription. I am confident since I spoke it too often to be surprised its repetition from those I speak with seeking alternatives, through addictions, perversions and pleasures inimical to themselves and all life in others.
I write because I love doing it. It is an active form of prayer discovered in my silent plea for mother to love herself while destroying me. As the age of majority arrived, my violence less well hidden, the beatings stopped but the pain and depression continued until too recently for full understanding and acceptance.
If I speak of, and to, God as friend then I obviously find no Religion or Government adequate the dialog. Communication can be communion with Love sustained. I am not Jesus, or the Anti-Christ, merely a soul who longs, upon the evidence of lives I touch, to heal them yet filled with brokenness the power to miraculously do so. Where Jesus had a bruised reed scepter mine was, long ago, dissolved in tears, not reed, but water.
I am a river stone unbroken, polished smooth, by eons of time speaking before language.
I see this kernel in everyone regardless of all qualifications wealth, poverty, creed or color. Knowing that their protests against others as their projections of fear and guilt. I am saved and know that all can be so; if only they, or we together, take the first step forward to inhabit now and seek a future in love accepting all our faceted diversities, time forgiven/forgotten.
Life for me draws near its close. Looking back, at now and forward, I wonder why I write. I was told for most of my life I was, ‘too stupid to get in out of the rain’, and well I remember begging my mother for permission to write. She finally said, “you don’t need my permission.” That gift was near the very last days of her life.
Our relationship continues; where she once hurled me nude from her home, I now carry her adored in my arms to God & Heaven. My mercy & forgiveness granted.
At that time I was conscious of a savage rage against her imprecations/maledictions.
Her behaviors were worse. And dear old dad said nothing but watched, indifferent, in silence, mute. Abandonment and rejection were my lot in life.
Throughout my life nightmares were few, far apart, and now seen as gifts, as I do my being taught to stand and, not take it, but deliver love far better than I received.
I define my life now as magnificent and rich beyond counting. Suffocated with values I would share explicitly with those of us who were broken beneath the wheel and drown in sorrows.
The description has no prescription. I am confident since I spoke it too often to be surprised its repetition from those I speak with seeking alternatives, through addictions, perversions and pleasures inimical to themselves and all life in others.
I write because I love doing it. It is an active form of prayer discovered in my silent plea for mother to love herself while destroying me. As the age of majority arrived, my violence less well hidden, the beatings stopped but the pain and depression continued until too recently for full understanding and acceptance.
If I speak of, and to, God as friend then I obviously find no Religion or Government adequate the dialog. Communication can be communion with Love sustained. I am not Jesus, or the Anti-Christ, merely a soul who longs, upon the evidence of lives I touch, to heal them yet filled with brokenness the power to miraculously do so. Where Jesus had a bruised reed scepter mine was, long ago, dissolved in tears, not reed, but water.
I am a river stone unbroken, polished smooth, by eons of time speaking before language.
I see this kernel in everyone regardless of all qualifications wealth, poverty, creed or color. Knowing that their protests against others as their projections of fear and guilt. I am saved and know that all can be so; if only they, or we together, take the first step forward to inhabit now and seek a future in love accepting all our faceted diversities, time forgiven/forgotten.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
. . . cracked pavement of our neglected pathways
091226 17:32
Isolation, myopia and suicide are epidemic. Growing worse, devastating families, economies and governments, at a fantastic pace.
There are signs of justice and peace emerging within the cracked pavement of our neglected pathways to the future.
Our government is littered with ambition to be remembered, and reelected, for remarkable projects bearing the names of vanity. At the same time the moral and ethical fabric, or infrastructure, is lost in riotous shouting matches--seeking personal attention and celebrity.
Ordinary, everyday civilians, people who vote, regardless what is on the platform--tragedy or catastrophe--are voting with our wallets and feet.
Issues addressed from either side, Democrat or Republican, are not adjudicated with dispassion or a balanced concern for the majority. Or future of our Nation. Special, vested, interests rule and we all suffer the consequence.
These are temporal issues manifest with an eternal aftermath. The world itself suffers and apparently--perhaps--maybe not--convulses as we die, or kill ourselves, from essential needs ignored indifferently for the profit of those greedy for power.
What profit is expected of a parent who abuses a child? It seems, in my case to have been, by my father’s admission; “I didn’t know any better--or differently.” I have, on video tape, his volunteered confession that I, “was in the way” when I queried my placement with a grandparent at age five for a year and every subsequent summer thereafter until age thirteen when I was used as a worker in the family business.
I have no interest in, nor do I advocate, legal redress, or any new laws; since these events are daily and hidden; as covert as the vested interest molesting our future.
Institutionalization of personal agenda and ambition is obvious in a dysfunctional individual yet celebrated on a corporate level politically.
There is no ‘quick fix’ to repair the difficulties caused by drug or power addiction. There remains a process, once begun gathers momentum to empower individuals to live free productive lives and have healthy family relationships. Lamentably we are a goal oriented society ignoring historical process. Do not seek instant gratification but make the first step towards a real life lived, not one simply endured, or survived.
Strong individuals make a strong society and civilization, slaves make obscene profits for the few.
I think we can live in hope of a better today and tomorrow.
Isolation, myopia and suicide are epidemic. Growing worse, devastating families, economies and governments, at a fantastic pace.
There are signs of justice and peace emerging within the cracked pavement of our neglected pathways to the future.
Our government is littered with ambition to be remembered, and reelected, for remarkable projects bearing the names of vanity. At the same time the moral and ethical fabric, or infrastructure, is lost in riotous shouting matches--seeking personal attention and celebrity.
Ordinary, everyday civilians, people who vote, regardless what is on the platform--tragedy or catastrophe--are voting with our wallets and feet.
Issues addressed from either side, Democrat or Republican, are not adjudicated with dispassion or a balanced concern for the majority. Or future of our Nation. Special, vested, interests rule and we all suffer the consequence.
These are temporal issues manifest with an eternal aftermath. The world itself suffers and apparently--perhaps--maybe not--convulses as we die, or kill ourselves, from essential needs ignored indifferently for the profit of those greedy for power.
What profit is expected of a parent who abuses a child? It seems, in my case to have been, by my father’s admission; “I didn’t know any better--or differently.” I have, on video tape, his volunteered confession that I, “was in the way” when I queried my placement with a grandparent at age five for a year and every subsequent summer thereafter until age thirteen when I was used as a worker in the family business.
I have no interest in, nor do I advocate, legal redress, or any new laws; since these events are daily and hidden; as covert as the vested interest molesting our future.
Institutionalization of personal agenda and ambition is obvious in a dysfunctional individual yet celebrated on a corporate level politically.
There is no ‘quick fix’ to repair the difficulties caused by drug or power addiction. There remains a process, once begun gathers momentum to empower individuals to live free productive lives and have healthy family relationships. Lamentably we are a goal oriented society ignoring historical process. Do not seek instant gratification but make the first step towards a real life lived, not one simply endured, or survived.
Strong individuals make a strong society and civilization, slaves make obscene profits for the few.
I think we can live in hope of a better today and tomorrow.
. . . justifiable anger, compelling my choice to “go-along-to-get-along.”
091226 20:21
I identify with poverty since I am impoverished and made poor by the wealthy.
I identify with the poor since I know the reality of their honesty and hard labor; former, present and future.
Moreover I identify with the broken, mentally ill and know their too few resources growing smaller and less daily. The examples are wandering America’s once “Streets of Gold” homeless.
Why?
Mental Health Issues uninsured and never addressed adequately for those returned from war; just one glaring example. The “War on Drugs” could not exist without customers. Why not attempt to heal the need rather than kill the providers?
Again and again I see political expediency showboating, obvious, yet futile efforts at enormous expense and profit to a few individuals, corporations and institutions against the even greater profit of drug cartels and pharmaceutical monopolies.
It was not until in poverty and taking a chance I stopped taking psychotropic drugs for a misdiagnosed mental health issue: being bipolar.
I have no recourse. I was complicit for codependent issues, justifiable anger, compelling my choice to “go-along-to-get-along.”
I can no longer advocate a ‘religious’ or ‘governmental’ solution since I conclude they are the problem and offer no solutions on an individual basis.
We must do this for ourselves one-by-one. The effort grows two-by-two, four-by-four, onward.
Random acts of human kindness go a long way towards healing and replacing all that has been taken from us.
In the end I believe the meek will inherit the earth.
. . . and we are legion and intend no harm.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Introjection
I identify with poverty since I am impoverished and made poor by the wealthy.
I identify with the poor since I know the reality of their honesty and hard labor; former, present and future.
Moreover I identify with the broken, mentally ill and know their too few resources growing smaller and less daily. The examples are wandering America’s once “Streets of Gold” homeless.
Why?
Mental Health Issues uninsured and never addressed adequately for those returned from war; just one glaring example. The “War on Drugs” could not exist without customers. Why not attempt to heal the need rather than kill the providers?
Again and again I see political expediency showboating, obvious, yet futile efforts at enormous expense and profit to a few individuals, corporations and institutions against the even greater profit of drug cartels and pharmaceutical monopolies.
It was not until in poverty and taking a chance I stopped taking psychotropic drugs for a misdiagnosed mental health issue: being bipolar.
I have no recourse. I was complicit for codependent issues, justifiable anger, compelling my choice to “go-along-to-get-along.”
I can no longer advocate a ‘religious’ or ‘governmental’ solution since I conclude they are the problem and offer no solutions on an individual basis.
We must do this for ourselves one-by-one. The effort grows two-by-two, four-by-four, onward.
Random acts of human kindness go a long way towards healing and replacing all that has been taken from us.
In the end I believe the meek will inherit the earth.
. . . and we are legion and intend no harm.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Introjection
. . . coal in your stocking for . . . Christmas
091226 13:16
“A Hard Candy . . . an Orange, or coal in your stocking for . . . Christmas“ it goes on-and-on.
. . . response to random insights Christmas Day:
I want to narrow my focus to people in trouble. Who isn’t?
Specifically I am, at the moment, concerned for people like me, boys & girls, women & men, for whom Christmas was a disappointment for most of their lives. For me, this celebration was dominated by savage suicidal depression. I have a number a statistics, personal and world-wide, to rationalize my negative mood. Yet buried within myself are several exceptional scenarios of surprise and delight. Which, when, and if, they were remembered, saved my day & life.
Think of Sunday, in the backseat--family car---do people do that these days? Multiply fifty-two times infinity, remembering when you waited patiently for “it to be over” and that was my Christmas for sixty-eight years.
“Are we there yet?”
Was met with violence--physical or emotional--to myself and/or sister.
I personally, have no time, left in my life, to write all the poems, novels, movies and plays potential in my negative memories. I am too conscious of those children we seldom hear about beaten to death yesterday or maybe the lucky ones who weren’t otherwise hurled from speeding cars, abandoned or simply burned alive, or drown.
My son died December 10th, 1976.
My grandfather killed himself with a shotgun blast to the groin, at or around the same time, years before, then bleeding out over a period of ten or more days afterwards.
My very best Christmas, before yesterday, was as a volunteer for a suicide intervention ‘hot line.’ It was a bit like giving a child a magnificently wrapped gift, having that child tear open the box, discard the wrapping, take one look at the surprise, lay it aside and then spend the rest of the day playing with the box.
Co-Dependency is a problem, and solution, that applies to my current stability, sanity and celebration of all life--now--including Christmas, yesterday.
No one is asking me to repay my gratitude for 12 Step Programs but I feel it important “to pay my dues” in thanksgiving thus attempt making healing available for others who suffer.
. . . Christmas Day
1.) Stockholm Syndrome became conscious to me.
2.) I had a savage and terrifying dream rendering me estranged & disabled from all love and peace; present, past, future.
3.) While recording the specifics of my ‘nightmare’ I became aware of Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy -- Fabricated or induced illness (FII)
. . . There is no resource available to people who refuse to enter into their FEELINGS. Many choose addiction to alcohol, drugs, sex, crime, gambling, eating; the list is overwhelming--instead.
. . . Avarice is the opposite extreme of addictions listed above; celebrated, emulated and ‘worshiped’ as demonstrated; our current “Religion & Governance.”
I am in love with women, and long for them . . . well . . . one; actually. But sexual intimacy is impossible between us. Off the table, and not on the menu. I am aware of their abuse by other men before me; father, brother, uncle, sons--'husband(s).'
Men, generally never grow to maturity, emotionally or spiritually, and we are viciously greedy to use women. It is not penetrative sex exclusively--but inappropriate attention does the same thing--enslaving women, making them cripples and victims forever.
I will close here and do more research.
I'll get back to you with this closing observation/conclusion:
To make love with another soul, heart, mind is gratification raised to the third power & Higher.
“A Hard Candy . . . an Orange, or coal in your stocking for . . . Christmas“ it goes on-and-on.
. . . response to random insights Christmas Day:
I want to narrow my focus to people in trouble. Who isn’t?
Specifically I am, at the moment, concerned for people like me, boys & girls, women & men, for whom Christmas was a disappointment for most of their lives. For me, this celebration was dominated by savage suicidal depression. I have a number a statistics, personal and world-wide, to rationalize my negative mood. Yet buried within myself are several exceptional scenarios of surprise and delight. Which, when, and if, they were remembered, saved my day & life.
Think of Sunday, in the backseat--family car---do people do that these days? Multiply fifty-two times infinity, remembering when you waited patiently for “it to be over” and that was my Christmas for sixty-eight years.
“Are we there yet?”
Was met with violence--physical or emotional--to myself and/or sister.
I personally, have no time, left in my life, to write all the poems, novels, movies and plays potential in my negative memories. I am too conscious of those children we seldom hear about beaten to death yesterday or maybe the lucky ones who weren’t otherwise hurled from speeding cars, abandoned or simply burned alive, or drown.
My son died December 10th, 1976.
My grandfather killed himself with a shotgun blast to the groin, at or around the same time, years before, then bleeding out over a period of ten or more days afterwards.
My very best Christmas, before yesterday, was as a volunteer for a suicide intervention ‘hot line.’ It was a bit like giving a child a magnificently wrapped gift, having that child tear open the box, discard the wrapping, take one look at the surprise, lay it aside and then spend the rest of the day playing with the box.
Co-Dependency is a problem, and solution, that applies to my current stability, sanity and celebration of all life--now--including Christmas, yesterday.
No one is asking me to repay my gratitude for 12 Step Programs but I feel it important “to pay my dues” in thanksgiving thus attempt making healing available for others who suffer.
. . . Christmas Day
1.) Stockholm Syndrome became conscious to me.
2.) I had a savage and terrifying dream rendering me estranged & disabled from all love and peace; present, past, future.
3.) While recording the specifics of my ‘nightmare’ I became aware of Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy -- Fabricated or induced illness (FII)
. . . There is no resource available to people who refuse to enter into their FEELINGS. Many choose addiction to alcohol, drugs, sex, crime, gambling, eating; the list is overwhelming--instead.
. . . Avarice is the opposite extreme of addictions listed above; celebrated, emulated and ‘worshiped’ as demonstrated; our current “Religion & Governance.”
I am in love with women, and long for them . . . well . . . one; actually. But sexual intimacy is impossible between us. Off the table, and not on the menu. I am aware of their abuse by other men before me; father, brother, uncle, sons--'husband(s).'
Men, generally never grow to maturity, emotionally or spiritually, and we are viciously greedy to use women. It is not penetrative sex exclusively--but inappropriate attention does the same thing--enslaving women, making them cripples and victims forever.
I will close here and do more research.
I'll get back to you with this closing observation/conclusion:
To make love with another soul, heart, mind is gratification raised to the third power & Higher.
Friday, December 25, 2009
"a monkey could create a novel given a computer & you have diarrhea of the mouth"
091225 05:15
I love to write. At the same time I am aware of messages given to me by my father, that seen from different perspectives and accepted through various senses, were stultifying to me. Barriers placed between my love of reading and the potential of ever making letters become words, then sentences, dancing across a white void.
My father stole much from my life which he seemed, at the end of his, fond of reminding me, the cost to him.
In those last face-to-face hours between us I came to say, “yes Dad”, and finally to say “Thank You.”
Finally, at the time of his death, he spoke to me via telephone, saying “Goodbye.” I did not weep so much as thank him for his kindness, and tell him that I would miss him, I do.
And then I wept for his transition from life to death, my loss, and finally laying aside my lifelong quest to have him love me period.
Now I know he knew not what love is and could never love himself as I do myself now.
I know myself, a difficult person to love. Perhaps it is my endless curiosity about life, and that led me to God. What, or such, love I give is mine to do with, and its value is absolute.
. . . and I have respect, even reverence, for another’s choice to avoid me.
I will not bore you with the dream that awoke me since I accept it as a ribald, very personal, an indication of love and mutual acknowledgement that laughter is a component of love between friends.
If I call God a friend then I am not insane but more sane than I can comprehend; why me?
Love is more power than most can apprehend or accept . . . why did I feel such a flood of energy in writing those mere words? Or the tears welling up?
In the awaking from my dream I was iridescent and accepting that God is, and my son and daughter live in God. And for the gift of my dream, the knowing my children well and beloved by move love than I could have ever given them; I would be come nothing, not even ash or dust.
If I offend you, or God, please forgive my transgression; but I refuse to be otherwise than I am.
At the Christmas Mass, there were, I confess, moments of desolate boredom, my problem does not apply to anyone but myself. I have known myself skewed from events experienced as a child in church through to last night. It is only now that I can laugh at myself, my solemnity was too vast before. But the rounded and crumbling words, ritually spoken in liturgy speaks not of the joys and sorrows I know, now, before, or expect after I am ash.
What remains is that I, somehow, hear the songs sung in thee.
There is no sin in pleasure, since pleasure is the seasoning of life; a bit of salt in the soup of everything. Yet too much salt is no pleasure but the bitterness of too much.
I now find value in everything, but of some things: I parse the difference between value and waste; what some call evil. I have forgiven my father, and love him more than before, in that I am victorious, no reply or recompense required. Of his actual personal value I am aware and celebrate, of self-waste, his or mine, all now forgotten.
I love to write. At the same time I am aware of messages given to me by my father, that seen from different perspectives and accepted through various senses, were stultifying to me. Barriers placed between my love of reading and the potential of ever making letters become words, then sentences, dancing across a white void.
My father stole much from my life which he seemed, at the end of his, fond of reminding me, the cost to him.
In those last face-to-face hours between us I came to say, “yes Dad”, and finally to say “Thank You.”
Finally, at the time of his death, he spoke to me via telephone, saying “Goodbye.” I did not weep so much as thank him for his kindness, and tell him that I would miss him, I do.
And then I wept for his transition from life to death, my loss, and finally laying aside my lifelong quest to have him love me period.
Now I know he knew not what love is and could never love himself as I do myself now.
I know myself, a difficult person to love. Perhaps it is my endless curiosity about life, and that led me to God. What, or such, love I give is mine to do with, and its value is absolute.
. . . and I have respect, even reverence, for another’s choice to avoid me.
I will not bore you with the dream that awoke me since I accept it as a ribald, very personal, an indication of love and mutual acknowledgement that laughter is a component of love between friends.
If I call God a friend then I am not insane but more sane than I can comprehend; why me?
Love is more power than most can apprehend or accept . . . why did I feel such a flood of energy in writing those mere words? Or the tears welling up?
In the awaking from my dream I was iridescent and accepting that God is, and my son and daughter live in God. And for the gift of my dream, the knowing my children well and beloved by move love than I could have ever given them; I would be come nothing, not even ash or dust.
If I offend you, or God, please forgive my transgression; but I refuse to be otherwise than I am.
At the Christmas Mass, there were, I confess, moments of desolate boredom, my problem does not apply to anyone but myself. I have known myself skewed from events experienced as a child in church through to last night. It is only now that I can laugh at myself, my solemnity was too vast before. But the rounded and crumbling words, ritually spoken in liturgy speaks not of the joys and sorrows I know, now, before, or expect after I am ash.
What remains is that I, somehow, hear the songs sung in thee.
There is no sin in pleasure, since pleasure is the seasoning of life; a bit of salt in the soup of everything. Yet too much salt is no pleasure but the bitterness of too much.
I now find value in everything, but of some things: I parse the difference between value and waste; what some call evil. I have forgiven my father, and love him more than before, in that I am victorious, no reply or recompense required. Of his actual personal value I am aware and celebrate, of self-waste, his or mine, all now forgotten.
Feliz Navidad!
091225 03:33
Feliz Navidad!
God bless God, for the Gift of Jesus, and this, God’s World, filled with the power of Love.
Last night I entered a place of bewilderment within myself; a penetration of that which is outside my ordinary day--alone with Annie and God.
Community!
What is it that draws and repels me simultaneously?
I know myself sane, yet touched by the--before our earth and the afterward--seen from God’s view.!?
If this be true, then I know transformation, the birth pangs of our Universe; and it is well, and no imagining, but writ in my soul? And if that be atavistically real, then I must be dust conjoined into stone made flesh, combusted into flame, a lesser star in the firmament.
Or, perhaps, a lifeless asteroid, whose existing/origin/being is unknowable to itself; a vagrant silently singing of space. . . .The void or abyss.
In some places, at odd times, I’ve sensed the spine of creation, revealed and unspeakable to my mute knowing that God is apparent to me. And in that inchoate knowing, no language of communication--the love immolating me ignited by what?
Consciousness is it’s own reward, exclusive of acknowledgement by, or of any other, for which there is no mirror. My favorite metaphor, and experience, is being in a mirror maze. And though, at times, such as last night, my ability to see a self reflected is momentarily confused, I am able to sense, eventually, which figure, upside down, inside out, distorted and or contorted into freaks, is me.
For what do I live now?
Why do I hunger and thirst for your welfare?
And last night I saw you in all your youth, old age and simple acceptance, the dance of birth become death and resurrected in the child commemorated, this new day. Which is for me everyday and all Sabbath.
God’s breath.
My heart sang in joy to see Fr. Michael, near blindness, make the sign of the Cross upon the forehead of a joyous little girl, her delight at his caress, reflecting the unseeing truth of him still manifest in the slow dance towards blindness and death.
Yet I fell into a well, unknowable in extent, of tears spent for those who died in my knowing before that moment.
I paused here brushing Annie, after all, what else, gift or pleasure, could I give? Does she know it is Christmas? She surely celebrates my attention.
In returning to my addiction of writing, I saw our sensing functions as antennas extended from a satellite seeking energy from solar light or winds. And my neglected, abandoned 49% woman seeking to magnify and be the vessel of new birth as a Mary before the birth we accept and celebrate this day, our Savior manifest.
. . . of His last words, oral history, apocryphal, long after He left recorded, or embellished, amplify His spirit among us now incarnate in poverty first, best and last
. . . where He said He would be found forever without gender or color distinction
. . . need it be added, without exception?
Feliz Navidad!
God bless God, for the Gift of Jesus, and this, God’s World, filled with the power of Love.
Last night I entered a place of bewilderment within myself; a penetration of that which is outside my ordinary day--alone with Annie and God.
Community!
What is it that draws and repels me simultaneously?
I know myself sane, yet touched by the--before our earth and the afterward--seen from God’s view.!?
If this be true, then I know transformation, the birth pangs of our Universe; and it is well, and no imagining, but writ in my soul? And if that be atavistically real, then I must be dust conjoined into stone made flesh, combusted into flame, a lesser star in the firmament.
Or, perhaps, a lifeless asteroid, whose existing/origin/being is unknowable to itself; a vagrant silently singing of space. . . .The void or abyss.
In some places, at odd times, I’ve sensed the spine of creation, revealed and unspeakable to my mute knowing that God is apparent to me. And in that inchoate knowing, no language of communication--the love immolating me ignited by what?
Consciousness is it’s own reward, exclusive of acknowledgement by, or of any other, for which there is no mirror. My favorite metaphor, and experience, is being in a mirror maze. And though, at times, such as last night, my ability to see a self reflected is momentarily confused, I am able to sense, eventually, which figure, upside down, inside out, distorted and or contorted into freaks, is me.
For what do I live now?
Why do I hunger and thirst for your welfare?
And last night I saw you in all your youth, old age and simple acceptance, the dance of birth become death and resurrected in the child commemorated, this new day. Which is for me everyday and all Sabbath.
God’s breath.
My heart sang in joy to see Fr. Michael, near blindness, make the sign of the Cross upon the forehead of a joyous little girl, her delight at his caress, reflecting the unseeing truth of him still manifest in the slow dance towards blindness and death.
Yet I fell into a well, unknowable in extent, of tears spent for those who died in my knowing before that moment.
I paused here brushing Annie, after all, what else, gift or pleasure, could I give? Does she know it is Christmas? She surely celebrates my attention.
In returning to my addiction of writing, I saw our sensing functions as antennas extended from a satellite seeking energy from solar light or winds. And my neglected, abandoned 49% woman seeking to magnify and be the vessel of new birth as a Mary before the birth we accept and celebrate this day, our Savior manifest.
. . . of His last words, oral history, apocryphal, long after He left recorded, or embellished, amplify His spirit among us now incarnate in poverty first, best and last
. . . where He said He would be found forever without gender or color distinction
. . . need it be added, without exception?
insufficient room for all the names and incarnations of Truth
091224 07:51
No one is more noble, than any other, by birth, or activity, in life. Some walks between birth and death may be celebrated, anointed, annotated by our special attention for their lives lived for us. Servants are self giving and generous while others, the majority, live in fear of never having enough. Therein is the origin/nature of addiction.
How can I know this?
I know it best in my own addictions, hypocrisies, bigotries and failing the Ideal--Jesus who was merely God in disguise and crucified as a criminal for us.
. . . and i am convicted that He died to end all fear.
At the end of life no secret is unknown to God. From the beginning, before speech or symbol was published. It is this child’s sense that, The Garden of Eden a metaphor is now, and we, pass from generation, fetishes and piles of stone dedicated, for punishment, instead of forgiveness and reverence the individual child who comes not for us, but through us, biologically. In the Garden was the advent of consciousness regardless the consequence.
We, the broken, despised and ignored, are legion. Yet we linger in denial, our divinity, so common to us oblivious. We murder or steal holding captive the ideals of others as better than ours made common weal for life, love, liberty and discernment when enough, is enough. Too many children to feed, clothe, love and enable their unique gifts; none more noble than another.
I will write more about this in the later future should God and others to/for whom I an inconvenient allow. For example the KKK was born this date long ago and I have been witness photographically in recent decades and have empathy for those, who, had they known me then, or now would kill me for a nigger lover ala Langston Hughes.
For now it is enough, and never too late, to be charitable with self given to others as gift that they grow in knowledge, truth transparent. I could, and have, given of my photography and/or words, my gift to others. Fully conscious the gift received from the inventor, or progenitor: The Gestalt of Color Psychology; Joseph Albers. The meeting through by a beloved childhood friend, niece, and God. Of Joe I was suffused with his generosity and well remember our harmonious words mutually spoken “music” over a color collage I was otherwise too ashamed to confess authorship of.
My point, beloved of God, is that you may give little, or much; little is welcome and needed at Wikipedia to keep them up and running for the future. I gave and thus am no longer guilty and slinking about when, in greed, I seek knowledge; otherwise unavailable. Were it mine to give I would buy the place and give it back for the joy of their facility.
Otherwise there is insufficient room for all the names and incarnations of Truth in the Universe.
. . . remember this, if you must invoke Christ, He was anointed better by water, the blood of God, not oil.
No one is more noble, than any other, by birth, or activity, in life. Some walks between birth and death may be celebrated, anointed, annotated by our special attention for their lives lived for us. Servants are self giving and generous while others, the majority, live in fear of never having enough. Therein is the origin/nature of addiction.
How can I know this?
I know it best in my own addictions, hypocrisies, bigotries and failing the Ideal--Jesus who was merely God in disguise and crucified as a criminal for us.
. . . and i am convicted that He died to end all fear.
At the end of life no secret is unknown to God. From the beginning, before speech or symbol was published. It is this child’s sense that, The Garden of Eden a metaphor is now, and we, pass from generation, fetishes and piles of stone dedicated, for punishment, instead of forgiveness and reverence the individual child who comes not for us, but through us, biologically. In the Garden was the advent of consciousness regardless the consequence.
We, the broken, despised and ignored, are legion. Yet we linger in denial, our divinity, so common to us oblivious. We murder or steal holding captive the ideals of others as better than ours made common weal for life, love, liberty and discernment when enough, is enough. Too many children to feed, clothe, love and enable their unique gifts; none more noble than another.
I will write more about this in the later future should God and others to/for whom I an inconvenient allow. For example the KKK was born this date long ago and I have been witness photographically in recent decades and have empathy for those, who, had they known me then, or now would kill me for a nigger lover ala Langston Hughes.
For now it is enough, and never too late, to be charitable with self given to others as gift that they grow in knowledge, truth transparent. I could, and have, given of my photography and/or words, my gift to others. Fully conscious the gift received from the inventor, or progenitor: The Gestalt of Color Psychology; Joseph Albers. The meeting through by a beloved childhood friend, niece, and God. Of Joe I was suffused with his generosity and well remember our harmonious words mutually spoken “music” over a color collage I was otherwise too ashamed to confess authorship of.
My point, beloved of God, is that you may give little, or much; little is welcome and needed at Wikipedia to keep them up and running for the future. I gave and thus am no longer guilty and slinking about when, in greed, I seek knowledge; otherwise unavailable. Were it mine to give I would buy the place and give it back for the joy of their facility.
Otherwise there is insufficient room for all the names and incarnations of Truth in the Universe.
. . . remember this, if you must invoke Christ, He was anointed better by water, the blood of God, not oil.
God Bless God, who does? We do, the audience.
091224 06:12
It is such a sweet and simple thing to do. To listen to ourselves at some point later on. And recognize ourselves in prayer. Then accept the gifts we gave ourselves, throughout all our lives. Our prayers answered.
I will take communion, where I believed myself unwelcome, formerly. This coming blessed night . . . but, then to me, and oft times for me, especially, all nights are welcome now.
To, for and in God, time is irrelevant to the extent that I need no longer worry about the inevitable death of myself, or, our world.
I’ve taught others, when allowed, to see-what-you-are-looking-at. Then without understanding that which I see now in the simple process of brushing my teeth. Last night before crashing into slumber, I laughed, never derision but joy, in completion.
I do have a theology.
We all do.
Lacking formal recognition, until some random, rogue, moment; elephants dancing in tutus, tells us, its fulfillment.
Metaphors and similes, coupled with parables, et etcetera, swirl through me, like the onrushing flood tide.
There is a time to be stoically silent, with neither a yea--or nay, to lift the moment of tragedy lofted to the Author of All Things, speechless, knowing ourselves overrun and bearing the full weight of death this moment. Our tears flowing over the body of the girl/boy we loved. Women are better at crying inside since it seems acculturated & expected of them from beginning to end, at birth, unto heaven, whence they go, blessed by their sex.
At other times, a ‘no’ is required, to fight to the death, to save self and the criminal who may, or may not, perhaps abuse us further, yet well remember the moment of confusion and refusal of limp submission.
Fight or flight or stand and receive is a choice, the metal, meet or woe of the self. For you it may be terror, intrusion, violation, aggression gone psychotic--unwelcome. To hang from a tree suffocated, strange fruit body blackened by fire. Have courage my child--my friend for in this brief moment of pain God will be seen soon. So cry not too long.
I pray that when my moment of transition comes I will have the courage of my conviction and teaching to so remain calm and grant forgiveness those who chose to destroy me.
Last night, until this moment, and all moments to come, I knew that my ideal had been answered; the Baby Jesus resurrected from sacrifice seen in all souls; actual, or nascent.
God Bless God, who does? We do, the audience.
It is such a sweet and simple thing to do. To listen to ourselves at some point later on. And recognize ourselves in prayer. Then accept the gifts we gave ourselves, throughout all our lives. Our prayers answered.
I will take communion, where I believed myself unwelcome, formerly. This coming blessed night . . . but, then to me, and oft times for me, especially, all nights are welcome now.
To, for and in God, time is irrelevant to the extent that I need no longer worry about the inevitable death of myself, or, our world.
I’ve taught others, when allowed, to see-what-you-are-looking-at. Then without understanding that which I see now in the simple process of brushing my teeth. Last night before crashing into slumber, I laughed, never derision but joy, in completion.
I do have a theology.
We all do.
Lacking formal recognition, until some random, rogue, moment; elephants dancing in tutus, tells us, its fulfillment.
Metaphors and similes, coupled with parables, et etcetera, swirl through me, like the onrushing flood tide.
There is a time to be stoically silent, with neither a yea--or nay, to lift the moment of tragedy lofted to the Author of All Things, speechless, knowing ourselves overrun and bearing the full weight of death this moment. Our tears flowing over the body of the girl/boy we loved. Women are better at crying inside since it seems acculturated & expected of them from beginning to end, at birth, unto heaven, whence they go, blessed by their sex.
At other times, a ‘no’ is required, to fight to the death, to save self and the criminal who may, or may not, perhaps abuse us further, yet well remember the moment of confusion and refusal of limp submission.
Fight or flight or stand and receive is a choice, the metal, meet or woe of the self. For you it may be terror, intrusion, violation, aggression gone psychotic--unwelcome. To hang from a tree suffocated, strange fruit body blackened by fire. Have courage my child--my friend for in this brief moment of pain God will be seen soon. So cry not too long.
I pray that when my moment of transition comes I will have the courage of my conviction and teaching to so remain calm and grant forgiveness those who chose to destroy me.
Last night, until this moment, and all moments to come, I knew that my ideal had been answered; the Baby Jesus resurrected from sacrifice seen in all souls; actual, or nascent.
God Bless God, who does? We do, the audience.
meaning value
death is meaningless
since we were born by God
in the beginning before time was
an idea and the measure of our value
in life is not what we held before leaving it
but in what we gave while living it
since we were born by God
in the beginning before time was
an idea and the measure of our value
in life is not what we held before leaving it
but in what we gave while living it
Thursday, December 24, 2009
. . . as I immolate myself?
091224 00:56
If I sleep as the dead, I sleep enough in one or more hours, to spend the rest of my day in whatever concerns me. Too little the chores, housekeeping and personal hygiene, shaving at the keyboard and eating as well.
I am at peace, my personal trials, regarding what I wrote yesterday, affirmed so many times over, it is ridiculous to mention the facts. I could, but refuse to deconstruct, the surprise and splendor . . . ask and you will receive.
There were other discoveries regarding my bodily abuse. And I wonder how long I will last, surprised, I don’t care.
Annie is keeping me alive. Who will take care of her when I am gone, gladly so, no longer engaged; the chaos of Congress, the agenda’s of avarice, and concern for the future of mankind.
At this moment, and others, I see myself a road-flare burning at both ends and middle soon extinguished; in the desert far from sight save the audience of truth.
Why?
Last Christmas I longed it to be my last. I wanted to simply die at the turning from longest night to the next longer day. It is not only Annie keeping me here, there is another, The Other, always with us. Silent, holding the stars in their courses, enveloping the entire Cosmos.
Could I be nurture, as found in communion, the Body and Blood, I would.
Yet there are events in life far worse than death. I am retrospectively considering the poverty of all women enslaved and without dignity, involuntarily. And I am satisfied with standing up for them in the face of those who, otherwise, would render them breeding stock for cannon fodder.
“If you want peace, work for justice.”
Cannot, at the moment remember the Pope, but am curious, did he intend that equality for woman be the first injustice remedied?
Laws are remedial, yet the Love potential in loving equally, both genders, combined, or exclusive of one another, will, I believe, heal the world before it is too late.
I was marooned as a child, yet saved by the abandonment. Desolation is my home in chaos. I weep not for myself, now, yet for all others, especially the AIDS orphans of Africa and those homeless this Christmas as well. Of children at war, well, I wish they would simply lay aside their weapons and embrace one another in the family of mankind and get on with life. So I do pray for both sides of every issue.
How can I serve them, except with these paltry words, burning in the night, as I immolate myself?
If I sleep as the dead, I sleep enough in one or more hours, to spend the rest of my day in whatever concerns me. Too little the chores, housekeeping and personal hygiene, shaving at the keyboard and eating as well.
I am at peace, my personal trials, regarding what I wrote yesterday, affirmed so many times over, it is ridiculous to mention the facts. I could, but refuse to deconstruct, the surprise and splendor . . . ask and you will receive.
There were other discoveries regarding my bodily abuse. And I wonder how long I will last, surprised, I don’t care.
Annie is keeping me alive. Who will take care of her when I am gone, gladly so, no longer engaged; the chaos of Congress, the agenda’s of avarice, and concern for the future of mankind.
At this moment, and others, I see myself a road-flare burning at both ends and middle soon extinguished; in the desert far from sight save the audience of truth.
Why?
Last Christmas I longed it to be my last. I wanted to simply die at the turning from longest night to the next longer day. It is not only Annie keeping me here, there is another, The Other, always with us. Silent, holding the stars in their courses, enveloping the entire Cosmos.
Could I be nurture, as found in communion, the Body and Blood, I would.
Yet there are events in life far worse than death. I am retrospectively considering the poverty of all women enslaved and without dignity, involuntarily. And I am satisfied with standing up for them in the face of those who, otherwise, would render them breeding stock for cannon fodder.
“If you want peace, work for justice.”
Cannot, at the moment remember the Pope, but am curious, did he intend that equality for woman be the first injustice remedied?
Laws are remedial, yet the Love potential in loving equally, both genders, combined, or exclusive of one another, will, I believe, heal the world before it is too late.
I was marooned as a child, yet saved by the abandonment. Desolation is my home in chaos. I weep not for myself, now, yet for all others, especially the AIDS orphans of Africa and those homeless this Christmas as well. Of children at war, well, I wish they would simply lay aside their weapons and embrace one another in the family of mankind and get on with life. So I do pray for both sides of every issue.
How can I serve them, except with these paltry words, burning in the night, as I immolate myself?
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
speak, with different voices and languages, essentially the same concerns for our common welfare
091223 07:24
Our lives are their own justification and reconciliation to reality. We either have, or have not, peace.
Implied/explicit, within my consciousness, is an inconvenient ‘devil’s advocate’ who puts my ‘feet to the fire.’ When alone, as I am in most of the ordinary days of my life, I enter an abstract place expressed in what I write.
At first I thought in terms of ‘keeping a personal journal.’ An idea that was suggested to me by a clergy person. Who, it now seems, was well aware of my distress, if not actual disease;
read dis-ease, no ease or peace possible.
That person implied I could find sanity through the activity and brought to my attention a person who had done so; moving from clinical insanity to balanced sanity.
Attention of any kind is welcomed by most of us. Yet attention of those in authority can be loosely defined/experienced in one of three ways: benign, indifferent, malevolent. The weal or woe of life, and in my life specifically, has been a study in what I perceived as no-treat, all treat or balanced between the two extremes.
My habitual perception, and experience, was formerly dominated by all-treat, and no peace, anywhere. Chaos.
I knew nothing else and became addicted to my posture and attempt to control that which implied worthlessness in my self: unlovable, not worthy of kindness and so on. The consequence of my choice was merely that at all opportunities to learn, see, taste experience myself as other than helpless were to be avoided at all costs. Denial became my theme song. Simply sung in the idle moments--a white/back--noise.
Why do I mention this given the nearness, of our celebration; The Prince of Peace?
Sixty-Eight and one half years in hell is long enough.
The peace I know now is beyond telling or measuring in terms of wealth and staggeringly beautiful in the following sense. Yet I do, did and will continue to work at understanding the nature, meaning and value of all life.
I am no longer the victim of, nor afraid, of anything: authority or death.
I understand fundamentalism very well since my foundation had been helplessness; no vote, no voice . . . it was as though I had no “Right” to live or be myself.
Yesterday I wrote a harsh dispute of the abuse of separation of powers between State and Church [and be read: Religion.}
Within our culture or “civilization” as experienced in The United States of America, there is a mood of fear and persecution; punishment for dissent and protest.
Most of us cling to the status quo regardless of how it works, or fails our needs to have life in peace assured by those in power. No one is without dysfunction. No one is perfect. We are what we are: imperfect persons attempting to cope with the realities of life; which has a beginning middle and end called death.
I want nothing, having everything I need, and am willing to follow the lead of people I trust. They have earned that trust through the fiery furnace of my attention to what they are about. More specifically what do they want of me and what does that imply in flesh-and-blood terms and consequences?
I need not confess farther my attention to God through Jesus. Yet I remain equally aware of the Prophet Mohammad and those many of Judaism. Add to that the Prophets of other times and cultures before, during and now who spoke, or speak, with different voices and languages, essentially the same concerns for our common welfare. I have a vision/version of God as the Chief Executive Officer and the Prophets, all of them, Board Members conjoined in an effort to make love, life, living possible for all people. No exceptions allowed.
In such time as I am allowed I will advocate, as I believe the prophets in their own time, one-by-one changed people from status quo to responsibility and choice for that which allows the children to follow--though there be now too many to sustain--live, liberty, peace and love.
Dominant amongst my concerns and intentions is the simple inequality of women as slaves to men’s agendas. I intuit, sense, think and feel this expropriates their obvious equality intellectually, spiritually and their right to equality. To force women to have no voice in reproductive issues is, I believe, unbridled aggression upon their souls. Our souls have no gender, think Angels.
. . . and when I ask the Lord’s blessing, I may say “Our Father” but my heart silently says “Our Parent.”
The influence of all the Prophets of God began with their own change and transformation. In retrospect we accept them emphatically as definitions of “God.” And too often worship the messenger instead of the author of the messages. In my dedication, conviction and intention is this simple kernel/core: God is both, perfectly combined, female/male. In anticipation of outrage and accusations of heresy or simply calling me the Anti-Christ or merely the Devil, I will add this final remark.
If you define love by gender sexuality it limits the potential of a brother willing to die for his brother regardless of race or creed. Jesus spoke to this issue but went only so far. It is a noble thing to sacrifice one’s life for another--on the battle field or in that final moment before mutual, or inevitable single, death. Yet, should they kiss one another goodbye we protest their sexual orientation and some would feel a desire to hasten their departure.
In my own life I have known the pleasure of many women, some sexually, but in greater measure through friendship. I do confess an exaggerated joy in sexual pleasure but nothing compares to the bliss of friendship with another regardless their gender identification.
The more I think about God the more I experience God in all life. And to the experience I am compelled to surrender my self. No matter how I parse the symbols of God the closer I come to explicit trust; and I know peace for the first time in my life.
May the peace and understanding of God’s joy be manifest in all your life . . . in the every moment be the self created to be you. . . . and the Christ Mass be your everyday. He was eventually sacrificed to end all fear, perhaps only my greatest sin and waste of all the years preceeding this moment, the eternal Now.
Our lives are their own justification and reconciliation to reality. We either have, or have not, peace.
Implied/explicit, within my consciousness, is an inconvenient ‘devil’s advocate’ who puts my ‘feet to the fire.’ When alone, as I am in most of the ordinary days of my life, I enter an abstract place expressed in what I write.
At first I thought in terms of ‘keeping a personal journal.’ An idea that was suggested to me by a clergy person. Who, it now seems, was well aware of my distress, if not actual disease;
read dis-ease, no ease or peace possible.
That person implied I could find sanity through the activity and brought to my attention a person who had done so; moving from clinical insanity to balanced sanity.
Attention of any kind is welcomed by most of us. Yet attention of those in authority can be loosely defined/experienced in one of three ways: benign, indifferent, malevolent. The weal or woe of life, and in my life specifically, has been a study in what I perceived as no-treat, all treat or balanced between the two extremes.
My habitual perception, and experience, was formerly dominated by all-treat, and no peace, anywhere. Chaos.
I knew nothing else and became addicted to my posture and attempt to control that which implied worthlessness in my self: unlovable, not worthy of kindness and so on. The consequence of my choice was merely that at all opportunities to learn, see, taste experience myself as other than helpless were to be avoided at all costs. Denial became my theme song. Simply sung in the idle moments--a white/back--noise.
Why do I mention this given the nearness, of our celebration; The Prince of Peace?
Sixty-Eight and one half years in hell is long enough.
The peace I know now is beyond telling or measuring in terms of wealth and staggeringly beautiful in the following sense. Yet I do, did and will continue to work at understanding the nature, meaning and value of all life.
I am no longer the victim of, nor afraid, of anything: authority or death.
I understand fundamentalism very well since my foundation had been helplessness; no vote, no voice . . . it was as though I had no “Right” to live or be myself.
Yesterday I wrote a harsh dispute of the abuse of separation of powers between State and Church [and be read: Religion.}
Within our culture or “civilization” as experienced in The United States of America, there is a mood of fear and persecution; punishment for dissent and protest.
Most of us cling to the status quo regardless of how it works, or fails our needs to have life in peace assured by those in power. No one is without dysfunction. No one is perfect. We are what we are: imperfect persons attempting to cope with the realities of life; which has a beginning middle and end called death.
I want nothing, having everything I need, and am willing to follow the lead of people I trust. They have earned that trust through the fiery furnace of my attention to what they are about. More specifically what do they want of me and what does that imply in flesh-and-blood terms and consequences?
I need not confess farther my attention to God through Jesus. Yet I remain equally aware of the Prophet Mohammad and those many of Judaism. Add to that the Prophets of other times and cultures before, during and now who spoke, or speak, with different voices and languages, essentially the same concerns for our common welfare. I have a vision/version of God as the Chief Executive Officer and the Prophets, all of them, Board Members conjoined in an effort to make love, life, living possible for all people. No exceptions allowed.
In such time as I am allowed I will advocate, as I believe the prophets in their own time, one-by-one changed people from status quo to responsibility and choice for that which allows the children to follow--though there be now too many to sustain--live, liberty, peace and love.
Dominant amongst my concerns and intentions is the simple inequality of women as slaves to men’s agendas. I intuit, sense, think and feel this expropriates their obvious equality intellectually, spiritually and their right to equality. To force women to have no voice in reproductive issues is, I believe, unbridled aggression upon their souls. Our souls have no gender, think Angels.
. . . and when I ask the Lord’s blessing, I may say “Our Father” but my heart silently says “Our Parent.”
The influence of all the Prophets of God began with their own change and transformation. In retrospect we accept them emphatically as definitions of “God.” And too often worship the messenger instead of the author of the messages. In my dedication, conviction and intention is this simple kernel/core: God is both, perfectly combined, female/male. In anticipation of outrage and accusations of heresy or simply calling me the Anti-Christ or merely the Devil, I will add this final remark.
If you define love by gender sexuality it limits the potential of a brother willing to die for his brother regardless of race or creed. Jesus spoke to this issue but went only so far. It is a noble thing to sacrifice one’s life for another--on the battle field or in that final moment before mutual, or inevitable single, death. Yet, should they kiss one another goodbye we protest their sexual orientation and some would feel a desire to hasten their departure.
In my own life I have known the pleasure of many women, some sexually, but in greater measure through friendship. I do confess an exaggerated joy in sexual pleasure but nothing compares to the bliss of friendship with another regardless their gender identification.
The more I think about God the more I experience God in all life. And to the experience I am compelled to surrender my self. No matter how I parse the symbols of God the closer I come to explicit trust; and I know peace for the first time in my life.
May the peace and understanding of God’s joy be manifest in all your life . . . in the every moment be the self created to be you. . . . and the Christ Mass be your everyday. He was eventually sacrificed to end all fear, perhaps only my greatest sin and waste of all the years preceeding this moment, the eternal Now.
to the Parent of all Creation and refer to “The Church” it is . . .
091223 14:34
Were I a poet, or novelist, I’d attempt a portrait of America this day in words alone; with one word: convulsion.
This state of apoplexy is long in coming and may long remain until the final days of our beloved Republic.
I have attempted, through the innocent agency of a personal journal, to speak my concerns and testify to the resource of God’s providence available to all Mankind. I can no longer speak of God, or Providence, in regard to the comments I made in conjecture, opinion and sincere concern for the body politic, and electoral yesterday, and here published.
The separation of Church and State is my most profound temporal concern--currently--in this time of peril manifest through conflicts engaged in distant, and upon native, lands. I am at times hesitant to speak, and sometimes speak in haste and anger, not fully informed.
If I have, what I experience as true, a converse with the numinous, I fully express the responsible consequence that. And it extends far beyond the boundaries of myself, future, or any claim to fame, fortune or celebrity.
I have an ordinary life part joy, and an equal, if not greater, sorrow. I attempted to join the ranks of those who fought and died that we remain free from tyranny--yet was never allowed the privilege. If I speak at all it is obvious that I, in private prayer, have audience, greater than history past, now and forward.
I now believe, have faith in, and welcome censure from above, the only authority I respond to. The God Head was recently added to by The Virgin Mary and there is now four, not three. And to them, and they only, will I lay face down in abject humility, or humiliation. And if required give my life joyously.
Should I otherwise disappear, simply die of old age or otherwise, I will do so consciously and accept that I have failed my concerns; that all live without fear, free and full of potential future in that condition.
I see myself as a piglet, a runt, attempting to feed from the trough of ideas and ideals; kept from nurture by many others before me. Yet in that simile I can all too easily see myself in others who, at, or near, my age did fight in Vietnam and returned despised. But this is only one of many comparisons made between my estate and that of all the electorate. I have an opinion, the consequence of which, my attention having no authority and sad the question arises. That if we persist our current course of civil war in Congress the future will be bleak. If in fact there is a future. In and of God, Do No Harm, is to me obvious so I am no treat to anyone save from my thoughts and mouth. Of the former I sometimes keep silent yet the latter is ablaze.
I am a writer and a recording witness of these times. Fully conscious that if we continue this course of affairs there will be no future. About which God remains mum.
The Holy Roman Catholic Church is not the only ‘voice of God.’ And in most public demonstrations of Official positions speaks only their version/vision about God. In and of myself I remain, not a chameleon or parrot, of anyone, or anything, including God. And I believe this to be the choice, and voice, imitated/emulated/by me, of He whom I adore; Jesus.
I will not bore you with my experience, expectations or theology/teleology which concerns no one save themselves.
So I make no apologies for my position, petition or protest against the lobby of The US Catholic Conference of Bishops their strangle hold on free, tax funded, medical care for all Americans regardless their choice to give or not give birth and I simply find their posture antique regarding the affairs of same sex couples. When I speak, in prayer, to the Parent of all Creation and refer to “The Church” it is my consciousness that I love The Catholic Church as the origin of Christianity. However I remain fully conscious that Jesus died as a Jew and is resurrected in me as a teacher--an not for me alone--since He being my Rabbi whispers regard for all prophets of God. None greater or lesser since God is the Origin of All Life.
I know not where I reside in the food chain of life but remain well fed and no longer thirsty for the providence of God manifest in the life and death of Jesus.
Who said, “Love your enemy . . . “ I’ve said enough. Add to which, I am willing to walk the walk, no longer talking about what anyone chooses to ‘lay up or lose’ here and now.
Were I a poet, or novelist, I’d attempt a portrait of America this day in words alone; with one word: convulsion.
This state of apoplexy is long in coming and may long remain until the final days of our beloved Republic.
I have attempted, through the innocent agency of a personal journal, to speak my concerns and testify to the resource of God’s providence available to all Mankind. I can no longer speak of God, or Providence, in regard to the comments I made in conjecture, opinion and sincere concern for the body politic, and electoral yesterday, and here published.
The separation of Church and State is my most profound temporal concern--currently--in this time of peril manifest through conflicts engaged in distant, and upon native, lands. I am at times hesitant to speak, and sometimes speak in haste and anger, not fully informed.
If I have, what I experience as true, a converse with the numinous, I fully express the responsible consequence that. And it extends far beyond the boundaries of myself, future, or any claim to fame, fortune or celebrity.
I have an ordinary life part joy, and an equal, if not greater, sorrow. I attempted to join the ranks of those who fought and died that we remain free from tyranny--yet was never allowed the privilege. If I speak at all it is obvious that I, in private prayer, have audience, greater than history past, now and forward.
I now believe, have faith in, and welcome censure from above, the only authority I respond to. The God Head was recently added to by The Virgin Mary and there is now four, not three. And to them, and they only, will I lay face down in abject humility, or humiliation. And if required give my life joyously.
Should I otherwise disappear, simply die of old age or otherwise, I will do so consciously and accept that I have failed my concerns; that all live without fear, free and full of potential future in that condition.
I see myself as a piglet, a runt, attempting to feed from the trough of ideas and ideals; kept from nurture by many others before me. Yet in that simile I can all too easily see myself in others who, at, or near, my age did fight in Vietnam and returned despised. But this is only one of many comparisons made between my estate and that of all the electorate. I have an opinion, the consequence of which, my attention having no authority and sad the question arises. That if we persist our current course of civil war in Congress the future will be bleak. If in fact there is a future. In and of God, Do No Harm, is to me obvious so I am no treat to anyone save from my thoughts and mouth. Of the former I sometimes keep silent yet the latter is ablaze.
I am a writer and a recording witness of these times. Fully conscious that if we continue this course of affairs there will be no future. About which God remains mum.
The Holy Roman Catholic Church is not the only ‘voice of God.’ And in most public demonstrations of Official positions speaks only their version/vision about God. In and of myself I remain, not a chameleon or parrot, of anyone, or anything, including God. And I believe this to be the choice, and voice, imitated/emulated/by me, of He whom I adore; Jesus.
I will not bore you with my experience, expectations or theology/teleology which concerns no one save themselves.
So I make no apologies for my position, petition or protest against the lobby of The US Catholic Conference of Bishops their strangle hold on free, tax funded, medical care for all Americans regardless their choice to give or not give birth and I simply find their posture antique regarding the affairs of same sex couples. When I speak, in prayer, to the Parent of all Creation and refer to “The Church” it is my consciousness that I love The Catholic Church as the origin of Christianity. However I remain fully conscious that Jesus died as a Jew and is resurrected in me as a teacher--an not for me alone--since He being my Rabbi whispers regard for all prophets of God. None greater or lesser since God is the Origin of All Life.
I know not where I reside in the food chain of life but remain well fed and no longer thirsty for the providence of God manifest in the life and death of Jesus.
Who said, “Love your enemy . . . “ I’ve said enough. Add to which, I am willing to walk the walk, no longer talking about what anyone chooses to ‘lay up or lose’ here and now.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
. . . making life and love unconditional, available, freely given is miserable
091222 00:39
To a much beloved friend I send birthday greetings and thanksgiving for saving my life.
She, first stunned me with the suggestion that I could heal {others?}. Then she left me to stew in bewilderment--nice metaphor--I fell, at times, to feel as though I were the pebble in David’s sling about to be hurled--where!?--certainly not towards GOLIATH’S eye?!
The enormity of mental illness, as annotated in my eulogy for Mary Kroeger (last entry) is a burden that I bear now lightly. For beyond, behind or beneath, she who healed me, is a resource available to everyone.
I am tempted to resort to my irreverent lack of solemnity in The Presence of The Author of Life. For which I now discern I was hurled off, or out, of Care2.com’s social site.
If i be steel, then I am smelted, reformed between the hammer and anvil of Truth. My bigotry and hypocrisy beaten out. Every humiliation, pain, sorrow and depression was transformed into tutelage; a gift.
There are several, now amusing, mythologies associated with the date, time and place of my birth: The Phoenix for example. She suggested that I could, “put in a change order.” The women and men of my attention are victims of no one, and no thing; not even God.
My first question, of myself, and anyone longing, or purporting, to feed the hungry, free the slaves and bring sanity to the insane, is simply this. Why would a person of such obvious gifts as Jesus, serve the humble in humility?
Love is the greatest power, and force, to ever gently caress us, from beginning to end/endless.
Least you go too far awry, with that too oft molested four letter word, let me define my sense of it. We own nothing in life. We are tenants and God the Landlord. Love between humans and God is more like that of a beloved child with a kind and loving Parent: friendship. Many benefits, but guess who has the power of veto.
Please think: consequence and responsibility. Add. We are here for a very brief time and our history of making life and love unconditional, available, freely given is miserable. Then add, the fertile vineyard we service and prune was here long before we came along.
I am not here to debate theology, politics or any systemic construct about God but merely dedicate, whatever is left of, my life to healing Mary Kroeger so like myself, that she need not sweep the crumbs off the table into her pocket book.
Thesis--not theology: we need to negotiate what makes life possible instead of impossible.
Death is an end, but love endless.
Without resurrection of He who died that we no longer live in fear: my ‘self’, my life, and everything I touch, do or say, is pointless drivel. Do no harm.
To a much beloved friend I send birthday greetings and thanksgiving for saving my life.
She, first stunned me with the suggestion that I could heal {others?}. Then she left me to stew in bewilderment--nice metaphor--I fell, at times, to feel as though I were the pebble in David’s sling about to be hurled--where!?--certainly not towards GOLIATH’S eye?!
The enormity of mental illness, as annotated in my eulogy for Mary Kroeger (last entry) is a burden that I bear now lightly. For beyond, behind or beneath, she who healed me, is a resource available to everyone.
I am tempted to resort to my irreverent lack of solemnity in The Presence of The Author of Life. For which I now discern I was hurled off, or out, of Care2.com’s social site.
If i be steel, then I am smelted, reformed between the hammer and anvil of Truth. My bigotry and hypocrisy beaten out. Every humiliation, pain, sorrow and depression was transformed into tutelage; a gift.
There are several, now amusing, mythologies associated with the date, time and place of my birth: The Phoenix for example. She suggested that I could, “put in a change order.” The women and men of my attention are victims of no one, and no thing; not even God.
My first question, of myself, and anyone longing, or purporting, to feed the hungry, free the slaves and bring sanity to the insane, is simply this. Why would a person of such obvious gifts as Jesus, serve the humble in humility?
Love is the greatest power, and force, to ever gently caress us, from beginning to end/endless.
Least you go too far awry, with that too oft molested four letter word, let me define my sense of it. We own nothing in life. We are tenants and God the Landlord. Love between humans and God is more like that of a beloved child with a kind and loving Parent: friendship. Many benefits, but guess who has the power of veto.
Please think: consequence and responsibility. Add. We are here for a very brief time and our history of making life and love unconditional, available, freely given is miserable. Then add, the fertile vineyard we service and prune was here long before we came along.
I am not here to debate theology, politics or any systemic construct about God but merely dedicate, whatever is left of, my life to healing Mary Kroeger so like myself, that she need not sweep the crumbs off the table into her pocket book.
Thesis--not theology: we need to negotiate what makes life possible instead of impossible.
Death is an end, but love endless.
Without resurrection of He who died that we no longer live in fear: my ‘self’, my life, and everything I touch, do or say, is pointless drivel. Do no harm.
“Silence is a true friend who never betrays.” --Confucius
091222 06:09
I am happily removed from the fray. The stressors and frenzy of too many folks in one place. Gladly gone from my daily attention. The hours in automobiles stalled in forty mile long parking lots. People waiting to get home and have a moments reprise the peace they, or was it only me? had with the morning’s first dragon mouth cleanser happily alone in peace and silence.
I think we pay too little attention to the realities of our loneliness and never listen to ourselves.
I have never thought my dreams oddly absent monsters and terrors.
Instead they have always been populated with people whose personalities are relatively benign compared to mine. And in my sleep I came to sense another’s presence--and now I weep for what?
The brother or sister whose life was aborted. Who, had they been allowed birth, would be more-or-less one year or so younger than I.
Odd. Could it be at this nodal point, the end of the longest night, the earth awaits that convulsion of birth the next seasons course returning to this once endless night of terror for me.
Small wonder I so adore she who healed me for this is the date of her birth. And we, though separate by years and miles, hold equivalent proclivities for greeting the dawn’s loom, the slow weaving of the new day’s tapestry.
We individually give a song of greeting for the gift of another day to Mother/Father and then debate over coffee which is what; the Father Earth or Mother Sky? More important is our penchant for mutual reverence our choices to be alone. Our pets become our keepers.
Feeding the doves and my extemporaneous shuffling dance plus ad-lib prayer of gratefulness. No act of charity for the greedy doves but my greed for their beauty seen closely. Of course Annie Fanny, my love, and cat, waits patiently their arrival--the brunch bunch. Of course I only call them the ‘brunch bunch’ since I adore playing with words; and they are late risers compared to me.
Seriously we need to listen to ourselves and measure the treasure of our lives individually. Perhaps then we can be part of the solution instead of the problem; life lived as packed rats gone insane. it could well be that I am actually lunatic since I see at times events that I accept as gifts just for me. . . . And what I write mere doodling while awaiting the next incredible thing; a gift of attention from the Origin of attention. “Silence is a true friend who never betrays.” --Confucius
I am happily removed from the fray. The stressors and frenzy of too many folks in one place. Gladly gone from my daily attention. The hours in automobiles stalled in forty mile long parking lots. People waiting to get home and have a moments reprise the peace they, or was it only me? had with the morning’s first dragon mouth cleanser happily alone in peace and silence.
I think we pay too little attention to the realities of our loneliness and never listen to ourselves.
I have never thought my dreams oddly absent monsters and terrors.
Instead they have always been populated with people whose personalities are relatively benign compared to mine. And in my sleep I came to sense another’s presence--and now I weep for what?
The brother or sister whose life was aborted. Who, had they been allowed birth, would be more-or-less one year or so younger than I.
Odd. Could it be at this nodal point, the end of the longest night, the earth awaits that convulsion of birth the next seasons course returning to this once endless night of terror for me.
Small wonder I so adore she who healed me for this is the date of her birth. And we, though separate by years and miles, hold equivalent proclivities for greeting the dawn’s loom, the slow weaving of the new day’s tapestry.
We individually give a song of greeting for the gift of another day to Mother/Father and then debate over coffee which is what; the Father Earth or Mother Sky? More important is our penchant for mutual reverence our choices to be alone. Our pets become our keepers.
Feeding the doves and my extemporaneous shuffling dance plus ad-lib prayer of gratefulness. No act of charity for the greedy doves but my greed for their beauty seen closely. Of course Annie Fanny, my love, and cat, waits patiently their arrival--the brunch bunch. Of course I only call them the ‘brunch bunch’ since I adore playing with words; and they are late risers compared to me.
Seriously we need to listen to ourselves and measure the treasure of our lives individually. Perhaps then we can be part of the solution instead of the problem; life lived as packed rats gone insane. it could well be that I am actually lunatic since I see at times events that I accept as gifts just for me. . . . And what I write mere doodling while awaiting the next incredible thing; a gift of attention from the Origin of attention. “Silence is a true friend who never betrays.” --Confucius
Jerusalem to become our Universe . . .
091222 12:23
By & Of more than one woman was I attacked for my love affair with computers.
While it was true that I sought, when available, the pleasures of pornography, it has become
more readily apparent that I doth rely too much on the facility proffered in computing for writing & photography. My own record--what was sold before, now so graphically, freely, lightly given.
Yet there is, a was, hidden Saint Nicholas in the stacks of dictionaries suggested by, a then writer, disguised as a reporter, and former lover of Tom Wolf’s, who espoused The American Heritage Dictionary.
Obvious now my arousal at the visual marginalia suggestive of alternate reality and/or associations . . . I oft times fell into reverie ecstatic with far flung potential nude. Or merely synchronicities that I then thought mere coincident. That was a long-ago opportunity my lover then invoked, and from that, we begat a child, and I taught at University.
Of the child aborted, now more sadly so, the loss of all my other children, save those of you willing to be adopted by me. I was, then and now, confident of the practice and product stud known. Yet remain bewildered by the prospect of creating written words or teaching anything.
As child and adult I have known rejection and abandonment thus learned to live by my interior dialogs caroming between rage, desolation and mirth.
In fact, degree and kind this season of winter became my nadir ricocheting into manic delight at Easter Tide. Little knowing then that the prospect of banishment to my material grandmothers home was heaven and haven or simple sanctuary.
The auguring turn of time screwed into my innocence that arrival of Labor Day reprised and returned the insanity of my parents house.
Apparent in this moment is the tutelage failed they beat indifferently into me something other than whatever it is that I am now.
Obviously I was a savagely silent wild child and were it not for grandmother’s easy recognition the mother of me otherwise I’d assume wrong parentage. Randomly stolen Christ Hospital nursery.
I never presumed derangement in my parents and attempted to be all that they instructed: dumb, deaf and blind incapable of finding my sit down while talking. Prayer, medication, contemplation and psalms sung for survival were heard and replied to but never known then the transport to this moment of delight no longer medicate bipolar.
Seek and ye shall find, ask and it will be answered; rebbe Jesus was there all along. His truth has set me free, the prisoner released and through His Mother I know God as both androgynous.
Though apparently touched by grace I remain the chastised child i was. . . . and long for Jerusalem to become our Universe. . . .to know yourself better than not.
By & Of more than one woman was I attacked for my love affair with computers.
While it was true that I sought, when available, the pleasures of pornography, it has become
more readily apparent that I doth rely too much on the facility proffered in computing for writing & photography. My own record--what was sold before, now so graphically, freely, lightly given.
Yet there is, a was, hidden Saint Nicholas in the stacks of dictionaries suggested by, a then writer, disguised as a reporter, and former lover of Tom Wolf’s, who espoused The American Heritage Dictionary.
Obvious now my arousal at the visual marginalia suggestive of alternate reality and/or associations . . . I oft times fell into reverie ecstatic with far flung potential nude. Or merely synchronicities that I then thought mere coincident. That was a long-ago opportunity my lover then invoked, and from that, we begat a child, and I taught at University.
Of the child aborted, now more sadly so, the loss of all my other children, save those of you willing to be adopted by me. I was, then and now, confident of the practice and product stud known. Yet remain bewildered by the prospect of creating written words or teaching anything.
As child and adult I have known rejection and abandonment thus learned to live by my interior dialogs caroming between rage, desolation and mirth.
In fact, degree and kind this season of winter became my nadir ricocheting into manic delight at Easter Tide. Little knowing then that the prospect of banishment to my material grandmothers home was heaven and haven or simple sanctuary.
The auguring turn of time screwed into my innocence that arrival of Labor Day reprised and returned the insanity of my parents house.
Apparent in this moment is the tutelage failed they beat indifferently into me something other than whatever it is that I am now.
Obviously I was a savagely silent wild child and were it not for grandmother’s easy recognition the mother of me otherwise I’d assume wrong parentage. Randomly stolen Christ Hospital nursery.
I never presumed derangement in my parents and attempted to be all that they instructed: dumb, deaf and blind incapable of finding my sit down while talking. Prayer, medication, contemplation and psalms sung for survival were heard and replied to but never known then the transport to this moment of delight no longer medicate bipolar.
Seek and ye shall find, ask and it will be answered; rebbe Jesus was there all along. His truth has set me free, the prisoner released and through His Mother I know God as both androgynous.
Though apparently touched by grace I remain the chastised child i was. . . . and long for Jerusalem to become our Universe. . . .to know yourself better than not.
Not all that I say or do record is worthy of anything more than a child’s play
091222 15:32
Divine inspiration is true since it endows the dead corpse of our ambitions, and conceits, resurrected in light. Loving light, and the reflections of it, photographically or writing with light, is a passion now; melded into surprise revelations of ordinary presence, the present, of love recorded; weal or woe.
Small wonder i once thought myself insane and that as messenger I should be destroyed. Not all that I say or do record is worthy of anything more than a child’s play. Though I am aware of my conceits, the teacher taught, there is no goal, or gold, save the journey or process towards a greater reality and truth than is found on common paths. Of my bigotry, endlessly ground into dust, useless bread for anyone save myself. Since I do reverence all life and creation. Amen.
Divine inspiration is true since it endows the dead corpse of our ambitions, and conceits, resurrected in light. Loving light, and the reflections of it, photographically or writing with light, is a passion now; melded into surprise revelations of ordinary presence, the present, of love recorded; weal or woe.
Small wonder i once thought myself insane and that as messenger I should be destroyed. Not all that I say or do record is worthy of anything more than a child’s play. Though I am aware of my conceits, the teacher taught, there is no goal, or gold, save the journey or process towards a greater reality and truth than is found on common paths. Of my bigotry, endlessly ground into dust, useless bread for anyone save myself. Since I do reverence all life and creation. Amen.
. . . individual choice to live in weal or woe inflicted, or imposed . . .
091222 2:22pm
It is not simply for pederast priest do i protest. The popish Congress knells and Liberty fled. The choice to birth, suicide, or spending life with another of same gender, gone. I would rather be obvious in my dissent instead the covert RC Bishop lobbyist of 'god.' There is no religion or politic large enough to hold the entirety of God's Love. Save in the individual choice to live in weal or woe inflicted, or imposed, by another.
Think, and see, Gandhi's simple hobby, spinning wool, upon a wheel; truth manifest instead of chaos. To pretend truth given of God is no truth at all but pretense--control of other's individual rights. There is no "Trust in God" save the motto, or souvenir saved, from all those who bled and died that we live free; otherwise this time in crisis; choice of life or death dictated.
In quest inspired I sought "Famous Last Words"/"Let Us Now Praise Famous Men" infamous, and in the end, this moment, find none appropriate my hunger & thirst for truth between us, enemy or friend. A humble member of life's, global, family.
I die meaninglessly, lost the words sung in my heart, knowing God's weal as my will. Gladly rid this civil war of ideals.No Right to live free the consequence of Right to Life imposed ideally the cost of slavery women bred. To what end? More cannon fodder to spend in the contests, war of ideals?
I, this man--think, feel, sense and intuit--i know Jesus' last words received by Our Parent androgynous, freedom perfectly sacrificed to end all fear. Perhaps, maybe, maybe not, the waste of all mankind.
It is not simply for pederast priest do i protest. The popish Congress knells and Liberty fled. The choice to birth, suicide, or spending life with another of same gender, gone. I would rather be obvious in my dissent instead the covert RC Bishop lobbyist of 'god.' There is no religion or politic large enough to hold the entirety of God's Love. Save in the individual choice to live in weal or woe inflicted, or imposed, by another.
Think, and see, Gandhi's simple hobby, spinning wool, upon a wheel; truth manifest instead of chaos. To pretend truth given of God is no truth at all but pretense--control of other's individual rights. There is no "Trust in God" save the motto, or souvenir saved, from all those who bled and died that we live free; otherwise this time in crisis; choice of life or death dictated.
In quest inspired I sought "Famous Last Words"/"Let Us Now Praise Famous Men" infamous, and in the end, this moment, find none appropriate my hunger & thirst for truth between us, enemy or friend. A humble member of life's, global, family.
I die meaninglessly, lost the words sung in my heart, knowing God's weal as my will. Gladly rid this civil war of ideals.No Right to live free the consequence of Right to Life imposed ideally the cost of slavery women bred. To what end? More cannon fodder to spend in the contests, war of ideals?
I, this man--think, feel, sense and intuit--i know Jesus' last words received by Our Parent androgynous, freedom perfectly sacrificed to end all fear. Perhaps, maybe, maybe not, the waste of all mankind.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Starry Nights
091221 04:11
I awoke with a consciousness of Vincent Van Gogh's, "Starry, Starry Night" which I experienced long ago at, or near, the age of twelve.
I love the artist, all his work, for what I then came to love, was a massive retrospective. But "Starry" especially now. And well I remember witness of it, and my childhood self, as I was then dressed in my "Sunday go to meeting--get buried in clothes." The discomfort of that uniform and the day--lingers, therefore.
As stunning as the dream/vision/remembrance is. I would rather move-right-along into what I now realize is the fantastic elasticity of my mind. For which I am willing to accept responsibility . . . and that God, doth allow, and pull me further.
It is, at times--staggering.
To find myself involuntarily, at one point, versus another, in the continuum of potential consciousness is a delight. I am easily capable of savage nihilism, coupled with the wrath to destroy everything in the sight of my consciousness; including myself in the process. Yet I do, more often now, find myself filled with ecstasy--though I am aware of, and have not tried, the drug so named. I define the kind, degree, nature/nurture of ecstasy, in the presence of God.
To Love Jesus, God, Mary & The Holy Spirit to the extent that, I am now aware this consciousness so informed, has moved the center of my gravity, or insanity, towards the positive--slowly. . . .am i merely, insanely, in love with God . . . yes, of course!
To "lift the crown" from those adored heads of my heroes, both female and male, is to accept their consciousness of all personhood by extrapolation. And in accepting that gift, know myself willing to live, or die, for all the prehistory--and now--of our long, bewildered, march to Truth.
In all my internal/external travels I have never fully conceded to solemnity; in fact I am quite the opposite: irreverent, ribald and salacious . . . do I experience "the laughter of God"?
Of course I do. . . .for what is love without laughter?
No Joy!
The star announcing the birth of Jesus burns bright, a blaze, not twinkling, or winking, since it burned through the haze of time, the heat and cold of the then weather . . . and yes my beloved friends, Santa Clause, is real. Not, however, in the depictions of him as a mercantile advertisement. He was so named Saint Nicholas, the original, more nearly like God in balance towards crime and generosity; addressed with empathy and mercy.
I am profoundly aggrieved by depictions of wholeness, what most call--in their penchant for solemnity--Holy.
I know this of myself. Never surrendering, but arguing silently, without weeping, or grimacing, in the face of my mothers terrible rage. In that--I was well trained. It was her, and God?s, gift to me for which I am grateful beyond measure, the treasury of my being me.
. . . & of my fathers silence; I bless that as well with my forgiveness and celebration now.
I awoke with a consciousness of Vincent Van Gogh's, "Starry, Starry Night" which I experienced long ago at, or near, the age of twelve.
I love the artist, all his work, for what I then came to love, was a massive retrospective. But "Starry" especially now. And well I remember witness of it, and my childhood self, as I was then dressed in my "Sunday go to meeting--get buried in clothes." The discomfort of that uniform and the day--lingers, therefore.
As stunning as the dream/vision/remembrance is. I would rather move-right-along into what I now realize is the fantastic elasticity of my mind. For which I am willing to accept responsibility . . . and that God, doth allow, and pull me further.
It is, at times--staggering.
To find myself involuntarily, at one point, versus another, in the continuum of potential consciousness is a delight. I am easily capable of savage nihilism, coupled with the wrath to destroy everything in the sight of my consciousness; including myself in the process. Yet I do, more often now, find myself filled with ecstasy--though I am aware of, and have not tried, the drug so named. I define the kind, degree, nature/nurture of ecstasy, in the presence of God.
To Love Jesus, God, Mary & The Holy Spirit to the extent that, I am now aware this consciousness so informed, has moved the center of my gravity, or insanity, towards the positive--slowly. . . .am i merely, insanely, in love with God . . . yes, of course!
To "lift the crown" from those adored heads of my heroes, both female and male, is to accept their consciousness of all personhood by extrapolation. And in accepting that gift, know myself willing to live, or die, for all the prehistory--and now--of our long, bewildered, march to Truth.
In all my internal/external travels I have never fully conceded to solemnity; in fact I am quite the opposite: irreverent, ribald and salacious . . . do I experience "the laughter of God"?
Of course I do. . . .for what is love without laughter?
No Joy!
The star announcing the birth of Jesus burns bright, a blaze, not twinkling, or winking, since it burned through the haze of time, the heat and cold of the then weather . . . and yes my beloved friends, Santa Clause, is real. Not, however, in the depictions of him as a mercantile advertisement. He was so named Saint Nicholas, the original, more nearly like God in balance towards crime and generosity; addressed with empathy and mercy.
I am profoundly aggrieved by depictions of wholeness, what most call--in their penchant for solemnity--Holy.
I know this of myself. Never surrendering, but arguing silently, without weeping, or grimacing, in the face of my mothers terrible rage. In that--I was well trained. It was her, and God?s, gift to me for which I am grateful beyond measure, the treasury of my being me.
. . . & of my fathers silence; I bless that as well with my forgiveness and celebration now.
God is: Love/Loving, a verb--not noun
091221 07:35
God is for all of us--what God is: Love/Loving, a verb--not noun, kind, merciful, far more forgiving of us than we, of, or for, ourselves--or even of another---or all Others.
In recognition my malevolent self-disregard, the failure to attend my ecology; smoking cigarettes, the use, and abuse, of women who loved me to the best of their giving. In my shame, the endless list remains, conscious, and never far from the heights of ecstasy.
Both extents held well balanced in my conscience.
Of my economy? Welcome to Club Poverty.
I knew the woman who died recently, in small parts--Mary Kroeger--but knew well, and loved/love still, the woman who knew her, more-or-less, from beginning to end--they were friends.
I am impaled upon the counter spike of remembrance; e.g. Rod Steiger in “The Pawn Broker.” I, in that memory, know another small measure, yet significant pain, of the crucifixion.
Ask, and you will receive.
Focus, dedication and conviction for the next, whatever, moments, or eternity.
Mary Kroger was a glorious, intelligent, vibrant and desirable young woman born of a schizophrenic mother. The mother won in the end. Mary died alone and ignored by such as remained of her family; so misunderstood was she as a consequence of her mother’s tutelage of, and in, insanity.
Why was it not me?
I have no authority to diagnose the degree or kind of my mother’s rage yet I bear the stripes of it upon my soul.
I am too ignorant of doubting Thomas and Jesus, their last encounter after His crucifixion, and resurrection, to quote chapter and verse . . . yet in the mention, i am there.
For the meaningless, neglected death of my friend’s best childhood friend . . . oh yes! I remember now breaking bread with her . . . and though she bore no remarkable beauty then, I well remember her shy charm . . . and gratitude while stuffing left overs in her pockets.
To say I will remember Mary in my prayers, is to announce the expected--and anticipated--ritual response. It is the nature of my love to embrace her daily in the mirror of my heart . . .Rest easy Mary as I am sure you do.
God is for all of us--what God is: Love/Loving, a verb--not noun, kind, merciful, far more forgiving of us than we, of, or for, ourselves--or even of another---or all Others.
In recognition my malevolent self-disregard, the failure to attend my ecology; smoking cigarettes, the use, and abuse, of women who loved me to the best of their giving. In my shame, the endless list remains, conscious, and never far from the heights of ecstasy.
Both extents held well balanced in my conscience.
Of my economy? Welcome to Club Poverty.
I knew the woman who died recently, in small parts--Mary Kroeger--but knew well, and loved/love still, the woman who knew her, more-or-less, from beginning to end--they were friends.
I am impaled upon the counter spike of remembrance; e.g. Rod Steiger in “The Pawn Broker.” I, in that memory, know another small measure, yet significant pain, of the crucifixion.
Ask, and you will receive.
Focus, dedication and conviction for the next, whatever, moments, or eternity.
Mary Kroger was a glorious, intelligent, vibrant and desirable young woman born of a schizophrenic mother. The mother won in the end. Mary died alone and ignored by such as remained of her family; so misunderstood was she as a consequence of her mother’s tutelage of, and in, insanity.
Why was it not me?
I have no authority to diagnose the degree or kind of my mother’s rage yet I bear the stripes of it upon my soul.
I am too ignorant of doubting Thomas and Jesus, their last encounter after His crucifixion, and resurrection, to quote chapter and verse . . . yet in the mention, i am there.
For the meaningless, neglected death of my friend’s best childhood friend . . . oh yes! I remember now breaking bread with her . . . and though she bore no remarkable beauty then, I well remember her shy charm . . . and gratitude while stuffing left overs in her pockets.
To say I will remember Mary in my prayers, is to announce the expected--and anticipated--ritual response. It is the nature of my love to embrace her daily in the mirror of my heart . . .Rest easy Mary as I am sure you do.
Winter Solstice
091221 08:18
On this the eve, the longest night, the nadir of my life, I am impelled to move into a new configuration, dedication and conviction that all preceding this moment is refined into love for others--like myself--broken under the wheel of night never become dawn.
I do not ‘know’ how to ‘DO.’ However i know why, and for whom, i now live in Love.
In that statement I am reminded of all my denial; “I am well! How dare you suggest otherwise!” Indignant I am reminded that I was then a child, become parent of loss, and now merely an old man too soon, or not soon enough to die.
We isolate and insulate ourselves in lies; living in desolation. And we are no better than the secrets we bury alive. Who & What haunts us, about & from which we ask no questions; expecting more lies, or silence.
Worse.
Punishment heaped upon insults, terrorism self-righteously justified by parental precedent. They, the victims, victimize their, Legacy, freely given to children without recognition their abused and crushed soul’s potential bequeathed.
On this the eve, the longest night, the nadir of my life, I am impelled to move into a new configuration, dedication and conviction that all preceding this moment is refined into love for others--like myself--broken under the wheel of night never become dawn.
I do not ‘know’ how to ‘DO.’ However i know why, and for whom, i now live in Love.
In that statement I am reminded of all my denial; “I am well! How dare you suggest otherwise!” Indignant I am reminded that I was then a child, become parent of loss, and now merely an old man too soon, or not soon enough to die.
We isolate and insulate ourselves in lies; living in desolation. And we are no better than the secrets we bury alive. Who & What haunts us, about & from which we ask no questions; expecting more lies, or silence.
Worse.
Punishment heaped upon insults, terrorism self-righteously justified by parental precedent. They, the victims, victimize their, Legacy, freely given to children without recognition their abused and crushed soul’s potential bequeathed.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
a truth in your heart of hearts, wherever your soul resides
091219 12:01
. . . a few words of dedication to a narrow focus specific to those in need
Explicit this season, the brevity of light, ‘half night’ plus the soon to come Winter Solstice
Too well remembered the past 68 Christmas nights when I longed never to awaken; all hope forlorn, bereft, desolate . . .
This may be the first and last Christmas of my life and its nearness to that shortest of days no longer terrifying since I now “play it as it lays . . . or as is dealt” my ordinary daily life; not in fear but with confidence that should I not see another night dawn vanquished all is well.
I can tell nor teach you anything that is not currently a truth in your heart of hearts, wherever your soul resides. The gifts of life, short or long, ignoble or royal, are what they are. The only caveat being you will, sooner-or-latter, know it and yourselves blest as I.
Love pours upon you in day and the twinkle of starry nights, throughout all your life. I beg you to receive it and know that you are your own bank account . . . so tremendous that to hold it would be to be suffocated in never being able to receive more, and more; endlessly.
& of this I am confident/convicted that of all life is well & more so day-by-day
Amen.
happy new day dawning 365 24/7
all darkest night, soul/sole experienced, end
& amen & amen 7 x 70 x 7 octillions refined/forgiven
& of course for our family in the Southern Hemisphere the antipode applies:)
. . . a few words of dedication to a narrow focus specific to those in need
Explicit this season, the brevity of light, ‘half night’ plus the soon to come Winter Solstice
Too well remembered the past 68 Christmas nights when I longed never to awaken; all hope forlorn, bereft, desolate . . .
This may be the first and last Christmas of my life and its nearness to that shortest of days no longer terrifying since I now “play it as it lays . . . or as is dealt” my ordinary daily life; not in fear but with confidence that should I not see another night dawn vanquished all is well.
I can tell nor teach you anything that is not currently a truth in your heart of hearts, wherever your soul resides. The gifts of life, short or long, ignoble or royal, are what they are. The only caveat being you will, sooner-or-latter, know it and yourselves blest as I.
Love pours upon you in day and the twinkle of starry nights, throughout all your life. I beg you to receive it and know that you are your own bank account . . . so tremendous that to hold it would be to be suffocated in never being able to receive more, and more; endlessly.
& of this I am confident/convicted that of all life is well & more so day-by-day
Amen.
happy new day dawning 365 24/7
all darkest night, soul/sole experienced, end
& amen & amen 7 x 70 x 7 octillions refined/forgiven
& of course for our family in the Southern Hemisphere the antipode applies:)
Felice Navidad
091219 07:22
I awoke with a different sense of this time and this day and our future together. An expectation of myself given as gift regardless of those received. Unconditionally spent without reservation; no hesitation.
Looking down at my right hand I am astonished at my profligacy gifting myself with a Turquoise ring of remarkable size set in silver, not expensive, yet I am dressed in splendor while otherwise disheveled. Ashamed at the prospect of presenting myself to anyone save the White Wing Doves I love.
Annie is accustomed to my slovenly attire loving me nonetheless.
Life is a fleeting thing while love is eternal. . . .From beginnings and endings it knows not.
I am finding my voice independent, the should’s and ought’s of yesterday, or years before, from the beginning till now. Where have they gone; those pains, sorrows and confusions?
For a brief moment in my experience I’d occupied the lime light for too few years sacrificed? No. I had no sense of giving anything but my trifling attention to Randy’s life with greater ferocity than any object/subject in Art.
I had ‘sailed’ through Johanna’s birth, life and death and collapsed, deaf, dumb, mute and blind at the advent of Randy’s demise. . . .Both now present--presents discovered.
Looking back, at now, the future seems brilliant with the light of season/reasons all the gifts given me at all times. Now that I am collaborative with The Author of Life who being Love fills me with love unrecognized before-during-after; no end of time since it began before clocks and will end never.
To know such peace in a time of terror is a gift beyond all treasure. You need not read, nor ask, since I give it freely without request and am detached your neglect of either this author, The Author or Yourselves, all nearly, dearly, seen, equal.
Felice Navidad
You are all blessed by God and this humble friend
. . . if I long for anything now it is merely that you know yourselves blest, never damned, either way --xoj
I awoke with a different sense of this time and this day and our future together. An expectation of myself given as gift regardless of those received. Unconditionally spent without reservation; no hesitation.
Looking down at my right hand I am astonished at my profligacy gifting myself with a Turquoise ring of remarkable size set in silver, not expensive, yet I am dressed in splendor while otherwise disheveled. Ashamed at the prospect of presenting myself to anyone save the White Wing Doves I love.
Annie is accustomed to my slovenly attire loving me nonetheless.
Life is a fleeting thing while love is eternal. . . .From beginnings and endings it knows not.
I am finding my voice independent, the should’s and ought’s of yesterday, or years before, from the beginning till now. Where have they gone; those pains, sorrows and confusions?
For a brief moment in my experience I’d occupied the lime light for too few years sacrificed? No. I had no sense of giving anything but my trifling attention to Randy’s life with greater ferocity than any object/subject in Art.
I had ‘sailed’ through Johanna’s birth, life and death and collapsed, deaf, dumb, mute and blind at the advent of Randy’s demise. . . .Both now present--presents discovered.
Looking back, at now, the future seems brilliant with the light of season/reasons all the gifts given me at all times. Now that I am collaborative with The Author of Life who being Love fills me with love unrecognized before-during-after; no end of time since it began before clocks and will end never.
To know such peace in a time of terror is a gift beyond all treasure. You need not read, nor ask, since I give it freely without request and am detached your neglect of either this author, The Author or Yourselves, all nearly, dearly, seen, equal.
Felice Navidad
You are all blessed by God and this humble friend
. . . if I long for anything now it is merely that you know yourselves blest, never damned, either way --xoj
. . . .Random, rouge, Christmas Thoughts . . .
091218 08:16
--Walter Lippmann : American journalist (1889-1974)
"A free press is not a privilege but an organic necessity in a great society"
. . . .well, actually a prayer for freedom from ignorance and superstition . . .
It is the season of giving, of love generosity, hope for the future and I have favorite charities too. Foremost, topmost, amongst them is faith in the Internet to educate all man-person-woman-kind generously. Though I doubt that my family will read this, as written or intended. I am able to fully communicate my dedication of myself to them &/or my meager resources for them. I will give such as I can to Wikipedia & sister projects:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Main_Page
Additionally to:
INFORMATION CLEARING HOUSE. NEWS, COMMENTARY & INSIGHT
One person's effort to correct the distorted perceptions provided by commercial US media. ... Yeswecanistan; By William Blum; Why should anyone be surprised at Obama's foreign policy in the White House? He has not even banned torture, contrary to what...
234k - 33 sec @ 56k
www.informationclearinghouse.info/
. . . though I doubt God is ‘political’, I am. And am willing to go where ‘angels fear to tread . . . ‘
I am a journalist, through-and-through, and bored with standing covert in the closet silent, mute but never blind; fearful and muzzled the offence to anyone’s religion, philosophy or teleology. Of/for this truth am I willing to die, God forgive me, as Jesus did, for you; all of YOU.
My fleeting moments of doubt, nascent fear, flee in ever growing conviction we are too near the end of everything to hide my passion that if we collectively die, we do so courageously
. . . never forget we are All Precious To God. --xoj
--Walter Lippmann : American journalist (1889-1974)
"A free press is not a privilege but an organic necessity in a great society"
. . . .well, actually a prayer for freedom from ignorance and superstition . . .
It is the season of giving, of love generosity, hope for the future and I have favorite charities too. Foremost, topmost, amongst them is faith in the Internet to educate all man-person-woman-kind generously. Though I doubt that my family will read this, as written or intended. I am able to fully communicate my dedication of myself to them &/or my meager resources for them. I will give such as I can to Wikipedia & sister projects:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Main_Page
Additionally to:
INFORMATION CLEARING HOUSE. NEWS, COMMENTARY & INSIGHT
One person's effort to correct the distorted perceptions provided by commercial US media. ... Yeswecanistan; By William Blum; Why should anyone be surprised at Obama's foreign policy in the White House? He has not even banned torture, contrary to what...
234k - 33 sec @ 56k
www.informationclearinghouse.info/
. . . though I doubt God is ‘political’, I am. And am willing to go where ‘angels fear to tread . . . ‘
I am a journalist, through-and-through, and bored with standing covert in the closet silent, mute but never blind; fearful and muzzled the offence to anyone’s religion, philosophy or teleology. Of/for this truth am I willing to die, God forgive me, as Jesus did, for you; all of YOU.
My fleeting moments of doubt, nascent fear, flee in ever growing conviction we are too near the end of everything to hide my passion that if we collectively die, we do so courageously
. . . never forget we are All Precious To God. --xoj
. . . reborn daily in . . . .
091218 07:33
I am reborn daily in Jesus. Not to be Him but myself. Eclectic in matters spiritual and religious aware God’s gift of self that we live at all, much less love our lives and all life surrounding us. It is my theology that we are all unique and precious different as snow flakes, none, no one like another yet in love do we live and make possible life for others. Our children, of course, yet it is equally blest to adopt and be parent to those whose lives otherwise would be ignored.
None is ‘in charge’ since the I/Thou is always with us silently awaiting the moment of our conversion from hatred, feigned indifference to love and immersion into the flowing, sometimes raging, other times gently flowing, river into eternity . . . We the chalice and the wine, pure water, known nowhere else within our sight. Our knowing is always outward moving beyond our grasp yet within is the eternal and infinite Other who asks only that we be ourselves transparently sincerely and fluidly bubbling around the boulders obstructing our passage self correcting; self healing given the ‘doctor’ of Creation apparent internal eternal outward always Other.
All else is adornment, costume jewelry, worn to cover our naked terror of poverty, meaningless lives otherwise dedicated to everything rather than Truth.
We, the girl and I, made love eventually. Our ‘affair’ abandoned for whatever, yet our love lives in me, not merely the fleeting ecstasy of sex but the ever constant embrace of mutually adored life as art.
In love everything is possible
In death everything ends
or does it?
. . . we, are each others, keeper responsible for all life
can we not lay aside the dagger pointed at from to each other’s eyes
random? This date, this time discovery:
--P. Hill
“Knowledge is Freedom: hide it, and it withers; share it, and it blooms”
--Paul Klee
“Art does not reproduce the visible; rather, it makes visible.”
I am reborn daily in Jesus. Not to be Him but myself. Eclectic in matters spiritual and religious aware God’s gift of self that we live at all, much less love our lives and all life surrounding us. It is my theology that we are all unique and precious different as snow flakes, none, no one like another yet in love do we live and make possible life for others. Our children, of course, yet it is equally blest to adopt and be parent to those whose lives otherwise would be ignored.
None is ‘in charge’ since the I/Thou is always with us silently awaiting the moment of our conversion from hatred, feigned indifference to love and immersion into the flowing, sometimes raging, other times gently flowing, river into eternity . . . We the chalice and the wine, pure water, known nowhere else within our sight. Our knowing is always outward moving beyond our grasp yet within is the eternal and infinite Other who asks only that we be ourselves transparently sincerely and fluidly bubbling around the boulders obstructing our passage self correcting; self healing given the ‘doctor’ of Creation apparent internal eternal outward always Other.
All else is adornment, costume jewelry, worn to cover our naked terror of poverty, meaningless lives otherwise dedicated to everything rather than Truth.
We, the girl and I, made love eventually. Our ‘affair’ abandoned for whatever, yet our love lives in me, not merely the fleeting ecstasy of sex but the ever constant embrace of mutually adored life as art.
In love everything is possible
In death everything ends
or does it?
. . . we, are each others, keeper responsible for all life
can we not lay aside the dagger pointed at from to each other’s eyes
random? This date, this time discovery:
--P. Hill
“Knowledge is Freedom: hide it, and it withers; share it, and it blooms”
--Paul Klee
“Art does not reproduce the visible; rather, it makes visible.”
. . . person-hood
091218 06:53
This date and a bit before this hour, I awoke conscious of a woman who loved me when I loved myself not. And I loved myself less while in training to defend our nation, this blest place. To me did she send a box filled with post cards from all the cultures of person-hood and then I did not understand the height width breadth of her consciousness the glory of all Art. I would upon barrack cot sit paging though them one-by-one with slowly dawning realization that the greatest Art is life itself.
I’ve left behind the box in one of many leave takings, dysfunctional relationships abandoned and trashed, as I’d been from beginning until now, the birthday of my father who watched in silence my training to be who and what I am this moment. The first and last day in infinity the eternal NOW. It is no mean trick to forgive such silence, yet now I do love him more than at any other time of our lives together or apart. Courage does not always wear a uniform of dedication, badge, rank or intention clear.
Yet the same applies to the mother who with fist, bludgeoning spoken rage screamed my stupidity and failure to be what she so confidently presumed would save me in the maelstrom of our time from Depression she had survived as my father did. Then War with the World embroiled--yet I loved them then, I love them still, with passion I adore their tutelage more now nearly equally to that of our mutual Creator whose love is both terrible and gentle as a Dove’s under feathers floating in a still pond riffled with gentle sighs.
. . . if we sow death we must accept that death will sew us into itself. To weave love is to give generously of self to others that they live as the child whose birth we celebrate soon. Who died for us that we live free of fear. He died, executed for inconvenience to the time in which He walked this earth, a criminal amongst criminals, rebellious; a terrorist. His sacrifice being sacrificed . . . crucified slow humiliating suffocation blessedly brief in his case was the final sacrifice? Yet knowing this he was born, lived, walked amongst us and visible in the poor remains awaiting to be resurrected in each and all persons . . .
This date and a bit before this hour, I awoke conscious of a woman who loved me when I loved myself not. And I loved myself less while in training to defend our nation, this blest place. To me did she send a box filled with post cards from all the cultures of person-hood and then I did not understand the height width breadth of her consciousness the glory of all Art. I would upon barrack cot sit paging though them one-by-one with slowly dawning realization that the greatest Art is life itself.
I’ve left behind the box in one of many leave takings, dysfunctional relationships abandoned and trashed, as I’d been from beginning until now, the birthday of my father who watched in silence my training to be who and what I am this moment. The first and last day in infinity the eternal NOW. It is no mean trick to forgive such silence, yet now I do love him more than at any other time of our lives together or apart. Courage does not always wear a uniform of dedication, badge, rank or intention clear.
Yet the same applies to the mother who with fist, bludgeoning spoken rage screamed my stupidity and failure to be what she so confidently presumed would save me in the maelstrom of our time from Depression she had survived as my father did. Then War with the World embroiled--yet I loved them then, I love them still, with passion I adore their tutelage more now nearly equally to that of our mutual Creator whose love is both terrible and gentle as a Dove’s under feathers floating in a still pond riffled with gentle sighs.
. . . if we sow death we must accept that death will sew us into itself. To weave love is to give generously of self to others that they live as the child whose birth we celebrate soon. Who died for us that we live free of fear. He died, executed for inconvenience to the time in which He walked this earth, a criminal amongst criminals, rebellious; a terrorist. His sacrifice being sacrificed . . . crucified slow humiliating suffocation blessedly brief in his case was the final sacrifice? Yet knowing this he was born, lived, walked amongst us and visible in the poor remains awaiting to be resurrected in each and all persons . . .
Universal conspiracy with Love
091218 05:58
Life ultimately is being drawn into a Universal conspiracy with Love
the covert Love affair between all Life and God the Creator of it, no matter brief or long, God is amazed at our Love for our Parent who is . . . well draw near and I’ll tell you upon my exit this blaze of love into the Starry, starry heavens above.
This old man drawing closer, is gifted with the simple gestures of kindness, unspeakable before. Knit into a tapestry of glory invisible yet clearly apparent in all things and all moments adored growing ever younger awaiting the moment in eternity upon our pretty blue marble created for us. Sweet simplicity welded from agony and bliss the eternal Now. Loom of love stirring the stillest night a gentle gesture of a private breeze affirmed the prayer of Thanksgiving, anticipated Holy Nativity then sacrifice that we live at all in All Love apparent.
In a child’s heart the seasons cycle swiftly perhaps only in this infant we await reborn annually who never left us. To Whom do I address my passion for such love. Love itself being God and all of humanity equally drawn and born in Love.
Be strong of Self for you were uniquely created of God to be within the magnificent cycles, the food chain of love, by God we are magnified amplified in all our moments of slumber and wakefulness. No gesture of kindness goes unnoticed, or remarked, upon the accountancy awaiting our end; this brief tenancy souls clothed in bodies now yet to be seen the before and after of everything. And we are so informed by our enemies as well as our friends. What you love is God manifest in that which you are conscious of and equally in the enemy you kill your self.
In no small measure is this the extent of our treasure, we have, and are had, by God from beginning to end. Mysterious until found within and surrounded by predator/prey/prayer.
Life ultimately is being drawn into a Universal conspiracy with Love
the covert Love affair between all Life and God the Creator of it, no matter brief or long, God is amazed at our Love for our Parent who is . . . well draw near and I’ll tell you upon my exit this blaze of love into the Starry, starry heavens above.
This old man drawing closer, is gifted with the simple gestures of kindness, unspeakable before. Knit into a tapestry of glory invisible yet clearly apparent in all things and all moments adored growing ever younger awaiting the moment in eternity upon our pretty blue marble created for us. Sweet simplicity welded from agony and bliss the eternal Now. Loom of love stirring the stillest night a gentle gesture of a private breeze affirmed the prayer of Thanksgiving, anticipated Holy Nativity then sacrifice that we live at all in All Love apparent.
In a child’s heart the seasons cycle swiftly perhaps only in this infant we await reborn annually who never left us. To Whom do I address my passion for such love. Love itself being God and all of humanity equally drawn and born in Love.
Be strong of Self for you were uniquely created of God to be within the magnificent cycles, the food chain of love, by God we are magnified amplified in all our moments of slumber and wakefulness. No gesture of kindness goes unnoticed, or remarked, upon the accountancy awaiting our end; this brief tenancy souls clothed in bodies now yet to be seen the before and after of everything. And we are so informed by our enemies as well as our friends. What you love is God manifest in that which you are conscious of and equally in the enemy you kill your self.
In no small measure is this the extent of our treasure, we have, and are had, by God from beginning to end. Mysterious until found within and surrounded by predator/prey/prayer.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
. . . my choice to eat my pain and rage for the recent loss of $1,000
091217 10:50
Anger has owned/possessed most of my life. Then it became rage against many people events, elements and factors including my parents, authority, et etcetera; including the Devil & God . . . and then myself for which I could, but refused to, be forgiven until quite recently; too late to do me much good for all the evil waste of my life and time; then & now.
I have just cause to reexamine my penchant and proclivity--other words to describe “choice”--to move in the direction of a world I wish to have life in, and one that makes love possible: to have meaning, value and being in.
My loses are, to me, enormous in costs. I am not alone in this experience since we all suffer. Example: The cost of health care raises daily yet the actual benefits diminish and people, men, women and children die . . .
“The bell tolls for” . . . me and thee--and the bell ringer.
Being curious I tend to consider the many paths I might take in my next statement.
And this, of course, drives others, especially those who seek answers from ‘fixed and immutable’ resources--let “Mikey” or “God”--take care of IT, or ME, or EVERYTHING! ‘Please we plead, implore and pray.’ Well I am conscious that I make some insane, yet others find peace in my being me.
Prayer is not a ritual activity for me. It is a process and dialog with a Personality fluid, not situational, a Being--not a thing. I love The Person of Jesus and in no small way enter Hell with Him and then am resurrected fully; what was before during and after creation by The Parent of us all. Yet I remain imperfect and grateful for being that; not bearing fully the weights that God does.
“ 21:10
Happily, I’ve waited all day to readdress reread and edit the above. Many telephone calls received, none sent, affirmed my choice to eat my pain and rage for the recent loss of $1,000 through a camera broker who broke it off in my heart.
So what?
Well I’ll just add it to the $3 million and climbing, lost in the past thirty years. Factually/actually I rather like poverty which compared to the rest of the world is wealth. Add to that, I’ve never been happier, never cried harder and where I am now is the best ever . . . lies never suited me much and they are so hard to sustain. Better yet; I’m not for sale and my attention is precious.
-- Confucius
"Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves."
“. . . Love your enemies . . .” --Jesus
. . . it takes little courage to kill but much to love --xoj
Anger has owned/possessed most of my life. Then it became rage against many people events, elements and factors including my parents, authority, et etcetera; including the Devil & God . . . and then myself for which I could, but refused to, be forgiven until quite recently; too late to do me much good for all the evil waste of my life and time; then & now.
I have just cause to reexamine my penchant and proclivity--other words to describe “choice”--to move in the direction of a world I wish to have life in, and one that makes love possible: to have meaning, value and being in.
My loses are, to me, enormous in costs. I am not alone in this experience since we all suffer. Example: The cost of health care raises daily yet the actual benefits diminish and people, men, women and children die . . .
“The bell tolls for” . . . me and thee--and the bell ringer.
Being curious I tend to consider the many paths I might take in my next statement.
And this, of course, drives others, especially those who seek answers from ‘fixed and immutable’ resources--let “Mikey” or “God”--take care of IT, or ME, or EVERYTHING! ‘Please we plead, implore and pray.’ Well I am conscious that I make some insane, yet others find peace in my being me.
Prayer is not a ritual activity for me. It is a process and dialog with a Personality fluid, not situational, a Being--not a thing. I love The Person of Jesus and in no small way enter Hell with Him and then am resurrected fully; what was before during and after creation by The Parent of us all. Yet I remain imperfect and grateful for being that; not bearing fully the weights that God does.
“ 21:10
Happily, I’ve waited all day to readdress reread and edit the above. Many telephone calls received, none sent, affirmed my choice to eat my pain and rage for the recent loss of $1,000 through a camera broker who broke it off in my heart.
So what?
Well I’ll just add it to the $3 million and climbing, lost in the past thirty years. Factually/actually I rather like poverty which compared to the rest of the world is wealth. Add to that, I’ve never been happier, never cried harder and where I am now is the best ever . . . lies never suited me much and they are so hard to sustain. Better yet; I’m not for sale and my attention is precious.
-- Confucius
"Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves."
“. . . Love your enemies . . .” --Jesus
. . . it takes little courage to kill but much to love --xoj
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
smiling in bliss ignore me please
091215 14:00
Knowing not then or now, comely or hideous, the streets of Manhattan remained an oasis of womanhood enchanted. In spring, fall, winter, summer the women who ignored me, my adoration at twelve years-of-age, occasionally would in kindness notice and attend my love of their beauty, great, small, wide and tall.
Of women I have known too much tribulation since I am helpless, mostly for their random kindness, gentle grace, seeing my adolescent face, ignoring my lusty thoughts, longings and aspirations for a ‘normal’ future, bed, wed, wife, child or children; and then more of the best things in life afterward.
Of course it is now somewhat scrambled, the sequence of wed, bed, et etcetera, no matter those gone long ago days.
I should be, but am not, an old drooling fool, lusting lasciviously for what I longed for, and received partially then, and now am chagrined I missed Mary’s Birthday, or was it merely the annunciation? Levitation to deity, finally in the Godhead?
Seen partially in dreams, otherwise in all women young, old, nubile or sterile, I weep no more for having none save Annie who adores me as I she. Long bushy tail and all inhaling fur balls coughing up. Small wonder I adore cats since instead of lavishing licks of ‘feed me’, she bites the bejesus out of me while I thin her fur.
And in ecstasy we arise at the same predawn hours ignored, at other times she awakens me whimpering, I think she thinks I died in my sleep. Apnea you know of course you don’t since even should you know you soon come to not care, strokes and cardiac events, stoppages or arrivals who cares, I don’t. . . . or maybe I glow in the dark floating above the covers disturbing her slumber?
I was thinking about the poor Polar Bears, so white, and curious, such pets we’ve made of them with sulphur exhausted from obscenely profitable electric utility pirates and privateers politicians representing themselves greedily selling the skins of Polar Bears and private citizens for any means to their ends. Why don’t we skin them alive and wear their coats? Of course I speak of the most polluted species on earth, no malevolence in that, I mean of course, the Polar Bears. And the politicians are doomed debating weird science foolishly playing the paying in later futures when their children safe in America will merely die from neglect.
Oh well, I am merely a wannabe savage, aware the loss of the entire planet, and what will remain? Conservancy of status quo held privately, while fiddling around with cooking books. Where will They Go? Safety assured by policies taken at our expense of course.
Heaven I sense will be just wonderful, perfect attendance of those whose lives dedicated to taking you’re’s and mine, perpetually conscious of endless shame seeing the showers of Buchenwald powered by Ford and other Utilities/Commodities adored now but then no heat nor cold just perpetual guilt and no harm nor death allowed them.
I am not confident the mirror of Native Spirituality, or Semite, which am I an Anglo? Perhaps Taoist. Whatever, I gotta go with what I’ve got following the King of Servants who remains in my heart forever Jewish and Jerusalem The Entire World. . . .
and love best the son and the mother sent by the father to heal us all
. . . expunged from Care two for caring too much? What me worry smiling in bliss ignore me please
Knowing not then or now, comely or hideous, the streets of Manhattan remained an oasis of womanhood enchanted. In spring, fall, winter, summer the women who ignored me, my adoration at twelve years-of-age, occasionally would in kindness notice and attend my love of their beauty, great, small, wide and tall.
Of women I have known too much tribulation since I am helpless, mostly for their random kindness, gentle grace, seeing my adolescent face, ignoring my lusty thoughts, longings and aspirations for a ‘normal’ future, bed, wed, wife, child or children; and then more of the best things in life afterward.
Of course it is now somewhat scrambled, the sequence of wed, bed, et etcetera, no matter those gone long ago days.
I should be, but am not, an old drooling fool, lusting lasciviously for what I longed for, and received partially then, and now am chagrined I missed Mary’s Birthday, or was it merely the annunciation? Levitation to deity, finally in the Godhead?
Seen partially in dreams, otherwise in all women young, old, nubile or sterile, I weep no more for having none save Annie who adores me as I she. Long bushy tail and all inhaling fur balls coughing up. Small wonder I adore cats since instead of lavishing licks of ‘feed me’, she bites the bejesus out of me while I thin her fur.
And in ecstasy we arise at the same predawn hours ignored, at other times she awakens me whimpering, I think she thinks I died in my sleep. Apnea you know of course you don’t since even should you know you soon come to not care, strokes and cardiac events, stoppages or arrivals who cares, I don’t. . . . or maybe I glow in the dark floating above the covers disturbing her slumber?
I was thinking about the poor Polar Bears, so white, and curious, such pets we’ve made of them with sulphur exhausted from obscenely profitable electric utility pirates and privateers politicians representing themselves greedily selling the skins of Polar Bears and private citizens for any means to their ends. Why don’t we skin them alive and wear their coats? Of course I speak of the most polluted species on earth, no malevolence in that, I mean of course, the Polar Bears. And the politicians are doomed debating weird science foolishly playing the paying in later futures when their children safe in America will merely die from neglect.
Oh well, I am merely a wannabe savage, aware the loss of the entire planet, and what will remain? Conservancy of status quo held privately, while fiddling around with cooking books. Where will They Go? Safety assured by policies taken at our expense of course.
Heaven I sense will be just wonderful, perfect attendance of those whose lives dedicated to taking you’re’s and mine, perpetually conscious of endless shame seeing the showers of Buchenwald powered by Ford and other Utilities/Commodities adored now but then no heat nor cold just perpetual guilt and no harm nor death allowed them.
I am not confident the mirror of Native Spirituality, or Semite, which am I an Anglo? Perhaps Taoist. Whatever, I gotta go with what I’ve got following the King of Servants who remains in my heart forever Jewish and Jerusalem The Entire World. . . .
and love best the son and the mother sent by the father to heal us all
. . . expunged from Care two for caring too much? What me worry smiling in bliss ignore me please
I have my love, and have not my beloved, yet.
091215 04:51
24/7 365 defines my life. No longer in harness to the agendas of others, I am at times surprised by such as remains of my family and life. Their vigor, beauty and youth reassures me that all is, more-or-less, well. I can leave the arena of life safe in their hands. And yes I cherish my role as a grandfather of sorts. The disconnect began too early and my focus turned inward; those hyper-vigilance blues became my theme song. But fate, karma or God always is at play drawing us into the healing pool of reality.
The days, hours, minutes become ineluctable and precious. Time parsed to this is that, and that is this, values conscious and conscience examined. At times I simply relax finding myself at rest and blest by the truths of everything.
What is Truth?
What is Trust?
What sees and evaluates the differences, and what remains the same, with or without being noticed? The more I presume to know the truths of others, their cares, woes and joys, the more I realize exactly how little I had to do with the child who now writes and annotates life with photographs.
“Its all about you!” --Norm Ouellet
Of the people who loving/loved/love me still when I knew myself unlovable and unworthy of life, remain beloved, yet more beloved is the force and power of life’s courses . . . a raging swollen river filled with boulders upon which some are smashed, and others flow over and around, immune from peril.
I am weeping now and a small quiet voice telling me it’s okay.
I’ve discovered heroes and in my inordinate, perhaps obsessive/compulsive, or merely addictive attention, come to love them, their choices and behaviors. I now want to follow them more closely and go wherever they went. Going as far as Life goes and beyond to whatever.
Odd for an old man, who was a broken dysfunctional little boy, to finally find the courage to live and love free of expectations and conditions; the gift given unconditionally--totally.
Why? Is, I now conclude and am convicted by, the shortest prayer in the Universe. Ask, and you will find answers given freely by the reality of your however you define all that is good, loving and true.
Since I’ve drown five, or more times over, and known the delicious giving up of my life to the ineluctable--inevitability of consciousness death and survived. Why? It was not for me to decide at that moment as Jesus, or Dietrich Bonhoeffer, did, when “their time came” yet. And so it seems that I join that which sees me and know there is more beyond the fear, and welcome, awaiting the choice of brothers dying for brothers and sisters who will remain safe, the gift freely given in love.
I have my love, and have not my beloved, yet.
24/7 365 defines my life. No longer in harness to the agendas of others, I am at times surprised by such as remains of my family and life. Their vigor, beauty and youth reassures me that all is, more-or-less, well. I can leave the arena of life safe in their hands. And yes I cherish my role as a grandfather of sorts. The disconnect began too early and my focus turned inward; those hyper-vigilance blues became my theme song. But fate, karma or God always is at play drawing us into the healing pool of reality.
The days, hours, minutes become ineluctable and precious. Time parsed to this is that, and that is this, values conscious and conscience examined. At times I simply relax finding myself at rest and blest by the truths of everything.
What is Truth?
What is Trust?
What sees and evaluates the differences, and what remains the same, with or without being noticed? The more I presume to know the truths of others, their cares, woes and joys, the more I realize exactly how little I had to do with the child who now writes and annotates life with photographs.
“Its all about you!” --Norm Ouellet
Of the people who loving/loved/love me still when I knew myself unlovable and unworthy of life, remain beloved, yet more beloved is the force and power of life’s courses . . . a raging swollen river filled with boulders upon which some are smashed, and others flow over and around, immune from peril.
I am weeping now and a small quiet voice telling me it’s okay.
I’ve discovered heroes and in my inordinate, perhaps obsessive/compulsive, or merely addictive attention, come to love them, their choices and behaviors. I now want to follow them more closely and go wherever they went. Going as far as Life goes and beyond to whatever.
Odd for an old man, who was a broken dysfunctional little boy, to finally find the courage to live and love free of expectations and conditions; the gift given unconditionally--totally.
Why? Is, I now conclude and am convicted by, the shortest prayer in the Universe. Ask, and you will find answers given freely by the reality of your however you define all that is good, loving and true.
Since I’ve drown five, or more times over, and known the delicious giving up of my life to the ineluctable--inevitability of consciousness death and survived. Why? It was not for me to decide at that moment as Jesus, or Dietrich Bonhoeffer, did, when “their time came” yet. And so it seems that I join that which sees me and know there is more beyond the fear, and welcome, awaiting the choice of brothers dying for brothers and sisters who will remain safe, the gift freely given in love.
I have my love, and have not my beloved, yet.
my longing to be face-to-face with . . . .
091215 05:33
The slow orderly minuet of death is fascinating to me.
By choice, or chance, I’ve attended both birth and death, plus much of the in-between, called life. It is my bliss at the cusp of departure to speak of values, meanings and beginnings and endings; the joy of a grandfather/grandmother to watch and applauded the play of children yet to be ground into the earth as I/we are and anticipate their adapting, improvisation and prevailing the trials and joys of their lives, safe in seeing them do so.
Curious? Of course!
From where and to what do they go? And of course--Why?
Happily I am not President of The United States, or have any authority to give or take life, save in what I am willing to live and/or die for. The Passion is something entered into as a consequence of my curiosity. Of the courage I found there I am too well aware that I lack it, in most of my days, hours, moments. Yet I remain conscious that “my time will come.” No one escapes; 100% die. And in death we become equal. The frenzy ends and everyday a Sabbath day, endless days of rest, all the same by any other name. All languages sing the same song in the end.
Fiction and children’s stories couch life in sugar coated pills unpalatable to me. Perhaps I read too much as a child seeking sanctuary in libraries?
I chortle at my choices. What would I long to have in desolation? Bible, Dictionary and Willie Shakespeare. Yes! Yet it seems in my slow dance toward what lays forward I would rather read the self who sees what I adore, present/past. And in reading that I see what sees me in the before and after life.
The Author of me/us, and all creation, is wonderful, and judges the ordinary of life, telling me to write instead of heal those whose pain I am all too well aware. And I welcome the shortness of my reach knowing that so long as I attend the extraordinary of everyday life, I am well, safe and going where intended.
I realize that I am terrible to know in my rage and passion for others since, it is so very inconvenient to have one’s attention drawn, involuntarily, to that which is otherwise avoided or denied. I am guilty of attempting to cling to many different constructs which I now analogize as rapidly deflating ‘life preservers.’ Addictions, fetishes, fixed and immutable truths, never really became more than platitudes, or palliatives, inadequate to my needs.
I am humiliated by my longing to be face-to-face with God outside God’s presence in everyone and thing I see. . . .What human hand, invention, convention could hold my heart and mind healed now so sweetly as those hands holding me vertical when I would otherwise sleep?
I am no thief of other’s truths and generally, gently, leave them to their conceits. In that statement of intention and practice I discover that there is very little potential in one individual without community or communion; not war but negotiation; win-win.
The slow orderly minuet of death is fascinating to me.
By choice, or chance, I’ve attended both birth and death, plus much of the in-between, called life. It is my bliss at the cusp of departure to speak of values, meanings and beginnings and endings; the joy of a grandfather/grandmother to watch and applauded the play of children yet to be ground into the earth as I/we are and anticipate their adapting, improvisation and prevailing the trials and joys of their lives, safe in seeing them do so.
Curious? Of course!
From where and to what do they go? And of course--Why?
Happily I am not President of The United States, or have any authority to give or take life, save in what I am willing to live and/or die for. The Passion is something entered into as a consequence of my curiosity. Of the courage I found there I am too well aware that I lack it, in most of my days, hours, moments. Yet I remain conscious that “my time will come.” No one escapes; 100% die. And in death we become equal. The frenzy ends and everyday a Sabbath day, endless days of rest, all the same by any other name. All languages sing the same song in the end.
Fiction and children’s stories couch life in sugar coated pills unpalatable to me. Perhaps I read too much as a child seeking sanctuary in libraries?
I chortle at my choices. What would I long to have in desolation? Bible, Dictionary and Willie Shakespeare. Yes! Yet it seems in my slow dance toward what lays forward I would rather read the self who sees what I adore, present/past. And in reading that I see what sees me in the before and after life.
The Author of me/us, and all creation, is wonderful, and judges the ordinary of life, telling me to write instead of heal those whose pain I am all too well aware. And I welcome the shortness of my reach knowing that so long as I attend the extraordinary of everyday life, I am well, safe and going where intended.
I realize that I am terrible to know in my rage and passion for others since, it is so very inconvenient to have one’s attention drawn, involuntarily, to that which is otherwise avoided or denied. I am guilty of attempting to cling to many different constructs which I now analogize as rapidly deflating ‘life preservers.’ Addictions, fetishes, fixed and immutable truths, never really became more than platitudes, or palliatives, inadequate to my needs.
I am humiliated by my longing to be face-to-face with God outside God’s presence in everyone and thing I see. . . .What human hand, invention, convention could hold my heart and mind healed now so sweetly as those hands holding me vertical when I would otherwise sleep?
I am no thief of other’s truths and generally, gently, leave them to their conceits. In that statement of intention and practice I discover that there is very little potential in one individual without community or communion; not war but negotiation; win-win.
. . . silence of my moment consume me?
091215 06:24
Why can I not simply let the silence of my moment consume me?
Why now, before the first and best Christmas of my life, do I belabor the meanings of it, and the inevitable Easter to follow?
The cycles of time are now meaningless to me, and my oblivion precious, a wealth beyond any treasury in life. Astonished that I yet live when I presumed my life should have ended long ago. When you befriend, accept and love yourself, oddly wonderful things begin to enter into the ordinary of you day. The measure of one’s life is the value of being fully conscious of others and yourself in context--dancing. To flog dead dogs is pointless. When I meet death walking and talking I allow the Author to take over and know that all is well. The meeting and greeting merely Emily Post civility.
Maybe, perhaps, maybe not, that is why original sin is so beguiling . . . no longer amusing or bemusing . . . it seems my simpletons conviction “fear” is our greatest waste in life.
“Evil”
“Sin”
. . . equate as follows; Evil is waste and fear wastes life.
Speaking, of and for myself, I know better both qualities as choices denied. Of rage, mayhem and destruction these violence's have I inflected upon myself . . . yet I live? . . . Why?
I oft times glibly project/imagine metaphors of fantastic destruction making “God’s Wrath” a joke. Save in retrospect, I am shown that it is I who did that to the other, and I am guilty, convicted and executed in abject humiliation.
My extremes never allowed the experience of the antipode. Grace, love, mercy, forgiveness is oft times the most impossible gift to receive, inconceivable to accept. . . .Why me? What for? At what cost does one receive such gifts?
Overwhelmed and rendered inconsequential dust easily blown/flown away.
I paused from my breakfast of sweet black coffee and the umpteenth, whatever, cigarette, stomach shrieking and fed the birds. I adore greeting the dawn’s loom with gratitude now remembering Christmas’s past abhorred. I know it is a silly thing to mention but upon the horizon I saw a flock of White Wing Doves wheeling in unison--a smile upon my lips.
Rage is the antipode of love and describes the height, width breadth of one’s being both.
Thank God, God is far more patient than eye.
Why can I not simply let the silence of my moment consume me?
Why now, before the first and best Christmas of my life, do I belabor the meanings of it, and the inevitable Easter to follow?
The cycles of time are now meaningless to me, and my oblivion precious, a wealth beyond any treasury in life. Astonished that I yet live when I presumed my life should have ended long ago. When you befriend, accept and love yourself, oddly wonderful things begin to enter into the ordinary of you day. The measure of one’s life is the value of being fully conscious of others and yourself in context--dancing. To flog dead dogs is pointless. When I meet death walking and talking I allow the Author to take over and know that all is well. The meeting and greeting merely Emily Post civility.
Maybe, perhaps, maybe not, that is why original sin is so beguiling . . . no longer amusing or bemusing . . . it seems my simpletons conviction “fear” is our greatest waste in life.
“Evil”
“Sin”
. . . equate as follows; Evil is waste and fear wastes life.
Speaking, of and for myself, I know better both qualities as choices denied. Of rage, mayhem and destruction these violence's have I inflected upon myself . . . yet I live? . . . Why?
I oft times glibly project/imagine metaphors of fantastic destruction making “God’s Wrath” a joke. Save in retrospect, I am shown that it is I who did that to the other, and I am guilty, convicted and executed in abject humiliation.
My extremes never allowed the experience of the antipode. Grace, love, mercy, forgiveness is oft times the most impossible gift to receive, inconceivable to accept. . . .Why me? What for? At what cost does one receive such gifts?
Overwhelmed and rendered inconsequential dust easily blown/flown away.
I paused from my breakfast of sweet black coffee and the umpteenth, whatever, cigarette, stomach shrieking and fed the birds. I adore greeting the dawn’s loom with gratitude now remembering Christmas’s past abhorred. I know it is a silly thing to mention but upon the horizon I saw a flock of White Wing Doves wheeling in unison--a smile upon my lips.
Rage is the antipode of love and describes the height, width breadth of one’s being both.
Thank God, God is far more patient than eye.
Requiem for a sparrow
091215 08:33
Requiem for a sparrow who crashed against my widow
laying supine dying? What to do? I covered, dare I say ‘it’, not knowing
male from female filled with sorrowed confusion to end it’s agony or wait
would I rather be ended so quickly crushed beneath the foot held in abeyance or
to die knowing each last exquisite breath?
Rejoice my prayer to not play at being the determinate factor the bird is standing
now moving out from under the dish towel given in comfort while dying.
"Education is the transmission of civilization." --Will Durant
. . . this date, this time: ‘It is not what we teach but what we demonstrate that teaches best the horror of life . . . and of joy?’ --xoj
. . . later on: Resurrection! The sparrow lives! and is flow while I watched joyous
Of life is memories now a life never lived but survived and my joy that the sparrow is flown is joy enough for eternity since it best describes joy life resurrected from death survived partially now reconciled and justified no fear of death, birth or eternity.
Memories and meanings, origins of now . . .
As child I fed the horrors of home, merely my parent’s house, upon a tricycle at something like four--I’ll ignore the panty less girl who oft times accompanied me--and remember only seeing a nest fallen from far above the tenement towering above my short stature. Four, or more, baby, probably, pigeons--beaks rictus of hunger and closed eyes in astonished death.
. . . I think now I know the cause of my destruction all preceding this bliss, The Land of Enchantment, the camera in mind recording what otherwise would cause unmanly weeping in harness the agenda’s of others no longer my concern save my own now. . . .for you, all You are precious to God.
Requiem for a sparrow who crashed against my widow
laying supine dying? What to do? I covered, dare I say ‘it’, not knowing
male from female filled with sorrowed confusion to end it’s agony or wait
would I rather be ended so quickly crushed beneath the foot held in abeyance or
to die knowing each last exquisite breath?
Rejoice my prayer to not play at being the determinate factor the bird is standing
now moving out from under the dish towel given in comfort while dying.
"Education is the transmission of civilization." --Will Durant
. . . this date, this time: ‘It is not what we teach but what we demonstrate that teaches best the horror of life . . . and of joy?’ --xoj
. . . later on: Resurrection! The sparrow lives! and is flow while I watched joyous
Of life is memories now a life never lived but survived and my joy that the sparrow is flown is joy enough for eternity since it best describes joy life resurrected from death survived partially now reconciled and justified no fear of death, birth or eternity.
Memories and meanings, origins of now . . .
As child I fed the horrors of home, merely my parent’s house, upon a tricycle at something like four--I’ll ignore the panty less girl who oft times accompanied me--and remember only seeing a nest fallen from far above the tenement towering above my short stature. Four, or more, baby, probably, pigeons--beaks rictus of hunger and closed eyes in astonished death.
. . . I think now I know the cause of my destruction all preceding this bliss, The Land of Enchantment, the camera in mind recording what otherwise would cause unmanly weeping in harness the agenda’s of others no longer my concern save my own now. . . .for you, all You are precious to God.
Monday, December 14, 2009
joy of liberation: the yoke of obligation
091214 08:26
It is difficult to articulate the joy of liberation: the yoke of obligation. Oft times I say ‘retarded’ instead of retired and laugh at myself, since in gleeful joy do I no longer labor to witness and record all “sorts & conditions” of activities prized by some, but despised by me.
. . . narcoleptic with reprise.
So it follows that I must fearlessly assassinate my former providence having justifiably won a meager stipend of Social Security.
There is a man of comparable age, here retired, who once like me, labored for The New York Times, never on staff but merely freelance. Upon learning this I was very rude to him vocally. It was dark after our meeting at the Dona Anna Camera Club mutually attended, yet well I remember his unspoken offense at ‘knowing his parentage’ too well.
. . . how can you call doing something you love above all activities ‘labor’?
Forgive, please, my offense. You see though White, I was bred, taught, trained, to be a Junk Yard Dog; no bark--all bite. And someone, or something, has loosed the barrier behind which I formerly snarled watchful.
I now capture images that stand alone for me delightful and care not who sees or says anything so confident of my voice am I.
Oddly I fell into a recent expulsion from another Blog site. If what I now do is “write” it is like my photography, contemporaneous response.
Additionally, an odd thought, a reprise the voice of Mother; “you will weep for sleep some day.” Yet I sleep when tired and eat only when hungry, and so I am a mangy coyote too well aware Navajo reverence for them, the coyote was metaphorically a prankster and God.
Astonished? No. I anticipated the bottom hurling upwards towards my plummeting conscious/conscience. No one commented, and I thought no one read, or attended anything save my photographs which were then counted by the hits.
Surprised. Yes. Since their censure was affirmation that at least one had read me well and knew me as whatever I am.
Beloved friend, spiritual adviser and retired Catholic Priest; Father Denis Tejada occasionally replies; “I’ll remember you in my curses!” And I, of course, am convulsed with laughter.
Point taken and celebrated.
I do nothing now for profit, or prophecy, since my love is terrible and the cost is beyond measure for me, or my “audience” --what audience? Love is meaningless without community.
Attribution --Father Denis, now my brother.
How to end what is endless process?
To serve is to first attend and accept/love yourself enough to know being precious, unique, explicitly created and trained for survival in the face of all crisis.
. . . i’ve never laughed, nor cried, so hard in all the silence preceding this moment. Why me? Why not? What for? For you to be the best You/you were created, and trained to be.
period . . . it is impossible to be anonymous save to yourself and i am so very tired of immolating myself to see the next step alone in the desert night
God Bless you all, you are you know, already from beginning to end; endless present from the Parent of everything . . . kill me now, please, otherwise the hot air blowing through like a McDonald’s red plastic straw will melt meaninglessly
It is difficult to articulate the joy of liberation: the yoke of obligation. Oft times I say ‘retarded’ instead of retired and laugh at myself, since in gleeful joy do I no longer labor to witness and record all “sorts & conditions” of activities prized by some, but despised by me.
. . . narcoleptic with reprise.
So it follows that I must fearlessly assassinate my former providence having justifiably won a meager stipend of Social Security.
There is a man of comparable age, here retired, who once like me, labored for The New York Times, never on staff but merely freelance. Upon learning this I was very rude to him vocally. It was dark after our meeting at the Dona Anna Camera Club mutually attended, yet well I remember his unspoken offense at ‘knowing his parentage’ too well.
. . . how can you call doing something you love above all activities ‘labor’?
Forgive, please, my offense. You see though White, I was bred, taught, trained, to be a Junk Yard Dog; no bark--all bite. And someone, or something, has loosed the barrier behind which I formerly snarled watchful.
I now capture images that stand alone for me delightful and care not who sees or says anything so confident of my voice am I.
Oddly I fell into a recent expulsion from another Blog site. If what I now do is “write” it is like my photography, contemporaneous response.
Additionally, an odd thought, a reprise the voice of Mother; “you will weep for sleep some day.” Yet I sleep when tired and eat only when hungry, and so I am a mangy coyote too well aware Navajo reverence for them, the coyote was metaphorically a prankster and God.
Astonished? No. I anticipated the bottom hurling upwards towards my plummeting conscious/conscience. No one commented, and I thought no one read, or attended anything save my photographs which were then counted by the hits.
Surprised. Yes. Since their censure was affirmation that at least one had read me well and knew me as whatever I am.
Beloved friend, spiritual adviser and retired Catholic Priest; Father Denis Tejada occasionally replies; “I’ll remember you in my curses!” And I, of course, am convulsed with laughter.
Point taken and celebrated.
I do nothing now for profit, or prophecy, since my love is terrible and the cost is beyond measure for me, or my “audience” --what audience? Love is meaningless without community.
Attribution --Father Denis, now my brother.
How to end what is endless process?
To serve is to first attend and accept/love yourself enough to know being precious, unique, explicitly created and trained for survival in the face of all crisis.
. . . i’ve never laughed, nor cried, so hard in all the silence preceding this moment. Why me? Why not? What for? For you to be the best You/you were created, and trained to be.
period . . . it is impossible to be anonymous save to yourself and i am so very tired of immolating myself to see the next step alone in the desert night
God Bless you all, you are you know, already from beginning to end; endless present from the Parent of everything . . . kill me now, please, otherwise the hot air blowing through like a McDonald’s red plastic straw will melt meaninglessly
‘Winters of discontent.’
091214 07:18
I’ve had many ‘Winters of discontent.’
And within those long nights, longed never to wake up.
Without reference to my daily expanding journal of quotations; I do transliterate them, now, accepting a newly discovered sense of great and humble thoughts as seeds attempting to leach the rain from my darkest frozen night, rain/snow clouds.
The torrent of my tears, resulting, is blest best in solitude since they do alarm even me. Happily they, being my tears, will drown no one except myself in joy, become bliss, then pacific, humble, gratitude; serenity.
. . . or acceptance, the foundation of love.
I’ve no idea why, or for what, this has been bestowed upon me. Accustomed to hard-scrabble subsistence farming daily reality. Yet in reflection upon all of what was then, and is now, my life I am discovered wandering unfamiliar pathless deserts lead by a distant, yet to loom light; a star? A new day? Or as I spoke, and thus stunned myself, yesterday; “Today is the first and last day of eternity”?
Did I say that?
What does it mean; “Be Here Now”?
I’ve said, and seen, the slogan so often it remained a pebble in my mouth become a bolder. Metaphorically, i once was a lemming now become a dragon, overleaping the cliffs of life and soaring amongst the stars within my heart.
It is not for self-pleasure that I write but for my love of humanity with all its warts, wattles and wrinkles seen when I briefly shave in mirrors should I be so constrained, or obligated, to leave my crib. Let us not speak of, or praise ‘Morning Dragon Mouth’ -- ‘Bad Hair Day ’ Please. Least I slay myself with exhaust.
Of Doves & Seeds--“they neither reap nor sow” and from whom &/or why am I fed like the birds i feed daily? In and of myself I am now voluntarily impelled to be servant as those or he who in servitude saved me from myself loathing.
I love women inordinately yet would never enslave another to my imposition again. How do I know this? Mother was taught to despise being a woman and I, the worst evidence.
Now go in peace rejoicing tranquility past all comprehension, apprehending fear never more. . . .Awaiting the near day celebration of the eve all new creation.
I’ve had many ‘Winters of discontent.’
And within those long nights, longed never to wake up.
Without reference to my daily expanding journal of quotations; I do transliterate them, now, accepting a newly discovered sense of great and humble thoughts as seeds attempting to leach the rain from my darkest frozen night, rain/snow clouds.
The torrent of my tears, resulting, is blest best in solitude since they do alarm even me. Happily they, being my tears, will drown no one except myself in joy, become bliss, then pacific, humble, gratitude; serenity.
. . . or acceptance, the foundation of love.
I’ve no idea why, or for what, this has been bestowed upon me. Accustomed to hard-scrabble subsistence farming daily reality. Yet in reflection upon all of what was then, and is now, my life I am discovered wandering unfamiliar pathless deserts lead by a distant, yet to loom light; a star? A new day? Or as I spoke, and thus stunned myself, yesterday; “Today is the first and last day of eternity”?
Did I say that?
What does it mean; “Be Here Now”?
I’ve said, and seen, the slogan so often it remained a pebble in my mouth become a bolder. Metaphorically, i once was a lemming now become a dragon, overleaping the cliffs of life and soaring amongst the stars within my heart.
It is not for self-pleasure that I write but for my love of humanity with all its warts, wattles and wrinkles seen when I briefly shave in mirrors should I be so constrained, or obligated, to leave my crib. Let us not speak of, or praise ‘Morning Dragon Mouth’ -- ‘Bad Hair Day ’ Please. Least I slay myself with exhaust.
Of Doves & Seeds--“they neither reap nor sow” and from whom &/or why am I fed like the birds i feed daily? In and of myself I am now voluntarily impelled to be servant as those or he who in servitude saved me from myself loathing.
I love women inordinately yet would never enslave another to my imposition again. How do I know this? Mother was taught to despise being a woman and I, the worst evidence.
Now go in peace rejoicing tranquility past all comprehension, apprehending fear never more. . . .Awaiting the near day celebration of the eve all new creation.
Photoshop vs. Sagelight 48-bit Image Editor
by http://www.flickr.com/photos/jack4spratt/
I write to humiliate myself. regarding how stupid I feel, for several aspects of my non-relationship, apprehension, incomprehension and applications impossible with Photoshop anything. Worse I’ve wasted $3,000.00 over several computer platforms, et cetera, for Adobe period.
Sagelight 48-bit Image Editor: to the rescue! There is a free version but be quick!
http://www.sagelighteditor.com/ you will want the $30 something version soon afterwards.
Were I Thomas Knoll, I’d either kill myself, or kill Rob Nelson, author of Sagelight. Tom, of course, is the genius behind Adobe, and Rob is stealing hubcaps & dumpster diving to survive. One is a genius in service of avarice and the other a servant to this poor old, once-upon-a-time, whatever that was, that stopped suddenly at age 65--43 years freelance for The New York Times; to name my first/last client; one amongst hundreds of other publications.
Sagelight taught me, and does, everything I need. With a single press of a radio button I can turn on or off Ron’s {text . . . maybe he can give us a voice-over?} insights telling me what to do and why. Otherwise I’d still be stumbling about in the darkness of chemical photography totally obsolescent.
Photoshop is a fetish like all the Hundreds of Thousands I wasted on equipment to “MAKE ME A GENIUS PHOTOGRAPHER!” Really, sincerely, it didn’t work, and can not do what takes years to grow. Of course I am more furious with myself now realizing the folly of my greed for being memorable to others, while ignoring my fear of being too stupid to live, or be loved; or even remotely memorable. Apparently Thomas Knoll, and the legions of other people getting rich attempting to teach my peers, of whom not one knows how to use, fully, or even partially, Photoshop.
I write with rancor since at my, nearly terminal, age in life, I cherish my years as teacher, critic and author of a column on photography. Consider it “dues” being paid, never required, for the loving attention of The Greats; Paul Caponigro, Aaron Siskind, Minor White, Harry Callahan, Gene Smith and Robert Frank. The latter not well known, personally, save for my being a photographer at all.
Of the two software engineers, I sing their praises, for their love of photography; from personal experience of their acquaintance. Both love photography as much, possibly more so than I? A teacher loves their students more than themselves; and are willing to be taught by them as well. For Ron Nelson I’d walk through Hell. For Thomas Knoll I’ll go nowhere ever again for him. Not one Lincoln penny, no more.
I write to humiliate myself. regarding how stupid I feel, for several aspects of my non-relationship, apprehension, incomprehension and applications impossible with Photoshop anything. Worse I’ve wasted $3,000.00 over several computer platforms, et cetera, for Adobe period.
Sagelight 48-bit Image Editor: to the rescue! There is a free version but be quick!
http://www.sagelighteditor.com/ you will want the $30 something version soon afterwards.
Were I Thomas Knoll, I’d either kill myself, or kill Rob Nelson, author of Sagelight. Tom, of course, is the genius behind Adobe, and Rob is stealing hubcaps & dumpster diving to survive. One is a genius in service of avarice and the other a servant to this poor old, once-upon-a-time, whatever that was, that stopped suddenly at age 65--43 years freelance for The New York Times; to name my first/last client; one amongst hundreds of other publications.
Sagelight taught me, and does, everything I need. With a single press of a radio button I can turn on or off Ron’s {text . . . maybe he can give us a voice-over?} insights telling me what to do and why. Otherwise I’d still be stumbling about in the darkness of chemical photography totally obsolescent.
Photoshop is a fetish like all the Hundreds of Thousands I wasted on equipment to “MAKE ME A GENIUS PHOTOGRAPHER!” Really, sincerely, it didn’t work, and can not do what takes years to grow. Of course I am more furious with myself now realizing the folly of my greed for being memorable to others, while ignoring my fear of being too stupid to live, or be loved; or even remotely memorable. Apparently Thomas Knoll, and the legions of other people getting rich attempting to teach my peers, of whom not one knows how to use, fully, or even partially, Photoshop.
I write with rancor since at my, nearly terminal, age in life, I cherish my years as teacher, critic and author of a column on photography. Consider it “dues” being paid, never required, for the loving attention of The Greats; Paul Caponigro, Aaron Siskind, Minor White, Harry Callahan, Gene Smith and Robert Frank. The latter not well known, personally, save for my being a photographer at all.
Of the two software engineers, I sing their praises, for their love of photography; from personal experience of their acquaintance. Both love photography as much, possibly more so than I? A teacher loves their students more than themselves; and are willing to be taught by them as well. For Ron Nelson I’d walk through Hell. For Thomas Knoll I’ll go nowhere ever again for him. Not one Lincoln penny, no more.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
attend, praise and exalt the Prince of Peace’s Birthday
091212 03:07
Of late I awake in the wee hours of my ‘morning’ raucously laughing at ribald comments passing between myself and the best audience in the Universe; guttural guffaws echoing across Creation.
“ 09:01
At some point I returned to sleep, impelled to do so. And I left my radio on, turned down low. A significant point: never go to sleep listening to either music or commentary; it will cause you to awaken irrevocably changed.
Case in point, time approximately fourteen years ago, place my condo on the lake in Chicago. I was listening to the score of The Missions with headphones laying half on half off the bed and slept. My dream was astonishing: I was baptized by snakes in their home, completely covered head to toe and I loved the experience.
I am now able to define my life as no longer goal oriented but process/progress towards a discernable point at infinity; a place I trust will continue beyond my death.
I like the metaphor of ‘refining’ since it implies and actualizes my experience daily; burning away the extraneous--everything I once thought myself to be or longed to become.
“ 12:55
. . . it seems that what I thought I was/am is being extruded into a finer cutting instrument.
“ 23:27
In few more than twelve days we shall attend, praise and exalt the Prince of Peace’s Birthday. Celebrated by most of humanity now, in fact, deed or ideal. If only a pause in the too many moments of fear, our daily dread--denial the possibility of Peace amongst all Humanity. Incarnate in each and every birth in Creation, a dance and song in laud, a Jubilation all time for the love of our family. All the Children of our Creator variously called Ala or God Is Real, in spirit manifest through that quiet night when the cry was heard round this small glorious blue marble seen a planet we call home amongst all the stars . . . love given--love returned.
Rev 22:21 The grace of the Lord Jesus be with all the saints. Amen.
Of late I awake in the wee hours of my ‘morning’ raucously laughing at ribald comments passing between myself and the best audience in the Universe; guttural guffaws echoing across Creation.
“ 09:01
At some point I returned to sleep, impelled to do so. And I left my radio on, turned down low. A significant point: never go to sleep listening to either music or commentary; it will cause you to awaken irrevocably changed.
Case in point, time approximately fourteen years ago, place my condo on the lake in Chicago. I was listening to the score of The Missions with headphones laying half on half off the bed and slept. My dream was astonishing: I was baptized by snakes in their home, completely covered head to toe and I loved the experience.
I am now able to define my life as no longer goal oriented but process/progress towards a discernable point at infinity; a place I trust will continue beyond my death.
I like the metaphor of ‘refining’ since it implies and actualizes my experience daily; burning away the extraneous--everything I once thought myself to be or longed to become.
“ 12:55
. . . it seems that what I thought I was/am is being extruded into a finer cutting instrument.
“ 23:27
In few more than twelve days we shall attend, praise and exalt the Prince of Peace’s Birthday. Celebrated by most of humanity now, in fact, deed or ideal. If only a pause in the too many moments of fear, our daily dread--denial the possibility of Peace amongst all Humanity. Incarnate in each and every birth in Creation, a dance and song in laud, a Jubilation all time for the love of our family. All the Children of our Creator variously called Ala or God Is Real, in spirit manifest through that quiet night when the cry was heard round this small glorious blue marble seen a planet we call home amongst all the stars . . . love given--love returned.
Rev 22:21 The grace of the Lord Jesus be with all the saints. Amen.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)