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