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.