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
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
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.
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