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.
Monday, December 21, 2009
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.
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