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.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
“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.
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