091225 05:15
I love to write. At the same time I am aware of messages given to me by my father, that seen from different perspectives and accepted through various senses, were stultifying to me. Barriers placed between my love of reading and the potential of ever making letters become words, then sentences, dancing across a white void.
My father stole much from my life which he seemed, at the end of his, fond of reminding me, the cost to him.
In those last face-to-face hours between us I came to say, “yes Dad”, and finally to say “Thank You.”
Finally, at the time of his death, he spoke to me via telephone, saying “Goodbye.” I did not weep so much as thank him for his kindness, and tell him that I would miss him, I do.
And then I wept for his transition from life to death, my loss, and finally laying aside my lifelong quest to have him love me period.
Now I know he knew not what love is and could never love himself as I do myself now.
I know myself, a difficult person to love. Perhaps it is my endless curiosity about life, and that led me to God. What, or such, love I give is mine to do with, and its value is absolute.
. . . and I have respect, even reverence, for another’s choice to avoid me.
I will not bore you with the dream that awoke me since I accept it as a ribald, very personal, an indication of love and mutual acknowledgement that laughter is a component of love between friends.
If I call God a friend then I am not insane but more sane than I can comprehend; why me?
Love is more power than most can apprehend or accept . . . why did I feel such a flood of energy in writing those mere words? Or the tears welling up?
In the awaking from my dream I was iridescent and accepting that God is, and my son and daughter live in God. And for the gift of my dream, the knowing my children well and beloved by move love than I could have ever given them; I would be come nothing, not even ash or dust.
If I offend you, or God, please forgive my transgression; but I refuse to be otherwise than I am.
At the Christmas Mass, there were, I confess, moments of desolate boredom, my problem does not apply to anyone but myself. I have known myself skewed from events experienced as a child in church through to last night. It is only now that I can laugh at myself, my solemnity was too vast before. But the rounded and crumbling words, ritually spoken in liturgy speaks not of the joys and sorrows I know, now, before, or expect after I am ash.
What remains is that I, somehow, hear the songs sung in thee.
There is no sin in pleasure, since pleasure is the seasoning of life; a bit of salt in the soup of everything. Yet too much salt is no pleasure but the bitterness of too much.
I now find value in everything, but of some things: I parse the difference between value and waste; what some call evil. I have forgiven my father, and love him more than before, in that I am victorious, no reply or recompense required. Of his actual personal value I am aware and celebrate, of self-waste, his or mine, all now forgotten.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Feliz Navidad!
091225 03:33
Feliz Navidad!
God bless God, for the Gift of Jesus, and this, God’s World, filled with the power of Love.
Last night I entered a place of bewilderment within myself; a penetration of that which is outside my ordinary day--alone with Annie and God.
Community!
What is it that draws and repels me simultaneously?
I know myself sane, yet touched by the--before our earth and the afterward--seen from God’s view.!?
If this be true, then I know transformation, the birth pangs of our Universe; and it is well, and no imagining, but writ in my soul? And if that be atavistically real, then I must be dust conjoined into stone made flesh, combusted into flame, a lesser star in the firmament.
Or, perhaps, a lifeless asteroid, whose existing/origin/being is unknowable to itself; a vagrant silently singing of space. . . .The void or abyss.
In some places, at odd times, I’ve sensed the spine of creation, revealed and unspeakable to my mute knowing that God is apparent to me. And in that inchoate knowing, no language of communication--the love immolating me ignited by what?
Consciousness is it’s own reward, exclusive of acknowledgement by, or of any other, for which there is no mirror. My favorite metaphor, and experience, is being in a mirror maze. And though, at times, such as last night, my ability to see a self reflected is momentarily confused, I am able to sense, eventually, which figure, upside down, inside out, distorted and or contorted into freaks, is me.
For what do I live now?
Why do I hunger and thirst for your welfare?
And last night I saw you in all your youth, old age and simple acceptance, the dance of birth become death and resurrected in the child commemorated, this new day. Which is for me everyday and all Sabbath.
God’s breath.
My heart sang in joy to see Fr. Michael, near blindness, make the sign of the Cross upon the forehead of a joyous little girl, her delight at his caress, reflecting the unseeing truth of him still manifest in the slow dance towards blindness and death.
Yet I fell into a well, unknowable in extent, of tears spent for those who died in my knowing before that moment.
I paused here brushing Annie, after all, what else, gift or pleasure, could I give? Does she know it is Christmas? She surely celebrates my attention.
In returning to my addiction of writing, I saw our sensing functions as antennas extended from a satellite seeking energy from solar light or winds. And my neglected, abandoned 49% woman seeking to magnify and be the vessel of new birth as a Mary before the birth we accept and celebrate this day, our Savior manifest.
. . . of His last words, oral history, apocryphal, long after He left recorded, or embellished, amplify His spirit among us now incarnate in poverty first, best and last
. . . where He said He would be found forever without gender or color distinction
. . . need it be added, without exception?
Feliz Navidad!
God bless God, for the Gift of Jesus, and this, God’s World, filled with the power of Love.
Last night I entered a place of bewilderment within myself; a penetration of that which is outside my ordinary day--alone with Annie and God.
Community!
What is it that draws and repels me simultaneously?
I know myself sane, yet touched by the--before our earth and the afterward--seen from God’s view.!?
If this be true, then I know transformation, the birth pangs of our Universe; and it is well, and no imagining, but writ in my soul? And if that be atavistically real, then I must be dust conjoined into stone made flesh, combusted into flame, a lesser star in the firmament.
Or, perhaps, a lifeless asteroid, whose existing/origin/being is unknowable to itself; a vagrant silently singing of space. . . .The void or abyss.
In some places, at odd times, I’ve sensed the spine of creation, revealed and unspeakable to my mute knowing that God is apparent to me. And in that inchoate knowing, no language of communication--the love immolating me ignited by what?
Consciousness is it’s own reward, exclusive of acknowledgement by, or of any other, for which there is no mirror. My favorite metaphor, and experience, is being in a mirror maze. And though, at times, such as last night, my ability to see a self reflected is momentarily confused, I am able to sense, eventually, which figure, upside down, inside out, distorted and or contorted into freaks, is me.
For what do I live now?
Why do I hunger and thirst for your welfare?
And last night I saw you in all your youth, old age and simple acceptance, the dance of birth become death and resurrected in the child commemorated, this new day. Which is for me everyday and all Sabbath.
God’s breath.
My heart sang in joy to see Fr. Michael, near blindness, make the sign of the Cross upon the forehead of a joyous little girl, her delight at his caress, reflecting the unseeing truth of him still manifest in the slow dance towards blindness and death.
Yet I fell into a well, unknowable in extent, of tears spent for those who died in my knowing before that moment.
I paused here brushing Annie, after all, what else, gift or pleasure, could I give? Does she know it is Christmas? She surely celebrates my attention.
In returning to my addiction of writing, I saw our sensing functions as antennas extended from a satellite seeking energy from solar light or winds. And my neglected, abandoned 49% woman seeking to magnify and be the vessel of new birth as a Mary before the birth we accept and celebrate this day, our Savior manifest.
. . . of His last words, oral history, apocryphal, long after He left recorded, or embellished, amplify His spirit among us now incarnate in poverty first, best and last
. . . where He said He would be found forever without gender or color distinction
. . . need it be added, without exception?
insufficient room for all the names and incarnations of Truth
091224 07:51
No one is more noble, than any other, by birth, or activity, in life. Some walks between birth and death may be celebrated, anointed, annotated by our special attention for their lives lived for us. Servants are self giving and generous while others, the majority, live in fear of never having enough. Therein is the origin/nature of addiction.
How can I know this?
I know it best in my own addictions, hypocrisies, bigotries and failing the Ideal--Jesus who was merely God in disguise and crucified as a criminal for us.
. . . and i am convicted that He died to end all fear.
At the end of life no secret is unknown to God. From the beginning, before speech or symbol was published. It is this child’s sense that, The Garden of Eden a metaphor is now, and we, pass from generation, fetishes and piles of stone dedicated, for punishment, instead of forgiveness and reverence the individual child who comes not for us, but through us, biologically. In the Garden was the advent of consciousness regardless the consequence.
We, the broken, despised and ignored, are legion. Yet we linger in denial, our divinity, so common to us oblivious. We murder or steal holding captive the ideals of others as better than ours made common weal for life, love, liberty and discernment when enough, is enough. Too many children to feed, clothe, love and enable their unique gifts; none more noble than another.
I will write more about this in the later future should God and others to/for whom I an inconvenient allow. For example the KKK was born this date long ago and I have been witness photographically in recent decades and have empathy for those, who, had they known me then, or now would kill me for a nigger lover ala Langston Hughes.
For now it is enough, and never too late, to be charitable with self given to others as gift that they grow in knowledge, truth transparent. I could, and have, given of my photography and/or words, my gift to others. Fully conscious the gift received from the inventor, or progenitor: The Gestalt of Color Psychology; Joseph Albers. The meeting through by a beloved childhood friend, niece, and God. Of Joe I was suffused with his generosity and well remember our harmonious words mutually spoken “music” over a color collage I was otherwise too ashamed to confess authorship of.
My point, beloved of God, is that you may give little, or much; little is welcome and needed at Wikipedia to keep them up and running for the future. I gave and thus am no longer guilty and slinking about when, in greed, I seek knowledge; otherwise unavailable. Were it mine to give I would buy the place and give it back for the joy of their facility.
Otherwise there is insufficient room for all the names and incarnations of Truth in the Universe.
. . . remember this, if you must invoke Christ, He was anointed better by water, the blood of God, not oil.
No one is more noble, than any other, by birth, or activity, in life. Some walks between birth and death may be celebrated, anointed, annotated by our special attention for their lives lived for us. Servants are self giving and generous while others, the majority, live in fear of never having enough. Therein is the origin/nature of addiction.
How can I know this?
I know it best in my own addictions, hypocrisies, bigotries and failing the Ideal--Jesus who was merely God in disguise and crucified as a criminal for us.
. . . and i am convicted that He died to end all fear.
At the end of life no secret is unknown to God. From the beginning, before speech or symbol was published. It is this child’s sense that, The Garden of Eden a metaphor is now, and we, pass from generation, fetishes and piles of stone dedicated, for punishment, instead of forgiveness and reverence the individual child who comes not for us, but through us, biologically. In the Garden was the advent of consciousness regardless the consequence.
We, the broken, despised and ignored, are legion. Yet we linger in denial, our divinity, so common to us oblivious. We murder or steal holding captive the ideals of others as better than ours made common weal for life, love, liberty and discernment when enough, is enough. Too many children to feed, clothe, love and enable their unique gifts; none more noble than another.
I will write more about this in the later future should God and others to/for whom I an inconvenient allow. For example the KKK was born this date long ago and I have been witness photographically in recent decades and have empathy for those, who, had they known me then, or now would kill me for a nigger lover ala Langston Hughes.
For now it is enough, and never too late, to be charitable with self given to others as gift that they grow in knowledge, truth transparent. I could, and have, given of my photography and/or words, my gift to others. Fully conscious the gift received from the inventor, or progenitor: The Gestalt of Color Psychology; Joseph Albers. The meeting through by a beloved childhood friend, niece, and God. Of Joe I was suffused with his generosity and well remember our harmonious words mutually spoken “music” over a color collage I was otherwise too ashamed to confess authorship of.
My point, beloved of God, is that you may give little, or much; little is welcome and needed at Wikipedia to keep them up and running for the future. I gave and thus am no longer guilty and slinking about when, in greed, I seek knowledge; otherwise unavailable. Were it mine to give I would buy the place and give it back for the joy of their facility.
Otherwise there is insufficient room for all the names and incarnations of Truth in the Universe.
. . . remember this, if you must invoke Christ, He was anointed better by water, the blood of God, not oil.
God Bless God, who does? We do, the audience.
091224 06:12
It is such a sweet and simple thing to do. To listen to ourselves at some point later on. And recognize ourselves in prayer. Then accept the gifts we gave ourselves, throughout all our lives. Our prayers answered.
I will take communion, where I believed myself unwelcome, formerly. This coming blessed night . . . but, then to me, and oft times for me, especially, all nights are welcome now.
To, for and in God, time is irrelevant to the extent that I need no longer worry about the inevitable death of myself, or, our world.
I’ve taught others, when allowed, to see-what-you-are-looking-at. Then without understanding that which I see now in the simple process of brushing my teeth. Last night before crashing into slumber, I laughed, never derision but joy, in completion.
I do have a theology.
We all do.
Lacking formal recognition, until some random, rogue, moment; elephants dancing in tutus, tells us, its fulfillment.
Metaphors and similes, coupled with parables, et etcetera, swirl through me, like the onrushing flood tide.
There is a time to be stoically silent, with neither a yea--or nay, to lift the moment of tragedy lofted to the Author of All Things, speechless, knowing ourselves overrun and bearing the full weight of death this moment. Our tears flowing over the body of the girl/boy we loved. Women are better at crying inside since it seems acculturated & expected of them from beginning to end, at birth, unto heaven, whence they go, blessed by their sex.
At other times, a ‘no’ is required, to fight to the death, to save self and the criminal who may, or may not, perhaps abuse us further, yet well remember the moment of confusion and refusal of limp submission.
Fight or flight or stand and receive is a choice, the metal, meet or woe of the self. For you it may be terror, intrusion, violation, aggression gone psychotic--unwelcome. To hang from a tree suffocated, strange fruit body blackened by fire. Have courage my child--my friend for in this brief moment of pain God will be seen soon. So cry not too long.
I pray that when my moment of transition comes I will have the courage of my conviction and teaching to so remain calm and grant forgiveness those who chose to destroy me.
Last night, until this moment, and all moments to come, I knew that my ideal had been answered; the Baby Jesus resurrected from sacrifice seen in all souls; actual, or nascent.
God Bless God, who does? We do, the audience.
It is such a sweet and simple thing to do. To listen to ourselves at some point later on. And recognize ourselves in prayer. Then accept the gifts we gave ourselves, throughout all our lives. Our prayers answered.
I will take communion, where I believed myself unwelcome, formerly. This coming blessed night . . . but, then to me, and oft times for me, especially, all nights are welcome now.
To, for and in God, time is irrelevant to the extent that I need no longer worry about the inevitable death of myself, or, our world.
I’ve taught others, when allowed, to see-what-you-are-looking-at. Then without understanding that which I see now in the simple process of brushing my teeth. Last night before crashing into slumber, I laughed, never derision but joy, in completion.
I do have a theology.
We all do.
Lacking formal recognition, until some random, rogue, moment; elephants dancing in tutus, tells us, its fulfillment.
Metaphors and similes, coupled with parables, et etcetera, swirl through me, like the onrushing flood tide.
There is a time to be stoically silent, with neither a yea--or nay, to lift the moment of tragedy lofted to the Author of All Things, speechless, knowing ourselves overrun and bearing the full weight of death this moment. Our tears flowing over the body of the girl/boy we loved. Women are better at crying inside since it seems acculturated & expected of them from beginning to end, at birth, unto heaven, whence they go, blessed by their sex.
At other times, a ‘no’ is required, to fight to the death, to save self and the criminal who may, or may not, perhaps abuse us further, yet well remember the moment of confusion and refusal of limp submission.
Fight or flight or stand and receive is a choice, the metal, meet or woe of the self. For you it may be terror, intrusion, violation, aggression gone psychotic--unwelcome. To hang from a tree suffocated, strange fruit body blackened by fire. Have courage my child--my friend for in this brief moment of pain God will be seen soon. So cry not too long.
I pray that when my moment of transition comes I will have the courage of my conviction and teaching to so remain calm and grant forgiveness those who chose to destroy me.
Last night, until this moment, and all moments to come, I knew that my ideal had been answered; the Baby Jesus resurrected from sacrifice seen in all souls; actual, or nascent.
God Bless God, who does? We do, the audience.
meaning value
death is meaningless
since we were born by God
in the beginning before time was
an idea and the measure of our value
in life is not what we held before leaving it
but in what we gave while living it
since we were born by God
in the beginning before time was
an idea and the measure of our value
in life is not what we held before leaving it
but in what we gave while living it
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