120410 09:31
Writing, initially, was masturbatory. Furtive gratification sought in an outhouse. Toilet paper: the lingerie section of J. C. Penny’s Catalog--always best--but more often Sears & Roebuck. With my family reunion waiting their turn in the facility. “Are you okay in there?!”
Welcomed and forgiven now: the parental edict, “too stupid to live.” In hindsight a gift, it kept me silent in an alchemical retort/a pressure cooker. My thoughts, desires, curiosity caroming and ricocheting within a dark cave. Later redeemed as prayer echoing amongst the stars. Answered.
Angelica Huston, in my eyes a forever Stone Fox, once mangled ‘orgasm’ as “organism” in a film set in Ireland. Research fails me regarding title and author. That said, in a linage stemming from Norse Tribes transplanted to Scotland then Ireland: Orange. I find the Irish to have a better understanding of God than most other tribes global.
Ala:
“God asked Adam if he wanted to stand up to pee?”
“Yes”
“Fine.” Then turning to Eve proclaiming, “To you I give multiple orgasms.”
Those first writings, a photography column at the Providence Journal, were harried by commitments to: staff photography, teaching photojournalism at the University of Rhode Island, freelance assignments for a variety of National news services &/or publications and family. The latter became my preoccupation. At the time of my son’s diagnosis with Leukemia I fell blind to all else.
To paraphrase Albert Schweitzer; 'You don’t have to be an angel to be a saint.' I am neither and aspire to nothing more than witnessing The All/The I AM. Never claiming to be a ‘nice’ person, I only pretend to be to keep myself outside the ‘cuckoo’s nest.’ I find joy writing now not merely the brief ejaculatory pleasure of ‘a happy ending.’ In seeking forgiveness from those I abused and betrayed I have begun, over and over, to seek to forgive myself.
And now I write to the self I was, as child and adult, as well as those, who like me, stand upon the trembling cusp of death ready to seek relief: “Stop the Merry Go Round I Want To Get Off.”
“Take up your cross” is branded upon my lips. For better or worse I am wed to this self. Damned either way? I don’t think so since I am willing to live and die for my truth . . . least I offend our brethren, all fellow travelers in this pretty blue & white nest hurtling through space . . . my brand is the Jerusalem Cross.
Yet as before and always I remain a dust mote traversing a soon to pass shaft of light, superfluous.
The joy of God is endless grown from a time before time was noted . . . Not a once-upon-a-time pleasure to be held immutable or egocentric.
“ 14:04
I’ve come to distrust those who know not of chicken excrement between their toes.
Writing, initially, was masturbatory. Furtive gratification sought in an outhouse. Toilet paper: the lingerie section of J. C. Penny’s Catalog--always best--but more often Sears & Roebuck. With my family reunion waiting their turn in the facility. “Are you okay in there?!”
Welcomed and forgiven now: the parental edict, “too stupid to live.” In hindsight a gift, it kept me silent in an alchemical retort/a pressure cooker. My thoughts, desires, curiosity caroming and ricocheting within a dark cave. Later redeemed as prayer echoing amongst the stars. Answered.
Angelica Huston, in my eyes a forever Stone Fox, once mangled ‘orgasm’ as “organism” in a film set in Ireland. Research fails me regarding title and author. That said, in a linage stemming from Norse Tribes transplanted to Scotland then Ireland: Orange. I find the Irish to have a better understanding of God than most other tribes global.
Ala:
“God asked Adam if he wanted to stand up to pee?”
“Yes”
“Fine.” Then turning to Eve proclaiming, “To you I give multiple orgasms.”
Those first writings, a photography column at the Providence Journal, were harried by commitments to: staff photography, teaching photojournalism at the University of Rhode Island, freelance assignments for a variety of National news services &/or publications and family. The latter became my preoccupation. At the time of my son’s diagnosis with Leukemia I fell blind to all else.
To paraphrase Albert Schweitzer; 'You don’t have to be an angel to be a saint.' I am neither and aspire to nothing more than witnessing The All/The I AM. Never claiming to be a ‘nice’ person, I only pretend to be to keep myself outside the ‘cuckoo’s nest.’ I find joy writing now not merely the brief ejaculatory pleasure of ‘a happy ending.’ In seeking forgiveness from those I abused and betrayed I have begun, over and over, to seek to forgive myself.
And now I write to the self I was, as child and adult, as well as those, who like me, stand upon the trembling cusp of death ready to seek relief: “Stop the Merry Go Round I Want To Get Off.”
“Take up your cross” is branded upon my lips. For better or worse I am wed to this self. Damned either way? I don’t think so since I am willing to live and die for my truth . . . least I offend our brethren, all fellow travelers in this pretty blue & white nest hurtling through space . . . my brand is the Jerusalem Cross.
Yet as before and always I remain a dust mote traversing a soon to pass shaft of light, superfluous.
The joy of God is endless grown from a time before time was noted . . . Not a once-upon-a-time pleasure to be held immutable or egocentric.
“ 14:04
I’ve come to distrust those who know not of chicken excrement between their toes.
And it is she of emerald eyes, barefoot racing through peary groves, who blest then ordained me
So odd to be adorned in her presence bejeweled each confessing an obsession with common stones worn smooth in rivers flow or erupted and graven by hands so long prehistory
Peans to those who forbore this black hole event arising a new something unknown as yet gestating . . .
is this/that/the womb of God?
is this/that/the womb of God?
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