Jack Spratt

120627 05:27

Education, sometimes a great notion, can be defined by our sense of purpose, intent, where we are and what we want to be when we grow up.

Or how you read the following:  

"What lies behind us and what lies ahead of us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us."

 --Ralph Waldo Emerson

Most of my 'life' seemed a conveyance, a taxi cab meter ticking all the time. Even now I remain unsure exactly why this sense began very early on--a clock tick toking inside & out. It, my 'life', seemed similar to an Group Tourist Package Deal. Or just another way of playing solitaire or Black Jack Poker. Either way it ends, this life we have will sometime end—have not. Game Over. The hand we're dealt doesn't matter so much as how we deal with what we have in hand given.

Phrases, stanzas, ideas and ideals, one or two words together: “Jesus wept,” haunted stuck like cockleburs to me now looking back at what essentially is a 4, 2, 3, 1 game dealt: Hands and knees, two feet, a cane and two feet if I'm lucky, then the one grave. Which for me is closing rapidly; the light in the nights of oblivion unconscious days of indifference. An on rushing light or meteorite; eternal either way.

LOL

I can and do laugh at myself and with my friend & author. It seems now that maybe I've 'grown up' finally, at seventy-one going swiftly on seventy-two or anonymous nothingness. Maybe not. Clocks wait for no one.

What happened?

Why me now?

I have an internal friend who at times, mostly was, a pain in the sit down. At others the greatest bliss and joy for which I would trade nothing no matter Who, what, why or where. This value of 'growing up' is priceless; imperious in a good way the best ever. Though I am, warts, wrinkles and wattles, falling down/apart occasionally always now I still get up even if I have to craw to the wall to do so.

Use it or lose it Honey Bunny

Like a Yellow Checker Cab with four-hundred-thousand-plus miles on it I keep on ticking for now. Rebuilt daily/nightly renewed all over again. Best part I am that Self recognized when last I slept falling into the abyss of oblivion. Unconscious or conscious it seems the process goes on and on. Triage and parse my time, giving or selfish, the only thing I have left these precious priceless days. Ticking down the hours, minutes, seconds to zero?

Though dicey life, this thing we do, is fragile and resilient never really worthless but sometimes seen so--gossamer ephemeral. I have chosen to submit to a sense I've always had begrudgingly.

Nothing is for Naught

No one is just this or that cynically defined

Fabulous the slings and arrows of vicissitude. Maybe when it's my leaving day, long or brief, face-to-face I'll know why my children left me before my time but for now even now inevitably full of grit, a sandy salty sad boy yet childish with mirth.

Yha Dick & Jane, Mom Dad & puppy too, we have a soul no matter how you slice and dice it. A Self. A voice speaking within personal, mindful who speaking will be there either way both sides conscious or unconscious. Everything else seems denial, dances of avoidance, addictions to inattention; being here now.

“If you have much, give of your wealth; If you have little, give of your heart” -- Arab Proverb

"It is not the road ahead that wears you out -- it is the grain of sand in your shoe." --Arabian