120817 1831 tribe
Among many roles I am a sailor who lives upon the desert not heaving, yet, but wind blown.
Across the plain are mountains stretching from Patagonia to the North Pole.
In this place, periodicity and peace I find unknown in all other roles, times and geographies. A small sacred sanctuary precious: two square feet.
My mind extending backwards beyond the measure of time. Or this place where I live for now. Soon leaving returning to eternity. A match struck upon a midnight sea flaring briefly then extinguished forever dark. A prospect about which I have no sentiments nor sorrow for. With my end, my self will be no more. I am a tribe of one. Soon extinct. Oddly fulfilling an eternal promise; a distant future. Known of, or about, but which I for now can only imagine.
If you read me you know me near as well as I know myself. Withholding nothing from converse between us; the good, the bad, the grotesque, the cynical, skeptical, pollyannaish, sometimes lyrical others lamenting. All parameters, perimeters and facets traversed. From this narrative I sing of another author who knowing me well feeds me insights and news material indicative of another consciousness, out of sight, observing us. As for now without judgement but indicative of the potential in all time of defining definitively the meaning of time as having a beginning, middle and end; a story yet unfinished but nearly so.
Home, Home at Last upon the ever shifting sands this hour glass endlessly turning but too soon to stop. Groaning in overload as we debate the meaning of meaning or what is truth?
Forgive my trespass.
Infliction.
Inconvenience.
But I would and do I ask. Are we not a tribe, global of one sort, this species we are? And in this kinship unworthy of one King or tribe of kings? But worthy of our own sovereign authorship, stewards and custodians, of our own minds and sacred sanctuaries occupying only two square feet vertically measured. Before we, in eternal sleep, occupy six by six by three feet for a time remembered our monuments become dust and history forgotten.
As for now this self who taps keys I fear no one and no thing. Envying nothing in eternity. To whom do I dedicate this: my sister, Ellen, M if not all women so blest have I been to know them well.
© 2012 by Jack Spratt All Rights Reserved
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