Jack Spratt

What awakened me? One of three: bladder or bowel or escape -- the dream my often, not so much any more, reprise of incompetence on photojournalistic assignments.

Too much equipment, not enough, a strange camera a host of issues given the context of the events unfolding unrecoverable.

In each case I've eaten the blame & failure to perform my expected, anticipated duties. What I did for forty years.

Unimaginable stress recalled whenever I photograph a person and I am sick of it. Sick unto death.

And so when with camera (more-or-less-always) I look upon the ground passing walls and imagine passersby may think me odd (no concern of mine) for I see coincident things and record the brief intercourse with my attention and the object of my celebration.

At this point in the narrative I could, but will not by choice, go in any direction within a sphere of possibility -- for this is exactly what I prayed for, unconsciously, -- something to do with time now that I no longer exist in or on the Fast Lane. Meaning I've been put out to pasture so the next generation is able to incarnate itself as it wishes their truths, versions and visions. For me to swiftly or slowly die in oblivion; a premature death if you think closely about it.

A solo sailor merging with the sea/sky at midnight -- the dog watch is best. In my gentle wake a plethora of brown glass beer bottles pop up each with a message buried in the ooze long ago in childhood ignored abandoned moving on each moment never to return . . . to borrow somewhat . . . and old man upon the sea rowing or sailing seeking the great whale of oblivion to be swallowed by.

Nabokov seems now more correct than misguided; his abyss annotated by a brief light time the before life no concern -- but the ending terrifying. Why? The Sufi's said it better, probably Rumi, it is to cross the abyss on thin air not falling: no net, no tight wire for acrobats. What Jesus implied by walking across the sea not sinking.

Do I exist? Do I want to? No, more often, than not.

Like my father I am drawn to idiosyncratic people announced merely by costume and here in The Land of Enchantment there are more and better examples highlighted by the paucity of distractions. Upon query they become more eccentric in proof my intuition and after they've strung out the viscera of their being they ask about me. To which in rare mood I usually say I eat, I shit, I die. Not quite as grand or scintillating as T. S. Eliot's “Birth, copulation and death. That’s all the facts when you come to the brass tacks.”

I can no longer write for an audience pretending to draw you into conspiracy with your Self.

Why would I do that? Well truthfully it was an extension of what I wrote to write myself sane most of which lays buried moldering in landfills as I will upon death . . . and did metaphorically place a stone upon Emily Dickenson's head stone. Her poetry completely unknown. Then. But now I have her complete works in paperback so adored the random reading of and subsequent evaporation of all my intentions, conceits and ego.

Creativity is entering into the unknown/unknowable and making up a life akin to what Genesis implies or embodies. I've forgotten the end or intended ideas of John Bunyon. . . .

. . . catch a firefly holding it cupped gently within the womb of your hands and you have god as is in your heart . . . what you kill slays you.

could I tell you of God you'd know the issue poorly but if you like i seek god by all definitions within you will know god as i do well . . . ask & receive only in the sanctuary of your silence  Seemingly all are called few answer of & those who do much will be asked

if tears tremble upon eye lids it is because the process continues via my way of asking and receiving:

--John Buchan, 1st Baron Tweedsmuir (f)
"The true definition of a snob is one who craves for what separates men rather than for what unites them."
"There may be Peace without Joy, and Joy without Peace, but the two combined make Happiness."

--John Bunyan
“I am going to my Father’s; and though with great difficulty I have got hither, yet now I do not repent me of all the trouble I have been at to arrive where I am. My sword I give to him that shall succeed me in my pilgrimage, and my courage and skill to him that can get it. My marks and scars I carry with me, to be a witness for me that I have fought His battles who will now be my rewarder. When the day that he must go hence was come, many accompanied him to the river-side, into which as he went, he said, "Death, where is thy sting?" And as he went down deeper, he said, "Grave, where is thy victory?"

So he passed over, and all the trumpets sounded for him on the other side.”
“There stood a man with his sword drawn, and his face all over with blood. Then said Mr. Great-Heart, Who art thou? The man made answer, saying, I am one whose name is Valiant-for-truth. I am a pilgrim, and am going to the Celestial City.”

be well better be best be all that is within you blest be for others what god is love unending

120826 0705 expectations
© 2012 by Jack Spratt All Rights Reserved