120908 14:22 God forfend
of all the women I’ve bedded in a lifetime Carol was the most lubricious a veritable fountain she was; almost but not quite too much for my pleasure but at that she was of all the most ardent in loving me as I did her.
my too me not so odd penchant and proclivity of annotation the hour and minute of my dreams, moods, incantations, omens and runes have given me an overview of the actual ruin of my life. The cycles of despondence climax at the winter’s solstice finally fatally defined not by my sister’s admission of our maternal grandmother’s . . . oh . . . God . . . of course it was not her terror of death but the time and date of our maternal grandfathers faux suicide accident blowing his testicles off with a shotgun. Now if memory serves me well or a well as usual I remember his death the same date, different year, as Randy’s and Thomas Merton: December 10th. Christmas for me as always been a terror. Ruminated upon recently I realized that to me the birth of Jesus was also, in the package economy class steerage, fine print, also the fact of his dishonorable humiliating death.
least i go too far further farther into numerology betraying my long fascination of if not covert addiction to divination I should equally mention that were I to encounter a woman amenable to my wild sensuality I would be utterly lost never writing another word nor occasionally wandering wondering what I will discover the accidental encounter with word disintegrating upon walls and signage or the astonishment of conjunctions between moods, mindful of prayers answered by seeing things two dimensional upon the ground or pavement in this case living in a halcyon village, town, second largest city in New Mexico The Land of Enchantment. . . .
In sleep I die and am resurrected changed beyond recognition with though accurate but a faint memory of who, what, why and where I was before these brief moments of rest i go. Consumers of entertainments never know the ecstasy of participation in anything save reduced by 999/10ths the mania/insanity of creating anything save in those 1/60th stroboscopic winks seeing God in orgasm.
Both terrified, as in fear of The Lord, and unworthy the grace given, thus a runaway from my Self. It was known only to me in the flashing accomplishment of call it a wrap in the cinematic sense the deed done for once and forever the context now recorded and immortal . . . the situation now commonplace and I idle humiliated remembering touching the hem of God.
I am only able to be myself with those about to die . . . even Dick Cheney should he ever need the grace I can convey. And at that I can trust so few who in their time together with me confess their grace, longing and regrets conversationally confessional. Otherwise I am as I am merely another guy, though few, who volunteers for hospice service fetching another container of ice cream or soda. . . . in some sense she is not a believer or even faithful but I know a knower when in the Presence and then all fetters fall away and I become something foreign to myself and she more so in her smiling laughter at my shameful language having read, oh dear God now over four hundred posts confessional explicit, no hold bared. No exceptions allowed.
Should I go on? Or save for later on the power flowing through me from sleep prayers answered? I have no sense of tomorrow for standing here now I see nothing but infinity . . . electrocuted when first seen “Be Here Now” so very long ago haunting me ever since a mantra chanted in rare times of terror or despondency.
Would fully castrating myself make M feel safe my simple child’s longing to stay more than a goodbye’s worth in her embrace? I am confident but no so informed the malignancy costing me the loss of one testicle is benign but of and for her I remain uncertain knowing she like I will refuse the savage results of medicine today as my son did, as Kern Flynn did, as Ralph and my dad did and I vowed upon seeing the physical and emotional costs for my own death should cancer seize me. Life is too precious to waste on mere existence staring up at a ceiling for decades immobile with this level of conscious mindfulness.
These things I know too well while God remains mute regarding my sovereign right to end my life.
PS I refuse to retroactively “correct” grammar punctuation syntax since what I have written must remain intact; my sense the truth of “Poetic Licence.”
© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved
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