Jack Spratt

120908 17:32 joy days & tears for my father

If she reads me, by which, I am thinking not my soul on the hoof, so much as what I write. She says little to nothing. Fortuitous! For should I know her daily attention, especially now, I'd be inhibited mute falling not silent but dead humiliated. Worse I'd become dust instant no crematoria required. 

For these days, so longed for, I'd give nor receive nothing differently; to suffer again the agonies forging the tensile strength within me; what I sense she saw upon our first conversation going on now five years ago. 

And my thesis is proven again; that to create, is to enter deeply beyond Heaven's Gate, near, if not on the throne in the lap of God embraced. And were all the rich and powerful to line the path I've walked I'd laugh ignoring their Whole or Tithe in offering for a taste of this life I've lived. So precious no relic of or the actual Jesus upon the cross twitching would compare in their collections of the arts of life. 

In Greenwich, Connecticut, then one of the three richest communities in the world, walking with my father through Hirshhorn's personal estate Sculpture Garden I innocently turned to him saying; "I own everything I can see."

Oddly indifferent. He who suggested that I read Kafka's "Metamorphosis" at thirteen or fourteen years-of-age; beginning a lifelong distrust of all governance including the Motor Vehicle Departments & The Vatican. 

And so again, once more, am I reminded of his many bequest in life; somewhat but not totally vacating his leaving me penniless at and after his death. He did call to say goodbye, but in retrospect it seemed then, and now, like the Christmas Bonus; "Have a Goose for Christmas, goose yourself out the door on your way home. Good night and goodbye." 

In another aside, another time, never repeated, he cried, "I'd like sometime to read the menu from left to right ignoring the cost." Penurious and niggardly to, not merely a flaw, but a fatal addiction; he at another time spoke longingly of conversing with H. L. Mencken to whose work dad directed my attention; lending me the, in abject despair: "I should be put to sleep like a rabid dog." No longer  reprised. 

However as he aged, returning to electricity and radar/radio waves, would he render the life and times of Nicolas Tesla. The last time after informing me, because I had no children, wife barren, a nigger daughter and versus my slavery to him he had dedicated his entire estate to my half bother because he, Stephen E. Spratt; Commander Chuck E. Cheesed named so long before had helped dad move one day. . . .My fatal flaw was in loving him attempting to invoke love for himself. Thus abandoning my love of art. . . .A fatal cause costing me years, more years, than walking with Randy to his grave.

Finally after dragging me to Hawaii where he previously indicated an interest in purchasing property where we, he and I, could commute for his final days in my care. Upon the first morning I set up my laptop showing him real estate listings . . . "oh I've changed my mind. . . . " 

Did you know, do you care, he did know that I've been around the world five times over and despise airplanes then and the thought of flying anywhere is like unto the Jew packed cattle cars to Auschwitz the shower then the crematoria. . . .known well in advance with wife and family all of them extending backwards and forward generations to be indifferently slain. 

I can go no further for to do so would invoke my loathing of he and his second son. To name either one again and thus reenter them in Google Search would lend them more than the shit it would take to bury their ashes. 

Too empathetic

Too sensitive

Too everything passionate

To live.

. . . just off the phone, she lives another day begrudgingly M and of myself I don't honestly care either way; my bottom line.

© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved