adversary

Attention to myself, balanced equally between extrovert or introvert, is greeted with curiosity. About not so much what is said but that anything is said at all. Since of, or about myself I, after many years of life, still find myself commonplace and unworthy of anything; praise or blame nor flames. ('flame' being typical of writers dedicated to erotica; indicative of "eat shit and go die someplace out of my sight" versus "you made me orgasm my brains and want to have your children in my body":) Praise!

Epiphany or synchronicity, the latter C. G. Jung implied is an outward manifestation of an inward event: thought, prayer, longing, request, etc. Or what I sense implicit in Mick Jagger's: " . . You don't always get what you want, but what you need . . " For which I am, in gratitude, very thankful; it describes my life perfectly and conviction that; Nothing is for Naught = Nothing is for Nothing. . . .No accidents.  

Some say, "Make of lemons, Lemonade" yet for me the issue is stasis as described; "Being between a rock and a hard place."

Pardon or damn me for my language -- I am indifferent either way -- but as indicated elsewhere mother had the mouth of a drunken sailor. 

I, from birth until now, have been fucked over by experts; abused/raped by words slanderous and behaviors outrageous. All of which I have accepted not as fearful but as blows; myself between the hammer and anvil being forged into something hard, sharp, refined, a weapon perhaps but now an agricultural implement; a plow? 

Essentially the above is preamble to what follows. I have been posting in four different places: Facebook, Google, Opera and now Culture Book -- same content -- different audiences. My thesis: to "cast my bread upon the water" . . . to see what happens. Facebook is now deleted leaving me three venues. Amongst my adult peers, the choice is obvious; not only childish but like all communication media it is now a sewer of artistic lying: commercialism. . . .personal and corporate. 

On Culture Book, the newest to me and apparently, in the plethora of "Social Media," NEW! I have received more response than my first site: Care2.com. From which I was expunged without reason or cause given no warning or appeal. 

Culture Book is interesting in preeminently the audience read books and in several significant instances are authors and poets. One, a young man of talent if not actual genius, refusing my request to be 'friends' has dedicated, at times his valuable, to me mind, in attack of what I write. Know me in the following: familiar with the best of either discipline, photography or writing, I have never entitled myself as either remaining is awe, mute about or of myself. . . .The same is true regarding my service at hospice this humiliating sense of unworthiness. 

God, with cause, remains invisible and the efforts of authors or photographers, are to me, post-it-notes pasted upon the IS, OM, The Author of Everything or I AM, defining The Presence in unique and extraordinary ways -- especially those without sponsor or franchise create independent of motive. 

I am, like all life, anonymous, unknown, unknowable, emigrant, a stranger in a strange land to live then die anonymous. My intention and arrangements made, I will be ash spread upon the desert sand or merely placed in a dumpster then landfill. . . .Coincident, M, my beloved has similar intentions; she at birth was so small and still -- she was placed in a 3 lb. lard can, a coffin swaddled in discarded hand towels, until she sighed and was accepted as living. 

What we do between birth and death -- a package deal concluded beginning and ending. Is what defines our life to ourselves. Yet we are an original unique one time only issue; to me, all seen as special and more worthy of live than myself. 

The authors and photographers I closely follow are monumental. Their lives and art hopeless to compete or better. I began to write as a palliative to occupy myself, what or such, time as I 'lived' not wanting to be alive. My tears inconsequential to the ocean of joy and suffering surrounding me afloat within. Yet here I remain anonymous treading water waiting to drown in death. Those who praise or flame me tell me I exist otherwise i would be nothing; a zero.

“A friend is one who knows you and loves you just the same.” --Elbert Hubbard 

Lamentably I am unable to read the full text, sadly unfamiliar with the site’s requirements, however otherwise whenever I see your name I do so.

120908 01:23 adversary 
© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved