What is the sound of one hand? God applauding!

photo taken in Janey Katz scrap yard

Mozart would creep into my crib, apparently like his music suffused, into my childhood consciousness; he seems to be reincarnated in Annie (my 'rescue' companion cat) and all the woman I need at the close of my life.

Love is where it finds you, or you find it; but the finding takes a lifetime to trust . . . though that's just me so lost, for so long, in chaos.

God's love strums and thrums me like Johnny Cash in Folsom Prison, oddly or not so oddly dependent upon your perception or perspective, M was there, the only woman locked in a prison of men. And of M as God do I sing for both are all the love forever I need or can handle. I have problems enough 'having' myself in these closing moments of my life as I knew it.

To love and be loved is all there is; as measured by any standard of value. Second too it is friendship and health; the lesser of God's love. The last and least of my concerns as I face this new day after another extrusion experience.

Though I think I've given you my first consciousness of peace and love from the beginning. I still wonder if you might not be better informed. The process of keeping a personal journal is random association and listening to what bobs up, the messages buried in the mire and muck of life unconscious. 

What I sense is achievable = our collective higher consciousness. All life is conscious of God. Yet God remains, at least to human life, defined in hundreds, thousands if not millions: now billions of individual ways. Another sense I have, and value highly, is that our various and sundry sense of God's presence and present to us, life & love: various is the spice of life itself. 

I do not know 'how' to write but have learned from Mozart, both the composer and cat, from infancy to know what I like. The meter and measure of music, the universal language, admired by all; and understood for a very long time as the height of genius. We may know the formal structure of anything yet by experience, or doing life, do we learn the art of it.

Don't like pussies then any life responsive will do it to you since we by nature seem not responsive to ourselves. 

We are 90% healthy by what we consume or consumes us. What we desire or hate owns us and you can bet your soul and self on that.

I hear both Mozart and God in all music regardless of its violence or celebration of tranquility. Music and dance being the highest form of prayer inchoate: think of the not knowing where, who, why, what or when love is . . . it is not stupidity but ignorance . . . for even the 'dumbest' life forms respond to attention either hateful or loving.

In my experience: belief is thought & faith is experience. If concerning love/God the first is someone else's conclusion, easily understandable but easily forgotten. The latter is unforgettable. I do not love you because God told me to; it is my nature to love; as is true of all life. As for myself: I am no victim or slave to anyone or anything. . . .Except, perhaps, maybe, maybe not: LOVE. 

Judging by what I've read, and the behavior of others touched by grace, it is possible to become completely insane with love. Yet for me, now, I remember, while thinking of posterity falling off my posterior seated upon stacked telephone directories at four attempting to play the piano as dad wished me to be 'rich and famous' as Mozart the composer who used the piano as his principal personal voice.

I was incapable of proving my love to either mom or dad since they had none for themselves, even if only self-respect or esteem. It follows that I am not and could never be a musician aside from singing to Annie or while taking a shower -- laughting at myself -- but then I began to sense the music of words requiring no one to play them, no instrument, no orchestra, or greedy publisher like my family was. Instead I began more clearly, writing this, to understand that words need only an author and an audience of one. 

What is the sound of one hand?

For me it is the applause of God who acknowledges the silence of my love. Expressed by closely attending all life encountered with love; sometimes laughter at even death. My poorly rendered words are but summary of experience of God who being love expects nothing in return. Not even kindness and mercy to another; or all others.

Be not false to yourself and thus you will be no fraud or false to anyone. Laughing: I sometimes think God the greatest con artist of all cons; look up Shapeshifter.

We all learn differently. And of education in America, bent and contorted towards conformity, I'll have none of it. As the future generation won't. 

I refuse to quote or memorize chapter and verse of the Bible much less the words of Rumi or Shakespeare. That said, I do, however always remember the spirit and intent all three.

And I'll hum quietly to myself the doxology for those who persecuted me. For doing wrong, they done right; setting me free to extrude myself again. Dying literally and figuratively to the past and being reborn in the present looking forward to another new day or actual death; equivalent to me. How many good Jews must die for those who killed our savior? I am not a Christian but a SUPER JEW! 

Or more sincerely and humbly stated: Merely a savior of myself. Know thy self and be true to that and no man or institution will ever own you.

121002 05:50 Mozart
©2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved