Beauty or grotesque is poetic or photographic; yet knowing not how but why I do either; both will serve for now.
Seeing the divine within all is problematic and my vision/version no longer subject to critics who seek what they wish. What and why I do as I do is for my souvenirs; not others. It is said that this attitude, or perception, is finding “a voice.” Personal and explicit--possibly insane--so be it.
True, of and for me; all events: random chance, felicitous or synchroneity. Perilous to those who volunteer to be recorded by either: memory fixed and removable as in digital photography--or this memory that writes. At least for now. No longer fearing the dribbling of it out my nose in Alzheimer or crushed beneath, burned alive or merely voiceless never to sing the songs sung to me and all.
Chortling.
Still.
The tale and price of an original Beethoven manuscript sold for an obscene amount. And wondering if Jesus reappeared that He, before speech could be uttered, would be eaten alive; toe nails and all. What is whole and holy being had but nothing of the spirit.
For, against, about which can I save? Certainly alone nothing but these moments of epiphany. Envisioning myself laughing/crying the sight, or recording . . . for what and why? The language and hearing soon disappeared; of dust dancing devilish in desert succumbing to dust again.
The act of creation is, in-and-of-itself, a reprise of all that began the bang--The Big One.
The All and the Why!
And i, a mud wasp making a nest, no better or less, than any who change the world but for a moment experiential. In prayer I would dance as the stars; but as I am: I call myself Lurch.
Not a faux Frankenstein but the creator of him, made one her self; by life itself. Of course it was by the material seeking/loving world not the divine. . . .souls being more than akin to angels: gender doesn’t matter.
121124 10:08 aesthetic
© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved
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