Difficult, impossible actually, to define the why, who and what I seek combing the cosmos; I still find it in miniature within all life common/extraordinary. Loath to tear one from the other part; and disabled to call one evil another divine. Knowing from my own trials the ultimate good is more merciful than I am to myself. . . . or by my own lights, be to another save being saved from my self shredding.
Gloria Steinem was the first of many, before and since, women I thought of bedding; not so much her mind/body but her soul. Curious to know her as entire not simple pleasure. Now I wonder what the yin and yang are about? Light and Darkness? Good and evil? Or, more over, a light greater than that which ignites my desire.
What is our ignition point; when we, dry kindle or moist mold, burst into flame? Not a war between love and hate, but both against indifference and complacency. Ignorance of self and all else.
To know the Creator is a trial worth all that I was and will be for it is my bliss; responsibly--more so now for life itself. Noble?
No!
Since it seems that which is within all life: it’s reason for being.
And at that, and all, this day, my encounter with the man curious about poetry of which I know the spirit but not the how. Making my second cuppa coffee, a sin against my bladder; addiction? Possibly! Who cares? Not me. I stood watching the water suffuse the grounds and said, simply, “collector.” From those few who respond in derision or praise I know those nearest me read me not. In word or person save those rare times from emerald gaze I know love as real . . . a gift newly defined moment by moment never ending. Expanding not limiting.
So.
No.
I have no fear of gain or loss. Being a teacher is reward enough; to see the conflagration torched within another. Each of us is on our own path; the redemption/reconciliation or loss which only the Author can know; not we. Or us.
Save singly; alone in the light and dark of our lives tumult or peace.
It could well be that we are both, divine and cancer, upon this soon to be impotent ball. It takes time beyond imagining to grow a worm or rose in stone. Can we, for now, for the time remaining, call women equal in quality, to we little boys, never growing up?
Love is all. And sex mere reproduction; or a facet of the whole. Listen to your heart, not the snoring throng.
121124 08:37 all are: the nucleus of infinity
© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved
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