Burlesque of Governance

Tho i make jest, the burlesque of governance, it is a deadly business bankrupting the world’s economy with self-congratulatory rewards for doing so. I would rather call them murders than thieves; but they are in fact both and unworthy the mouse droppings it would cost to obscure their ashes in death.

Everything I might say regarding what is good, fine and beyond, moth and rust, has been said before; better and by far wiser than I can aspire to be. Immortality is not an issue of acclaim, celebrity or guaranteed afterlife. Yet it is true and exists in all life; nothing is lost in infinity save that which is prostituted for material gain in the present.

Why do I write and about what? It is for those I have known; and now know well in poverty; of the wealth of living fearlessly in a time of chaos. The abortion of all moral and ethical values.

True, many have passed beyond my reach in death, yet are remembered and best reflected in/to not those about to die or their bereaved. But. Perhaps better in the avoidance of reality: our time, culture and institutional exploitation. The a fore named fleas who feast upon we the dog populous and the host upon which mutually ride.

This format is strictly a personal journal of all candor and transparency. Foolish? Perhaps yet in fact life and keeping a journal is not the goal; the journey is. Process. What we see is not what we get. We are not our bodies or minds but something far grander than one can imagine alone. Love and the discovery of love, real, actual, is a task for all life self-defined. Our time colludes to obscure reality from us by entertainment for profit in the process perverting self-knowledge while milking us as if we were factory animal farm ciphers.

121205 07:50

I write now with a significantly different intention; no longer frantic with inspiration, but aware the after effect. That small drop of water on the surface of still pond ripples beyond the shores containing it.

Ask and you will receive from a source unimaginable outside all the orthodoxy of history. In wondering “why” and “what for” I have come to a perception that is not exclusively mine from a source beyond understanding. God? Lover! Both. Names imply having what cannot be had or had by.

With extreme prejudice I was accused of incest with my sister, who I now believe had, at age six, no idea of what was going on. Nor did I at that point, 12 years old, but now many decades latter it becomes clear the contortions imposed in what I now consider castration. For which I am grateful since it informs my motives to write now for others who are similarly decapitated by the authority of parent, tribe, nation.

No.

More nearly burned alive at the stake of conservancy.

Such an unjust death is inevitable yet when seen in context it is less traumatic. To be touched by this energy, the power, wisdom is impossible for me to describe: what informs me that I must act instead of be a victim. And at that lends me no sense of what happens in transition from “life” to “death” or the afterwards. If I have any genius, whatever that means, it is the will to accept the unknowing, or the unknown speaking to all life above the din.

Loving, comedic, compassionate and empathetic . . . why do I weep? It was clearly stated by Paul once called Saul: Corinthians 1:13. To gaze into the dark glass and see what sees me looking is astonishing. Nothing changes except perception.

I am utterly different from day to day, yet I seem, to others, the same. Without intercourse with the real world around me I would otherwise remain oblivious to the unfolding of a consciousness in time; an arbitrary construct.

What is real love is immaterial; leaving no monument or trace in context of receiving but giving. Confused from birth until now I recognize the healing as a process begun from then and ongoing. The gem of consciousness is organic, gestating with new facets; unfolding mindfulness. A Buddhist term for self healing which, I sense, can only be inseminated by suffering. Given birth through becoming nothing--no thing--definable. Kindness by way of a simile, recognition, merger with reality.

121206 23:17

It is true of me that I live to work; versus work to live. This realization is after a lifetime of prostituting myself to other ideals and/or persons idealized. This is the oddest Advent Season of my memory, stunning in the realization that I love and am loved by someone uncertain of seeing again in this or any other lifetime imaginable. In this sincere knowledge it follows that were I as brutally honest with you as I am with myself, I’d tell you that birth is a sacrificial event. We all die and thus, as with myself, to you I’d say every moment it precious for in the next minute we die. At the same time I would advise all to educate yourselves as if you will never die.

When Jesus answered Nicodemus with “born again” it forms my sense of actual virgin birth, death, resurrection and/or reincarnation. In a sense to live light years in a moment.

Yet in fact I am not exclusively; Christian at least insofar as I am able to discern by others who proclaim or profess being so. Instead I consider myself a citizen of all creation; conscious of at all times the number of AIDS orphans and the Tibetan Buddhist burning themselves alive in protest. When I express my gratitude for the meal, silently to myself, I remember those residing under Interstate bridges. Knowing them of greater dignity than any other I can think of.

For an overweight lower middle-class white boy from Greenwich Connecticut; this astonishes me. Looking back at my high school years, remembering a trip to Greenwich Village with one of my two favorite art teachers, being told it would take me a lifetime to get over being middle-class I now realize it was a self-fulfilling prophesy. As indicated by Twain, Einstein and several others: it is not so much what we have learned but what we must unlearn to find the truth of our individual self; our greatest creation.

My son died on December 10th, a date I memorialize; remembering that my maternal grandfather also died that date, eleven days before winter solstice. M’s birthday is the next longest day: the 22nd. Only one astonishing facet of she who saved me from ending my life.

Love, for, or from me, never tells another who they are. Possibly incomprehensible to them and thus a burden instead of a gift. My only exception being to remind them that they can be fearlessly precious to themselves.

Be well. Be the wealth you are for others.

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© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved