121213 05:39 We are a whole, an entirety, one family called life; consciously lived.
Love, grief and suffering, seem part of the same whole tapestry once traversed. My beginning was within an delusional ideal of seamless continuity. Nearing the end, I/Thou becomes aggregate a we communal. A consciousness being love for all not just the other, together or apart. . . .
121212 1306 love
Many of my dreams, it now occurrs to me, are debates with my self who appears faceless yet oddly familar. I seem to be a con man/woman selling, not used cars, aluminum siding or life insurance but, alternate ideations that I laugh at.
I will be cremated and my dust left in a plain brown corregated box. The experience of Emily Dickinson’s grave, head stone covered with pebbles, remains in my memory as do all the other literary memorials I have visited. Not intentionally but accidentally given the need of my then companions. As for my remains, or even my body now, I haven’t a care visualizing my life as if it were a one penny firecracker ignited and about to pop. As insignificant as a dog barking on the far distant side of the Organ Mountains that I cannot hear.
The dream from which I just awoke was, obviously, about burial plans. I derive a great deal of pleasure from figuring out cons; especially those I con myself with given all my wishful thinking. It seems I expect mayhem given my childhood and professional experience. Between serving at hospice and reading Annie Dillard I am a changed consciousness: fearless.
I awoke with a sense of regret, that I had lost my original intent, keeping a personal journal. Yet to save one life, other than mine, is in a humble sense to save the world if not the universe. “Life and let live.”
© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved
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