Curses in obverse often are blessings disguised. Example: within memory, the time of my life's experience: “Eat Shit and Die!” was a frequent epithet. Yet it describes explicitly what life consists of for all living things regardless fame or claims to beauty. In my turn I've thought, but seldom expressed the sentiment: 'No one shits daffodils.'
Recently friends and acquaintances have expressed bemusement at my vocabulary; they know not the tenth of it.
In childhood while being beaten senseless I'd rehearse the lexicon of why I shouldn't be trashed. That obviously was rationalization but it became--my mind, imagining and consciousness--an alchemical retort—pressure cooker if you will—of vast perimeters for which I am exceedingly grateful. Of course this is seen is reverse and praised now but cursed then.
I seem 'fated' to regurgitate experience in the brief time remaining my life. Long or short it is a pleasure obscene and joyously so to do in my own words.
In what I write, oddly, there is no ambition save to save the children who follow or those like myself were submerged into the culture of their parents and time. Essentially those who downed or live lives of useless depression. Add to which I entertain no illusions, pretensions or ideals that I alone could heal anyone with or without the aid of The Author of All Things.
In reality the effort is co-creation and/or collaborative . . . “Wherever two or more are gathered I will be there.” And here I fall in despair saddened since the freight applied to religion is so destroying of the simplicity of The I Am. Whose love engenders not kowtow, or sniveling faux reverence but an face-to-face exchange of loving dialog. I've not seen The Face save in my imaginings but know well the incarnations of God in others too numerous to name who transcend the boundaries of identity by race, creed, gender etc. or life form.
For God, God is quite humble, kind, slow to anger and so on and willing to be apparent to those who step aside their ambitions competitions and conceits becoming more like children: innocent sans their costumes of superiority.
In a sincere sense here I atone for my judgment of politicians as 'whores' reminding myself and anyone who cares to read my wanderings that I apply the same standards to my own vision/version of self/consciousness/soul. Giving due reverence to the numinous requires bathing in the height, width, breadth and depth of all within ourselves.
Love is no 'act' it is being.
As such it is given freely without recompense or acknowledgment to all & God. How else can we forgive others and ourselves our failures and folly? The grace of which defines the nature of our truth and the truths we want in the world for all life.
--T. S. Eliot
"All cases are unique and very similar to others."
“Birth, copulation and death. That’s all the facts when you come to the brass tacks.”
. . . otherwise we merely exist save when we begin to live outside ourselves for others.
120603 05:36
It is insane of me to attempt definitive the inexplicable since I am but a pin prick in eternity. Not even that in compare my sense of good or what we call 'God.' The image I have of myself and the All is merely two transparent funnels conjoined in a void through which passes, the aperture, inchoate longing in reply vagrant breezes ruffling hairs upon my neck. Silence. Neither star nor cosmos nascent. Darkness.
My father, the biological one, not the other parent who could be both mother/father or neither, said, “Some people talk just to hear the sound of their voice.”
A slander?
Praise?
No I think, at least as I interpreted it then and remember now, it seemed like saying those who recite the nursery rhyme, to him, were idiots.
If so then I too am an idiot in that I adore playing with words watching them copulate across space and conjoin in new configurations. Meanings or births thereof?
The only real new thing under the Sun – whose existence far outdistances my own, tenure and magnitude, pale compared to the good who created us and allowed us to evolve into what we are and will become: is you dear reader. The light of Love passing through your prism of perception possibly to respond refract deflect or reflect mirror Love . . . then what is love? How to define what so often is a plea for attention, kindness and affirmation.
Doggerel or poetry its just to lure you into conspiracy with Love
actually
real
neither exclamatory
nor hyperbolic
blest silence best
after all I was preceded by one year through elementary school by Jack Frost
120603 08:13
I arise and fall whenever I want and for that freedom am enraptured to dream or not creativity continues with or without 'me' so let us for the moment call Mr. & Mrs. Good creativity itself owned of course not it belongs to all and all have genius for it no one art or craft or statesmanship is better than another all are called few respond and that's my point.
The bride of my youth often dreamed of yet for now and when I departed impossible to live with for the want of a relationship viable beyond mere existence in name only. Beloved in elementary school and when we wed and bed and born and died even when in leaving her and still and forever but defined now differently but still love not demonstrated but love nonetheless endless. Love true is not defined by the other it remains gift constant.
With all the words or post-it-notes and quotes pasted upon and beyond infinity I'd still never fully contain the good of god.
“There is something pleasurable in calm remembrance of a past sorrow.” --Cicero
This thought had escaped me; all parents are essentially sacrificial predeceased or not and my children became parent to the man I've become for others within the stream of infinity
