120817 1831 tribe

Among many roles I am a sailor who lives upon the desert not heaving, yet, but wind blown. 

Across the plain are mountains stretching from Patagonia to the North Pole. 

In this place, periodicity and peace I find unknown in all other roles, times and geographies. A small sacred sanctuary precious: two square feet. 

My mind extending backwards beyond the measure of time. Or this place where I live for now. Soon leaving returning to eternity. A match struck upon a midnight sea flaring briefly then extinguished forever dark. A prospect about which I have no sentiments nor sorrow for. With my end, my self will be no more. I am a tribe of one. Soon extinct. Oddly fulfilling an eternal promise; a distant future. Known of, or about, but which I for now can only imagine. 

If you read me you know me near as well as I know myself. Withholding nothing from converse between us; the good, the bad, the grotesque, the cynical, skeptical, pollyannaish, sometimes lyrical others lamenting. All parameters, perimeters and facets traversed. From this narrative I sing of another author who knowing me well feeds me insights and news material indicative of another consciousness, out of sight, observing us. As for now without judgement but indicative of the potential in all time of defining definitively the meaning of time as having a beginning, middle and end; a story yet unfinished but nearly so.

Home, Home at Last upon the ever shifting sands this hour glass endlessly turning but too soon to stop. Groaning in overload as we debate the meaning of meaning or what is truth?

Forgive my trespass.

Infliction.

Inconvenience.

But I would and do I ask. Are we not a tribe, global of one sort, this species we are? And in this kinship unworthy of one King or tribe of kings? But worthy of our own sovereign authorship, stewards and custodians, of our own minds and sacred sanctuaries occupying only two square feet vertically measured. Before we, in eternal sleep, occupy six by six by three feet for a time remembered our monuments become dust and history forgotten.

As for now this self who taps keys I fear no one and no thing. Envying nothing in eternity. To whom do I dedicate this: my sister, Ellen, M if not all women so blest have I been to know them well.

© 2012 by Jack Spratt All Rights Reserved

THE TRUE BELIEVER A query, lottery or poll of those who read my post on the father of my mind: Eric Hoffer

120817 20:38 Eric Hoffer

A query, lottery or poll of those who read my post on the father of my mind: Eric Hoffer
Possibly better known initially as the author of "THE TRUE BELIEVER." 

Is it what he or I said that so attracts attention? Do not be shy or coy; since like all authors, I too fling my first born, in blood sacrifice, into the midnight well hearing no splash continually wondering; "was there an effort or dream. . . .did the tree falling make a noise absent a listener? What is the sound of one hand?"

In the query box search my name as jack4spratt or Jack Spratt and let me know. Please. With hot fudge, nuts and cherry atop. . . . & oh yes, beware the reference to Commander Chuck E. Cheese my half brother and thief of my inheritance to say nothing of he like other pornographers of the same name. All illegitimated. 

120816 13:38 i know & loved/love Jews

He took particular delight in placing forefingers to thumbs both hands raised to his face as though holding communion wafers, leering, open his mouth stick out his tongue flapping wildly ululating  screaming YEAH! 

"Did you like that?"

Standing over me bemused he awaited my reply.

Of course I did. It was my first lesson in cunnilingus and he'd demonstrated a "yeah job" to me speechless wetting my fatigues with pee and tears laughing breathless upon the barracks floor writhing. 

I'd known Jews before having Passover with them and so on. That is until the Army placed me in the company of wild Jewish street kids from the many Burroughs of Manhattan for the most part; not really known by address except for their humor.

This really . . . 

 120816 19:00

Once given backstage access to reality and the fraud of theater. One changes irrevocably. Not so much jaded as aware more of sincerity. And what drives the truth of people forward or stills them to silence and death premature. Light years separate we fully alive and they who in life are the living dead.

I remain capable of surprise, or actual astonishment, at my bigotries and hypocrisies as they melt into the flowing inevitable darkness lurking offstage awaiting . . . I do care more for all of you than myself -- this future we face without my eyes as witness. Ideally I'll be either dust a blowin in the wind across the desert not too distant. Or above praying with the choir of Saints, Angels & the Creator for our side of things. 

Which of course I am, as I've always been helpless to change, save for this very small and now old Self. Aside from my laughter there is within a steel will for us all to be saved even those baboons in congress slaying us with greedy indifference their supercilious pomposity, of which, of course I too am at times guilty; but that was awhile ago now.

I am astonished to realize that I no longer identify myself as parent to two departed children. And several, one would be too many, infidelities to not only wives and lovers but most of all to myself. By nature I am inappropriately loyal to others and never until now to myself. It is not uncommon to do an actors exercise before the mirror of morning's need of mowing my face; rolling eyes, wiggling my ears and twisting twitching my sagging face this way and that with only Annie for an audiece. She stares wide eyed silently -- still & watching carefully.

Where has my grief gone? Whether my fear and depression; a melancholy that dominated all my years, at least publicly?

What I laugh at most about myself is a penchant to beat to death my perceptions of others: their controlling observations of and terror to be condemned as unworthy of life. It & I no longer matter since the end draws nigh and I've made my goodbyes at every parting. Life, light, love and time that precious. . . .Reality is more valuable than all the sentiments I once held about God.

120817 00:12

Catheter wearing is more like it wearing me. At night Annie, having a massive rubber fetish, creeps next to me and begins to play. The only reason I'm up right now; she walked away with the latex strap in her teeth and let it go: SNAP! At another time I was able to dissuade her play with bitter apple spray used to defend my five computers from her predation -- I'm considering purchasing it by the gallon. She has to be the most high maintenance/high rent Lady in my life's history! 

When the doctor's receptionist called to assure them that I would be there will 'bells on' plus catheter for removal I said, "Gee . . . I don't want to part with it; the pants bag is sort of warm and snuggly like a child's security blanket." What Randy called his: a 'Mockie.' 

Oh dear sweet Jesus on a tricycle run over by a truck I love to make women laugh! Mother, of course, being my worst audience. Then I told the dear sweet girl, the receptionist, that recently I'd been awakened screaming running around the ceiling. Annie had begun acrobatic twirls with the tube between my ha-ha and the bag her fangs embedded in the connection. Not exactly true but close enough for my purposes. Laugh #2. 

I tend to be attracted to mannish women and womanish men somewhat more balanced delicately between the two genders. Yet in some cases violently skewed towards the contra sexual. Nothing perverse but merely too my taste in playmates intellectually and culturally. Honestly!? What I imagine Jesus is and was beyond our limited dream converse.

Add to which I know my limits -- quite vast actually -- regarding the difference between aggression and assertion. Cut too close and I'll either leave or slay you. The latter is not as grotesque as it sounds since I am precise in my surgery. You won't know you're dead until you can't feel anything anymore. 

All land everywhere is sacred to me yet there is in New Mexico a pervading sense that God was here long before mankind was a glimmer in God's eyes. The women here, at least the ones I know and love who've been here a long long time are to my taste perfect in that we can speak about and of anything . . . but, at that, it may be attributable to age when we begin to look like one another and think so alike. 

I am not a booster for where I live. I think I am part of the problem by race, age and poverty. At this point I need reign in my savage rage against my half-brother, bankers, politicians, and stock manupulators: all the ass holes who gamed me out of a living. 

My point being: I've met a woman who like many elderly I know was abused by the natives; her possessions stolen and though known to the police and frequently arrested, the criminals were set free and no compensation collected. No justice for the elderly. Which, lamentably, I find equally the case with those who purport to serve us senior sits: fantastic abuse without recourse. You name it; anything and everything you can imagine: sexual, economic, physical, emotional the list is endless.

Among her possessions were a number of furnishings hand made by her recently deceased, from Alzheimer's, husband precious to her. Instead of recounting my recent abuse I commented that creativity is its own reward. The analogy is between a lightning bug and lightning. The bug being all owners of things by good or ill gotten. 

Lightening is the creators experience incomprehensible to consumers but well kn0wn amongst those who produce. And as in all life the difference is really between those who take and those who give. Lamentably we live in a culture of institutional theft glorified by having and the terror of not having. True wealth is having enough. 

In closing I would add the difference between pleasure/satisfaction and happiness/joy is the former is temporary the latter is permanent, sovereign and unassailable by even death. 

. . . in the bed rock of my soul I know that when snuffed out I'll be a new dawn
. . . as all will be who love God

© 2012 by Jack Spratt All Rights Reserved