i write U right?

Insofar as i am able to discern. God has not censured me, save by the voice of one reader, who in retrospect, conferred not censure but objection; to my use of common slang deemed by some as offensive. Blasphemy, in my experience and opinion, is far more common by deeds than words. Slanders abound by the proclamations of lies used to advertise the current named politician for example. Add the continued abuse inherent in "In God We Trust" on currency obviously worth less than ass wipes and used at that. Second hand so to speak.

As a person who puts pen to paper, metaphorically, since I use several computers to which I've added now tablets for expedience while doing volunteer work -- there are the odd moments of down time. I hope my last extravagance is a digital recorder for use while driving the rouge thoughts that randomly flicker across my attention waiting interminably at stop signs, traffic lights and while mired knee deep in ass holes driving gigantic vanity mobiles. Here, mostly gringos from the wealthier spots in America with two cellular telephones one for each ear steering with their elbows. As part of the problem being both an ass hole and gringo I tend to lessen my impact upon the natives by not using a cellular phone at all much less while driving -- an actionable by statute law.

Regarding the writing of any thing, sexting or texting while driving has caused quite a few innocent people to be crippled or killed; at the very least disaccommodated and terrified needlessly by unconscionably rude, you got it! Ass Holes.

Returning to my thoughts regarding the writing i attempt to do without formal education. It is essentially extemporaneous, ad lib, improvised based upon themes remembered upon awakening plus a plethora of other resources. Once a binge reader I've of needs refrained, more nearly been abstemious, since for me reading sets of a bicentennial firework show of ideas difficult to process at one sitting. And when interviewing anyone remain quintessentially silent, with rare exception; to ask for clarification. e. i. "Exactly what does it mean that you claim to be Christian?" Of if you invoke the Prophet immediately I need to know which one?

At that I consciously avoid being self proclaiming in any sense of egocentrism. My ambition, or what impels me to write, is simply that when I don't; I miss it. The activity keeps me from perishing of boredom, causes me to laugh and cry, lending me joy. This makes me think of that and that makes me think of more until my mind is filled with thoughts in a dance surpassing anything I've ever seen the Rockettes do. I consider dance the highest form of prayer and dancers both genders divine.

Be drawn into a conspiracy with yourself; do not fear the pain it's worth every tear. I use toilet paper verses Kleenex, a copyrighted brand name, for the same thing slightly softer folded in a box costing considerably more.

120826 14:46 insofar
© 2012 by Jack Spratt All Rights Reserved

i've the mind of a shark, the body of a wolf, the size of a sprat, never really unconscious nor attracted to flashing lights, garter straps or mouse traps.

yet about all other things i have a preternatural delightful curiously seeking when not asleep but even then receiving input

could it be only me conscious that Jews did not crucify Jesus but their rulers of them spiritually did Possibly the greatest act of avarice in all human time If this be true then with odd yet small odds their 6 million slain was a punishment for their rulers whose avarice emblematic delusional psychotic became the model of all governance indifferent greed for power? Thus explaining without rationalization the 60 million of Stalin's intention and choice?

Evil is like a dog turd somewhere randomly placed in a field of play; will you stay isolated in a cage free to roam for fear of slipping and falling on it? If you need a Devil or devils advocate be your own. Avarice is both a birth defect and an addiction common to all who rule and those who steal or are guilty of serial rape or murder. And last but least the meek mere psychopath. So those unlike Jews called the goy name Jews by the millions as scapegoats still. 

Since I know Jesus, making me obviously insane, by dream, metaphor, legend, myth and practice to say nothing of parables; I think myself a Super Jew and He my beloved Savior my Messiah and much closer than i in life or death will ever be to the Creator, The All we call merely "God."

Perhaps, maybe not, I've slain the last and least particle of avarice remaining by closing my account on Facebook. I refuse to bore you, or them should they ask, my reasons reasoning why. Lest i defame those who remain in an orgy of Self Advertisement.

Exquisite are the moments enthralled with the divine who feeds me lullaby's and thorns needed to keep me dancing

120826 09:56 sprat
© 2012 by Jack Spratt All Rights Reserved

What awakened me? One of three: bladder or bowel or escape -- the dream my often, not so much any more, reprise of incompetence on photojournalistic assignments.

Too much equipment, not enough, a strange camera a host of issues given the context of the events unfolding unrecoverable.

In each case I've eaten the blame & failure to perform my expected, anticipated duties. What I did for forty years.

Unimaginable stress recalled whenever I photograph a person and I am sick of it. Sick unto death.

And so when with camera (more-or-less-always) I look upon the ground passing walls and imagine passersby may think me odd (no concern of mine) for I see coincident things and record the brief intercourse with my attention and the object of my celebration.

At this point in the narrative I could, but will not by choice, go in any direction within a sphere of possibility -- for this is exactly what I prayed for, unconsciously, -- something to do with time now that I no longer exist in or on the Fast Lane. Meaning I've been put out to pasture so the next generation is able to incarnate itself as it wishes their truths, versions and visions. For me to swiftly or slowly die in oblivion; a premature death if you think closely about it.

A solo sailor merging with the sea/sky at midnight -- the dog watch is best. In my gentle wake a plethora of brown glass beer bottles pop up each with a message buried in the ooze long ago in childhood ignored abandoned moving on each moment never to return . . . to borrow somewhat . . . and old man upon the sea rowing or sailing seeking the great whale of oblivion to be swallowed by.

Nabokov seems now more correct than misguided; his abyss annotated by a brief light time the before life no concern -- but the ending terrifying. Why? The Sufi's said it better, probably Rumi, it is to cross the abyss on thin air not falling: no net, no tight wire for acrobats. What Jesus implied by walking across the sea not sinking.

Do I exist? Do I want to? No, more often, than not.

Like my father I am drawn to idiosyncratic people announced merely by costume and here in The Land of Enchantment there are more and better examples highlighted by the paucity of distractions. Upon query they become more eccentric in proof my intuition and after they've strung out the viscera of their being they ask about me. To which in rare mood I usually say I eat, I shit, I die. Not quite as grand or scintillating as T. S. Eliot's “Birth, copulation and death. That’s all the facts when you come to the brass tacks.”

I can no longer write for an audience pretending to draw you into conspiracy with your Self.

Why would I do that? Well truthfully it was an extension of what I wrote to write myself sane most of which lays buried moldering in landfills as I will upon death . . . and did metaphorically place a stone upon Emily Dickenson's head stone. Her poetry completely unknown. Then. But now I have her complete works in paperback so adored the random reading of and subsequent evaporation of all my intentions, conceits and ego.

Creativity is entering into the unknown/unknowable and making up a life akin to what Genesis implies or embodies. I've forgotten the end or intended ideas of John Bunyon. . . .

. . . catch a firefly holding it cupped gently within the womb of your hands and you have god as is in your heart . . . what you kill slays you.

could I tell you of God you'd know the issue poorly but if you like i seek god by all definitions within you will know god as i do well . . . ask & receive only in the sanctuary of your silence  Seemingly all are called few answer of & those who do much will be asked

if tears tremble upon eye lids it is because the process continues via my way of asking and receiving:

--John Buchan, 1st Baron Tweedsmuir (f)
"The true definition of a snob is one who craves for what separates men rather than for what unites them."
"There may be Peace without Joy, and Joy without Peace, but the two combined make Happiness."

--John Bunyan
“I am going to my Father’s; and though with great difficulty I have got hither, yet now I do not repent me of all the trouble I have been at to arrive where I am. My sword I give to him that shall succeed me in my pilgrimage, and my courage and skill to him that can get it. My marks and scars I carry with me, to be a witness for me that I have fought His battles who will now be my rewarder. When the day that he must go hence was come, many accompanied him to the river-side, into which as he went, he said, "Death, where is thy sting?" And as he went down deeper, he said, "Grave, where is thy victory?"

So he passed over, and all the trumpets sounded for him on the other side.”
“There stood a man with his sword drawn, and his face all over with blood. Then said Mr. Great-Heart, Who art thou? The man made answer, saying, I am one whose name is Valiant-for-truth. I am a pilgrim, and am going to the Celestial City.”

be well better be best be all that is within you blest be for others what god is love unending

120826 0705 expectations
© 2012 by Jack Spratt All Rights Reserved

. . . for now, for awhile, short or long I'll continue to privately/publicly write myself in black ink across the night sky

A student of death from an early age I did not recognize my product in any venue a suicide note overly long, embellished with flourishes. Explicit in birth is death. All life, even love, dies. All beginnings hold their own endings in time.

I have no idea of when I will die by either choice or chance. Recent events conjoined lend a sense of my end nearer now.

Slithering sibilantly announced by the suns wobbling course across the saw tooth sun dial of the Organ Mountains from my front porch briefly stilled at summer solstice and then the longest night at winter solstice. Apogee and nadir.

I've always loved the light dying into night and the events I allude to deal as much with her as me. For a long time since we first met the dawn was first hers then mine then ours and soon it seems will be for one or the other whoever remains to see the fire sky.

It began with her definition of friendship growing into being confidants . . . breast cancer or merely tumors? Her dance card and overlay to my recent encounter with wanting or not wanting to go on coupled with the facts seem without sentimentality. Periodically we address our presence on Facebook and bemoan the tidal wave of self advertisement. Each knowing we exist and why for now we address each pain as it attacks.

The earth sustained our species for millions of years and now it seems can no longer do so while we reproduce in ever increasing numbers. Already a 1/3 over capacity there is no future for us, at least none without enormous profit to those who figure it out; our sustenance and ability to survive the crowd.

I don't like crowds, hoards or hoarders.

Last things, cars, homes, love affairs, child or children well and gone on to play tag with others the pretense of life lived or survived.

To 'my' Facebook "friends" should you ever seek me I've relocated here.

. . . for now, for awhile, short or long I'll continue to privately/publicly write myself in black ink across the night sky

120826 0230 suicide note
© 2012 by Jack Spratt All Rights Reserved

self destruct last things

Self destructive am I by nurture, or the lack, absence, or denial of it.

Additionally by nature since never was I affirmed by either parent, myself worthy of either life itself or my keep, comely or ugly; or that I was anything other than a goiter pendulous upon their joy or freedom -- in deed mom often entitled me "KILL JOY!"

All institutions die; a process of attrition. And dead wallow about proclaiming former glory as an excuse for continuance. As for 'family' there never was one and no home.

All life ends sooner or later. If so; when? Why not now!

Least you think me on the pity pot about to drown in it I don't care for praise or condemnation having had to little or too much of it random from strangers who knew me not.

Born a suicide I've remained in steady study of methodology while wondering and wandering about and around seeking some excuse to live for -- only recently did I sense the value of something to die for. Though through many situations perilous I've survived and still don't know why. Wishing then the blessed eternal rest of simply rotting away worm shit. No God, Heaven, Resurrection or Jesus to flog or be blest by just nothing; just death.

Behind me lays not a trail but simply nearly all that I participated in and loved buried. Neither adding to or detracting from the arts that i adore and abandoned for various reasons seeking love from turnips more like stones immovable statues. Oh sweet Jesus I wish I'd never been born or at least mother wasn't a crazy as she was.

I despise the medical community for murdering my son. And the doctors who are for the lion's share supercilious pretentious patronizing arrogant and unconscionably rude mercantile/mercenaries for medical insurance companies always looking to cut you out of your benefits. Who in turn richly award themselves while doing so.

I haven't sharpened the knife quite yet; merely deleting my Facebook account. They, whatever they is or are, informed me of a fourteen day period to reconsider. OFU! The only time I relished a presence there was the affirmation that lent me briefly a sense of potentially being a poet but otherwise the entire experience of Self Advertisement a gnat fart in a hurricane of schlock.

Typical of previous betrayals someone protested my request for friendship who wasn't associated with someone else who was a "friend." Fuck You Very Much Catholic Church & Press and now Facebook is on my shit list as well. Sadly I will be unable to complete an effort to affirm other photographers there passing forward those who in my soon to end life did so for me -- it was a tradition unspoken.

And in recognition those who -- too few to be believable -- who spoke encouragingly of my efforts abandoned to be present for my dying son. Who knows, who cares, I don't the potential lost.

I speak not of the insane joy of creating anything but merely of the sense of being in community with others creating a life, a self, in Lala Land.

Last things, a bucket list, I hope to have the ability to expunge my accounts at Google + and Culture Book before dying leaving nothing behind; no evidence of having been at all.

Everything we do is a self-portrait.

Facebook is the sound of one hand, so it Google but Culture Book is another story. To me My Opera remains the best at least there I can get a count of how many hits for pictures or essays and that suits me just fine. At least for now, for what ever is naturally left of time

120825 1707 self destruct last things
© 2012 by Jack Spratt All Rights Reserved