rely on yourself

"Your real security is yourself. You know you can do it, and they can't ever take that away from you."

--Mae West

Congress of Baboons:

Republican: Rhubarb

Democrats: Rhubarb

{the words used by crowd actors upon a stage to indicate dialog}

Am I OCD, compulsively writing; a wannabe author before dying. Addicted to any ambition? Uncertain. I persist finding my bliss which is an awful responsibility for oft the words of my mouth and heart are ridiculous. Not merely to me but 'my' Devil's Advocate Prince, once-and-future, King Wilson; he of the fabulous "YAWN" 'snooze' & 'Goodbye'?

Or like the jolly gay giant who upon first sight begins his advocacy of any, if not all, twelve step self-help programs; "You need ________Anonymous!

Truth be told, if there is anything more of me unknown, I was atheist/agnostic, circa Time Magazines "GOD IS DEAD" issue, for a great while and the Bride-of-My-Youth, though 'divorced' is still beloved by me. When we met again, she wearing her brother's lime green pants I followed her home like an orphan puppy panting. And when we attempted marriage we had to solicit several ministers of differing fragments of The True Church to do the deed, the rite, the ritual for what we'd already done at her insistence . . . I being too shy and too much in awe to suggest such a thing potential between us. Seduced? I don't think so, I'd loved and lusted for her since the third grade in Old Greewich Elementary School. 

Shamefully I used her panties exactly as her 3 brother's had . . . she once confessing that dressing for school she had to search the house finding none clean but stuck between hot water heated radiators soiled . . . not by her.

Useless by choice and finally so by age too soon. I recognize the decrescendo of my fetish. So like my willingness to castrate myself to be safe for M . . . at 81 I sometimes she imagines me her younger brother or worse: her son. Is she appalled? I don't know yet. I did inform her that my greatest joy was merely to make her laugh fully clothed as I seldom was able to do so for my mother. A failed comic I still find it difficult to take myself seriously &/or so Wilson reminds me occassionally. Noneplused as to what or how to reply I rest enjoying the attention of those I love. U do realize I mean U 2?

Flesh is God's canvas and seemingly it is mine as well?

It is well that I write and read myself as a fool for love. Indiscriminate lust for all? That you all be more better healthy happy and wise . . . maybe not attempting to run me over with your egos expressed in large Sports Utility Vehicles driven like race cars while the race car driver is distracted by children or cellular telephones . . . would it be providential for me to spend such time as is left to me on my back speechless immobile typing with a pool cue stuck in my mouth?

Laughing, I am laughing at myself so described but the reality would be horrific and no one willing to end my imprisonment; suicide by pillow . . . could you please pull my catheter out allowing me the grace of drowning in my own urine instead?

Maybe, Maybe not Wilson would be so kind . . . at least I think so from time to time. I'd rather he be famous for the writer he is; than infamous for scolding me. After all whenever I see his name beneath any text, or above, I read it avidly.

On a more sincere or serious note. I now recognize my syntax and hyperbole as representative of my unblinking submission to mothers trashing me. The still small voice whispering within . . . i love you so

Much I'd do, this and that, when and what for; to demonstrate how much I long for your joy. Love. Obvious to me yet to her not. And of such love sex played/plays such a very small role or part. 

The collective monolog within the congress of baboons is obscene;  a denigration of all life: carpet bombing one another with slogans. Shouting NO SPEAK! . . . a peeing contest.

To close: i am a work in progress yet happily so since I now listen to myself still love/lust/attending silent women adoringly. . . . it's not the package KISS its what's inside the Cracker Jack Box is the prize. Doesn't matter who came first boy or girl in Eden, we're all in this together whatever IT is. 

120924 22:02 rely on yourself

© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

to love & be loved is Agony & Ecstasy

120924 06:09 infidelity
Estrangement is the greater infidelity: like death; leaving one lover bereft. The greatest and the ultimate adultery being; left behind.

Of late, I dream not of Idols or thru video; but in dialog.
Conversation with myself?
I don't think so. Since who I converse with is wiser and more forgiving than i;
ignorant fool am i.

Beautifully intelligent. A scintillating conversationalist -- all things healthy, wealthy and wise! As annotated previously, in many posts, by any other name, LOVE. What we more often call "God."

Hindi's have many "gods" while Islam has nearly a thousand or more names for him/her. But only one for Mohammad; their primary interface with God and therefore Prophet: untouchable. No image save the personhood carried within the Islamist.
Again & Again:
Islam means submission.
Not idolatry.

God being in my perception androgyne
regardless of what called, by any name -- is true if answered by/to as called.
Blasphemy, in my lexicon, being a definition applied thru longing for God & Prophets to be fixed immutable from/by an educational system essentially religious not secular.

note: added latter on:
If you wear a cross as decoration it is 'blasphemous.' If you were true to Jesus
you'd be willing to not wear, but die upon, it.
I wear symbols of many of our world's religions. God does not seem to mind my 'infidelity.' i'd wear the symbol of Mohammad if I could find one better than Rumi singing in my heart.

The clue?
My word of the day.
From which, if I remember nothing else; I love the word left over from my dream(s) and carried from bed to the microwave of this i write: a Journal kept since 1976 in various ways: on restaurant napkins; never linen but cheap recycled paper, etc. I betray my culinary taste and budget. If you are very quick, clever at times, and so inclined, you can catch God in the act.

{. . . why would Jesus want a wife with God as a partner; what man or woman or child or pet could compete for attention?}

Pornography: derived from the Classic Age of Greece translates: Pornification = sexualization object/subject:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pornified

& Graph = writing with light (photography) pen and ink (in this case black on white phosporous or, of whatever it is that I see dancing across my computer monitor now: ephemeral-chimeric? Not poetic but sufficent for my needs . . . Jesus used his big toe while defending the woman about to be stoned to death accused of adultery.

The muse, oracle, scribe, secretary or merely the recording witness of our lives 'speaks' to me?

If I thought doing my income tax return with paper and pencil -- an All American pastime certain season of our annual lives -- was difficult. Oh Boy, oh Girl. Try remaining calm in the Presence of The Living God! . . . God does not laugh at us: just with US. Collaboratively we coupled can do anything required to clean house, wash dishes, find justice for our commonwealth: Earth

120924 12:00 fidelity

There is much I could say.
Many things I refuse to reveal.
In this or, any confessional sense;
or place.

I did return to hospice at noon after lunch with M . . . to another beloved who remains there tentatively. L had given me her traveling amplified Zondervan New & Old Testiments; thrice holy to me but mostly for all her gifts to me. They are hard traveled across many distant lands. As the three of us are by various means and measures; experiences treasured. Merton implied the farthest trip is within and. Lao Tzu: It begins at the ground beneath your feet and has no end in mind. No goal. Just process.

From henceforth the objective pronoun "He" is both male/female. As I am spiritually--equally balanced. I've had glimpses of God about which I refuse to speak. I am nothing special but like you capable of similar witness. Understand me well or not at all; it is your choice.

No threat.
No Promise.
My respect of/for you is equal, or nearly so, more better, nearly, than you can apprehend: to God.
Like Jesus and Nicodemus.
{Sequence insignificant; I adore role-play.}

My intentions change as inspired by L & M & JC . . . it is now clearer that I want you to write your life and read it as I do upon meeting you . . . yet with greater clarity and understanding going forward and doing no harm to anyone including yourself.

No computer, no tablet, no cheap paper napkins? Use a tape recorder of find another potential trustworthy listener . . . angels cannot have one another so get over it up front. . . .and you will understand why I know it laughable that Jesus had a wife and why we die.

Rather think me a modest teacher who does compel you to read books, dictionaries and the wisdom of others without boundary, or boarder, across this word, our nest for now. I do not know Mohammad well but respect Him as I respect Jesus, Buddha, Lao Tzu, etc. the list of my heroes is endless as is my small experience and vision limited to scanning--not comprehending--the whole of holiness. Or the search for living waters. Everywhere except within the desert inside your heart and mind.

Become tolerant, or pretend to be so, since you never know when the wrongs done to you are for the right reasons . . .

Or the rights you do to others are/maybe done for the wrong reasons . . .

The Seasons of Love include silence and abandonment of life; merely sleeping. Winters of body & soul. Grief, pain and suffering have an end and always a purpose. . . .Not what you want but what you need . . .

It is not my or M or L or JC's death that concerns me but the end of our home; become a barren pock marked moon. A headstone, memorial to the satellite circling us nightly?

In any case I returned to see L boldly signing in as a guest no longer a volunteer in hospice, the school of endings, wherein I came to know death a mercy instead of a curse or punishment. Bemused. Then amused. To note dear friends treating me as a ghost: unholy ignored/invisible to them but by me still loved.

I am able yet decline returning to Rhode Island. It holds not only the grave of my son. (Note: I never use "our" son since I in his life was seldom able to love him as I expected/anticipated, was denied, then became hysterical at his graveside while his mother stood silent across from me.) But equally: the corpse of my once-upon-a-time ambition to contribute myself to the art of photography.

The one and only "Light of the World" is Jesus to me. Yet I comprehend the protest of fundamentalist Muslims who feel their love besmirched. In time or death I will know Mohammad better, perhaps.

© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved