Christmas’ Past were like playing the Mormon Tabernacle Choir doing the Messiah; falling through successive floors endlessly. Her mother, mine then dad and his new brood.

You know the feeling too well; falling down an elevator shaft; yet for me there were momentary lapses falling stopped. Why would or should such a divine commemoration be an endless nightmare. . . .the only two best remembered: Randy telling is grandmother, my mother; fists planted on each hip in his Doctor Denton’s: “ Don't you ever speak to my father in That Tone of voice. Ever!”

The other was at a time very young, uncertain where, but, paternal grandparents, present, had given me a toy farm populated with two dimensional figures plus fences and trees. I suppose in some sense it was humble--dare you to say ‘cheap’!

Between friends, mates, lovers or drive-by fornications: nudity is not the issue but naked souls blest. I was to be privileged to see my paternal grandmother nude; a memorable occasion since she defined the difference between nude and naked, having so shame of her body. Outstanding even then a fox until she died. Better and more frequently recalled her teaching me to tie my shoes. A double slipped reef knot; one lesson did the trick and more often when putting them on, seldom, shoes that tie instead of scuff. She stood there without shame or flinch; nude not smiling but her eyes saying; ‘yes’ to be so touched by grace is memorable beyond any amount of money in heaven, earth or hell forever.

For me to be now celibate is to love better all life. In denying myself the gratification of lust slaked I find myself better able to penetrate hearts, souls and minds. . . .Remembering Whitney Houston the difference between using a long lens and being up close and personal with a point-and-shoot. Fully clothed lounging in the doorway of her trailer talking to fans--I posing as one--now recall brokering a deal for Star Magazine to purchase images of her and Bobby, she in a bikini. On God! What a voice and body. The most sensitive sex organ is between our ears.

Other nominally near Christmas’ past better than most memorable. Remember Beethoven said something like; music is the best message of universal love. And she called me the night of her death to say goodbye from lung cancer, like me, a cigarette smoker. We met at the local public library. As previously stated, female librarians are oracles to me, always have will always be. When returned to Randy from Paradox I was refused access--typical of Susan--from beginning to end. She stood across the internment holding Nancy’s hand while I writhed upon the muddy December ground hysterical; a wooden Indian she selling no cigars.

Reggie (Regina) and Ralph took me in, accustomed to strays, as their son would have it of me and all who preceded me in their hospitality. Christmas' there was a Bacchanalian Celebration; I steered the eggnog which towards the end was more rum than egg. In the living room a star flashing varicolored lights obscenely joyous into the coming dawn; a new life for one and all to be well in eternity. Remember kiddies savior yourselves this Christmas for we celebrate He who died for us as well.

The Grinch Who Stole Christmas has formed a union; all Bankers of the World need not apply; they were made that way by greed. Us Tar Babies, we of color, even i a wannabe must stick together and walk outta the brier patch Bush/Cheney put us in. We Will Prevail inheriting the earth as the body of God. Or blown asunder merge meeting in the heart of God elsewhere.

Jesus did say, “The Kingdom of God is within you.” Meaning, at least for me for now; we are, or can be there, if only we are willing to vanquish our fear.

Oh yes! The reason I wept last lunch with M was hearing an aria remembering Reggie. Having read everything before she collected Harlequin Romances eating them like salty peanuts while listening to Opera. And now I celebrate all the women of my life; especially the Mother of God who upon the loom of first light, in robes black turning blue covered with stars gives virgin birth to the new and next day . . . and on very special times winks as she sets the moon goodnight.

There is artistry in all life if only you become awake to see it. Death having no dominion forever.

Happy All Saints Day on the morrow.

121031 05:29 touched by . . .
©2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

Behind me lay a multitude of thoughts recorded; recognized as folly, not vain so much as beating a dead dog to resurrect it.

As a photojournalist, for print media, I remain unbowed by the tsunami of television. Now the Internet blowing commercial broadcast off the globe.

Mr. Bill Gates, a pimple on the ass of the Internet, is ethically and morally a dog turd. Albeit a very rich one who giving a token from his amassed wealth could in truth as with all rich to tithe ten percent should. Yet could easily give ninety percent; remaining rich beyond all measure or reason.

Why would I molest Mr. Gates? Retroactively aborting his life and ‘accomplishments’ is available to me conceptually in that, were he to be my object of interest, myself no longer constrained by journalistic ethics and morals; and having been raped by people like he. Without disrespect I’d fart in his face before taking a portrait of him for any reason. He is no more or less noble than I or Annie, my companion cat. And Mr. Gates, in and of himself, is of zero interest.

The same applies to Ted Kennedy. I was given an assignment for The Providence Journal, Providence, Rhode Island. He stormed into the room filled with self-importance towing his wife; a marginally inflated sex toy on a four wheeled platform behind him. I do not know for certain, having no interest but intuition, he would screw anything with an appropriate entrance; a knothole for example. As happenstance, coincidence or felicitous synchronicity would have it I met the wife of the photographer who happen upon the ass end of Kennedy’s automobile as it sank into oblivion at Chappaquiddick. Thus my intuition affirmed.

We all have genius in us. Yet we refuse to acknowledge it; being impossible in an age of, not literacy but the blind leading the blind into perdition.

If I am bold, a terrorist, savage in my seeing; believe me it is inconvenient to prostitute my vision/version of all that I see for anyone. Gates is emblematic of the force and power of wealth to rape not only my inheritance but the products of my mind.

Actually there is nothing new in this penchant and proclivity to sodomize artist. For those who live in terror of never having enough, more is always demanded; by them, not God: The best audience in all creation.

If I find myself insignificant. It is true of my vision of eternity. The world, you, the audience, all measure of esteem or acclaim, “immortality;” will fall useless without us since the world will end; sooner or later.

The more I give away my consciousness of the divine, the more room within me to receive. To create a self is the most important effort worthy of person’s attention; not to be known but to know ourselves and the Creator approves: communes, advises, laughs and cries with you.

121029 04:48 taught

“Individual things are nothing but modifications of the attributes of God, or modes by which the attributes of God are expressed in a fixed and definite manner.” - Baruch Spinoza

Being a legend in my own mind, discovering myself a sardine in a very small fish bowl, i tend to forget no one else knows how to breath water.

An unexamined life is unworthy of being called life at all.

Yet, at that, I wonder how to sell you your own? Happiness for me is solitude, an occasional game of double deck Solitaire and a cat. I have enough: period. Such peace as I know having known it for five or more years, I recognize that I cannot collect M as either memento, souvenir or insurance that I will not back slide into the life of insanity I lived until meeting her.

Insanity, as classically defined by Albert Einstein: Repeating the same action/behavior expecting different results . . . possibly inaccurate but I refuse to look it up as in verbatim. Leading me to share that to have “collected” M as a 24/7/365 partner would have been to rehearse the same insanity of all my life: asking a woman to define me as worthy of living. Asking even that of my mother who remained silent until I buried her using the Episcopal Prayer Book Service for the Dead. Perhaps, but not now, sometime maybe, I’ll make a poem about it.

This is not about me, or God; it is about you and us; as in all of life.

As I write, fully conscious of my sister and her man’s (actually: my brother-in-law/bro) imperiled with the storm attacking The Eastern Seaboard, I do pray not so much for God’s Will for them or the millions involved but for them to have the peace and kneeling acceptance of death, destruction or whatever, why-ever it comes.

Everything has consequence. Pass me the donation plate and I might but a penny in removing all the dollars. Been there. Done That. Criminal? Of course, but I would hasten to add the days food or coffee and cigarette made from others extinguished butts was worth the humiliation. The only true democracy is storms and death. The sun shines, eventually in the case of now, upon the poor and rich equally. If Obama/Ryan/Romney sink us into perdition who am I to care or change what I have virtually no influence over or in save for my single vote?

I am astonished by my ignorance; having come thus far; believing in my prowess. As indicated: a person can glean a fabulous education via The World Wide Web -- and I find, for this reason, a swelling motive to censor it.

Mother grew to maturity, marriage, then motherhood from a hard scrabble origin. Made terrible and insane by the death of her father, at age four, by accident or suicide. Taught from an early age she was worthless in a agrarian culture; yet brilliant, in and of herself.

I think, and this is merely conjecture--a possibility: she hated me because I was male, lacking the potential of becoming the woman she longed to be. Or become. Growing from the obvious poverty of her origins into the Great Depression.

This is not about me or my mother. It is about and for all life in 2012 at the turning point between what was and will be. We are in a threshing machine being separated: the wheat from the chaff. And individually must define ourselves as worthy or unworthy of this life we live. Otherwise life itself will do so for us. In dying or after death we will look back and weep for not what we had but what we did not do for ourselves, family, community, society, culture and civilization.

As for myself, I no longer gaze at pornography masturbating. Attempting to define my anima (inner woman, ideal, The Goddess) anything to slake my lust for touch, acknowledgment, a fleeting experience of being loved. These things I have experience nominally yet ending with conditions that defined me in ways impossible to fulfill or for which I had no inclination or desire.

What I ran away from was not they who I was in relationship with. But towards where I am now. Geographical fixes don’t work. My travel itinerary was inward; not another trip around the world. Add. For me, it was best found in silence, solitude. The opportunity to wander into the desert and scream my head off in frustration over all my many failures. In my weeping finding my real strengths and desires: that no one lack the opportunity to live as I do now free of the horror of my childhood.

121030 03:33 "Don't find fault, find a remedy." - Henry Ford

The real people I know do encounter adversity with courage. Do I define myself as courageous? Uncertain. I remain gifted by the attention of both genders represented by those who listened instead of told. I must witness this is my experience with God; a dialog.

When the student is ready the Teacher will appear . . . and be willing to be, the Teacher, taught.

Regardless the means, measures or manors of your demise; depart forgiving those who raped you in all it’s many disguises. Their fate will be far worse.

Read your dreams and listen to what you see becoming well in all eternity.

121031 04:37 Adapt, improvise, prevail
©2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved