For a rough guide, or scale, think your choice governs 90% of your health; the remaining 10% is your DNA, food chain, physics, and so on.
Each day tumbles away into darkness; my path towards the light. It is a way, my way, yet your way will be different since although we are similar, nearly equivalent if not in essence: same/same/equal. Our perceptions set us apart. Celebrate that--the you-ness of you.
Of late, considering the storm and chaos of lies promulgated by politicians who are to me, at least or best, failed ambulance chasers. Lawyers. Those despicable people who argue your meaning and value as though you were a thing, litter, or a cypher.
Lamentably while changing out of, or into street clothes at the gym, I am bashed by the noise of endless squawk; much-ado-about nothing. Tho my attention, by now, is a hardened chrome ball like a gazing ball, like a lawn ornament; lethal to touch. I do listen briefly to the snark and no speak of all that is on offer. At the moment grinning at my liberty of not having an open sewer spewing waste into my abode endlessly. Television has become brainwash; endless dreck or simply a shit storm 24/7/365.
In the hymn of silence each event becomes astonishing; a new galaxy birthing or dying.
God does not need me to be a sophist for love. Or an apologist for the 6 and 60 million slain by fascism. Or for me to draw obvious comparisons between what it was and now is evident in a political process for sale.
I remain curious about what lays in my path, easily resting in the silence and realization, my ego: road kill. That said. Why do I continue to write?
So little time remains though I might or may live another, physical twenty years or so, or at that; another ten million. Each day, moment, second is filled with richness inconceivable to me yesterday or the day before. If anything, the motive to write is more an expelling of thoughts making room for more experience. In meditation I wander around the feast, like The Last Supper. Except in the sense of myself as a photographer who once sought a “Terminal Lunch” laughing at the comparison. Bankers, stock brokers/speculators, politicians have sodomized me out of my modest retirement and thus disabled me from travel. At least physical travel. However following clues rendered by Thomas Merton, all Tibetan Monks (male and female) and Eric Hoffer I have traveled inward and found something inaccessible by travel within a tubular aluminum coffin prefaced being groped by goons who get off of making me their victim.
Sniff my library card!
I will close here with my original intention. Authority, mostly bean counters, compelled me to leave what had conceptually been my last home and effort to socialize with reality: hospice. I have no regrets and have returned to my last friend dying there several times. Remaining chagrined at the changes in personnel, atmosphere . . . having spent four or more hours in The Chicago Municipal Morgue which I found far more hospitable, I discover myself reborn free to engage whatever is next and no regrets.
I am smaller now, more mobile, better able to traverse the spine transiting the earth from Patagonia to Alaska faster than the speed of light passing through rock. More better yet I have more time to randomly read Rumi which merely makes me nothing to my delight.
121102 21:30 Care
©2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved
