Vanity or vain attempt to expiate my guilt for rage against that which I cannot change. Why do I write?
Few wonder until around midlife; “is this all there is?” The urge to merge into the ordinary of life preceding it accomplished. Having become well behaved consumers of the economy’s purpose. Having given all due reverence to the norms, kowtow to the self-acknowledged saints, leaders and those irreverent of our right to be different.
I was born fabulously rich. Only to learn by behavior and choices regarding my welfare that I was unwanted, an accident in time. Liter like that which I picked up walking too and from the mail box mid residential complex. During the cold dressed as I like; indifferent to the climate or witness that I exist at all. Laughing! It only occurred today that for the best would be--you will understand shortly--for me to die in peace; is to cease to exist becoming a ghost. A no-see-um. A survivor in a Nazi death camp.
But then all are criminal who seek to rule for their own profit and pleasure, selfish, to an obscene degree. There are millions of ways to die. With death being no shame for a slave of vanity. To need beg forgiveness for being human is repugnant to me. No need to awaken those deeply asleep in vanity. Irk the ire of mad dogs frothing at the mouth to eat me for their pleasure. Wealth is not what you have but what you do not need.
I was once a Boy Scout leaning only that my peers wanted to see my penis. Who needs that? Yet I remained until quite recently a Boy Scout attempting to aid people crossing boundaries and receiving a trashing for my efforts; so vain I was then. Oddly misdiagnosed as bipolar thinking myself free at last of all guilt for misdemeanors sexual, intellectual, behavioral. Mother it seems remained until death convicted that we, my sister and I, she six and I twelve; had sex together. The poor woman had no father, no brother, no man to tell her she was full of shit. And I, at any early age, knew her a lethal as a coral snake. After repeated bites she began to resort to humiliation and silence. That is until like a dove with the cunning of a fox I began to outwit her. Love is not sex and sex is merely reproduction. My father, a gibbous knave, seduced me into slavery as protection from her. Neither clever enough to concoct a conspiracy of that magnitude.
I love playing the fool, a clown, since internally I shred my adversary with forgiveness and love . . . yes! Of them! But equally of the games they play against themselves. Best leave sleeping snakes lie. Loath to abuse the privilege of naming what teaches me as “God” I remain wealthier than any, I could in a vast knowing, name or long to emmulate. The greater they proclaim wealth the more foolish they are creating nothing but death from the rot of their usury and vanity.
Do I--or did I--just judge the entire governance of this once great land in vain for least “God” or whatever Created the Creation, the Big Bang, or whatever; watch over, the watchman listens and watches in vain.
I wished never to know my mother in that way, to procreate or practice the acts of love. Only to make love possible for her self. Exasperated she once wrote; “You don’t need my permission to write.” And of dad, my greatest gift is his theft of my life attempting to glean love from a turnip; but he did call me at death saying goodbye.
When weeping now it is for joy; not sorrow or fear.
"All men alike stand condemned, not by alien codes of ethics, but by their own, and all men therefore are conscious of guilt." - C. S. Lewis
121115 01:12 why?
© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved
