aesthetics--mine

Beauty or grotesque is poetic or photographic; yet knowing not how but why I do either; both will serve for now.

Seeing the divine within all is problematic and my vision/version no longer subject to critics who seek what they wish. What and why I do as I do is for my souvenirs; not others. It is said that this attitude, or perception, is finding “a voice.” Personal and explicit--possibly insane--so be it.

True, of and for me; all events: random chance, felicitous or synchroneity. Perilous to those who volunteer to be recorded by either: memory fixed and removable as in digital photography--or this memory that writes. At least for now. No longer fearing the dribbling of it out my nose in Alzheimer or crushed beneath, burned alive or merely voiceless never to sing the songs sung to me and all.

Chortling.

Still.

The tale and price of an original Beethoven manuscript sold for an obscene amount. And wondering if Jesus reappeared that He, before speech could be uttered, would be eaten alive; toe nails and all. What is whole and holy being had but nothing of the spirit.

For, against, about which can I save? Certainly alone nothing but these moments of epiphany. Envisioning myself laughing/crying the sight, or recording . . . for what and why? The language and hearing soon disappeared; of dust dancing devilish in desert succumbing to dust again.

The act of creation is, in-and-of-itself, a reprise of all that began the bang--The Big One.

The All and the Why!

And i, a mud wasp making a nest, no better or less, than any who change the world but for a moment experiential. In prayer I would dance as the stars; but as I am: I call myself Lurch.

Not a faux Frankenstein but the creator of him, made one her self; by life itself. Of course it was by the material seeking/loving world not the divine. . . .souls being more than akin to angels: gender doesn’t matter.
121124 10:08 aesthetic
© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

all are: the nucleus of infinity

Over run with innocence or the obverse: consciousness -- all are both created and evolved. The desire -- no -- longing to be something, anything, worthy of life is the nexus around which all life revolves.

Difficult, impossible actually, to define the why, who and what I seek combing the cosmos; I still find it in miniature within all life common/extraordinary. Loath to tear one from the other part; and disabled to call one evil another divine. Knowing from my own trials the ultimate good is more merciful than I am to myself. . . . or by my own lights, be to another save being saved from my self shredding.

Gloria Steinem was the first of many, before and since, women I thought of bedding; not so much her mind/body but her soul. Curious to know her as entire not simple pleasure. Now I wonder what the yin and yang are about? Light and Darkness? Good and evil? Or, more over, a light greater than that which ignites my desire.

What is our ignition point; when we, dry kindle or moist mold, burst into flame? Not a war between love and hate, but both against indifference and complacency. Ignorance of self and all else.

To know the Creator is a trial worth all that I was and will be for it is my bliss; responsibly--more so now for life itself. Noble?

No!

Since it seems that which is within all life: it’s reason for being.

And at that, and all, this day, my encounter with the man curious about poetry of which I know the spirit but not the how. Making my second cuppa coffee, a sin against my bladder; addiction? Possibly! Who cares? Not me. I stood watching the water suffuse the grounds and said, simply, “collector.” From those few who respond in derision or praise I know those nearest me read me not. In word or person save those rare times from emerald gaze I know love as real . . . a gift newly defined moment by moment never ending. Expanding not limiting.

So.

No.

I have no fear of gain or loss. Being a teacher is reward enough; to see the conflagration torched within another. Each of us is on our own path; the redemption/reconciliation or loss which only the Author can know; not we. Or us.

Save singly; alone in the light and dark of our lives tumult or peace.

It could well be that we are both, divine and cancer, upon this soon to be impotent ball. It takes time beyond imagining to grow a worm or rose in stone. Can we, for now, for the time remaining, call women equal in quality, to we little boys, never growing up?

Love is all. And sex mere reproduction; or a facet of the whole. Listen to your heart, not the snoring throng.

121124 08:37 all are: the nucleus of infinity
© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved