Tho
i make jest, the burlesque of governance, it is a deadly business
bankrupting the world’s economy with self-congratulatory rewards
for doing so. I would rather call them murders than thieves; but they
are in fact both and unworthy the mouse droppings it would cost to
obscure their ashes in death.
Everything
I might say regarding what is good, fine and beyond, moth and rust,
has been said before; better and by far wiser than I can aspire to
be. Immortality is not an issue of acclaim, celebrity or guaranteed
afterlife. Yet it is true and exists in all life; nothing is lost in
infinity save that which is prostituted for material gain in the
present.
Why
do I write and about what? It is for those I have known; and now know
well in poverty; of the wealth of living fearlessly in a time of
chaos. The abortion of all moral and ethical values.
True,
many have passed beyond my reach in death, yet are remembered and
best reflected in/to not those about to die or their bereaved. But.
Perhaps better in the avoidance of reality: our time, culture and
institutional exploitation. The a fore named fleas who feast upon we
the dog populous and the host upon which mutually ride.
This
format is strictly a personal journal of all candor and transparency.
Foolish? Perhaps yet in fact life and keeping a journal is not the
goal; the journey is. Process. What we see is not what we get. We are
not our bodies or minds but something far grander than one can
imagine alone. Love and the discovery of love, real, actual, is a
task for all life self-defined. Our time colludes to obscure reality
from us by entertainment for profit in the process perverting
self-knowledge while milking us as if we were factory animal farm
ciphers.
121205
07:50
I
write now with a significantly different intention; no longer frantic
with inspiration, but aware the after effect. That small drop of
water on the surface of still pond ripples beyond the shores
containing it.
Ask
and you will receive from a source unimaginable outside all the
orthodoxy of history. In wondering “why” and “what for” I
have come to a perception that is not exclusively mine from a source
beyond understanding. God? Lover! Both. Names imply having what
cannot be had or had by.
With
extreme prejudice I was accused of incest with my sister, who I now
believe had, at age six, no idea of what was going on. Nor did I at
that point, 12 years old, but now many decades latter it becomes
clear the contortions imposed in what I now consider castration. For
which I am grateful since it informs my motives to write now for
others who are similarly decapitated by the authority of parent,
tribe, nation.
No.
More
nearly burned alive at the stake of conservancy.
Such
an unjust death is inevitable yet when seen in context it is less
traumatic. To be touched by this energy, the power, wisdom is
impossible for me to describe: what informs me that I must act
instead of be a victim. And at that lends me no sense of what
happens in transition from “life” to “death” or the
afterwards. If I have any genius, whatever that means, it is the will
to accept the unknowing, or the unknown speaking to all life above
the din.
Loving,
comedic, compassionate and empathetic . . . why do I weep? It was
clearly stated by Paul once called Saul: Corinthians 1:13. To gaze
into the dark glass and see what sees me looking is astonishing.
Nothing changes except perception.
I
am utterly different from day to day, yet I seem, to others, the
same. Without intercourse with the real world around me I would
otherwise remain oblivious to the unfolding of a consciousness in
time; an arbitrary construct.
What
is real love is immaterial; leaving no monument or trace in context
of receiving but giving. Confused from birth until now I recognize
the healing as a process begun from then and ongoing. The gem of
consciousness is organic, gestating with new facets; unfolding
mindfulness. A Buddhist term for self healing which, I sense, can
only be inseminated by suffering. Given birth through becoming
nothing--no thing--definable. Kindness by way of a simile,
recognition, merger with reality.
121206
23:17
It
is true of me that I live to work; versus work to live. This
realization is after a lifetime of prostituting myself to other
ideals and/or persons idealized. This is the oddest Advent Season of
my memory, stunning in the realization that I love and am loved by
someone uncertain of seeing again in this or any other lifetime
imaginable. In this sincere knowledge it follows that were I as
brutally honest with you as I am with myself, I’d tell you that
birth is a sacrificial event. We all die and thus, as with myself, to
you I’d say every moment it precious for in the next minute we die.
At the same time I would advise all to educate yourselves as if you
will never die.
When
Jesus answered Nicodemus with “born again” it forms my sense of
actual virgin birth, death, resurrection and/or reincarnation. In a
sense to live light years in a moment.
Yet
in fact I am not exclusively; Christian at least insofar as I am able
to discern by others who proclaim or profess being so. Instead I
consider myself a citizen of all creation; conscious of at all times
the number of AIDS orphans and the Tibetan Buddhist burning
themselves alive in protest. When I express my gratitude for the
meal, silently to myself, I remember those residing under Interstate
bridges. Knowing them of greater dignity than any other I can think
of.
For
an overweight lower middle-class white boy from Greenwich
Connecticut; this astonishes me. Looking back at my high school
years, remembering a trip to Greenwich Village with one of my two
favorite art teachers, being told it would take me a lifetime to get
over being middle-class I now realize it was a self-fulfilling
prophesy. As indicated by Twain, Einstein and several others: it is
not so much what we have learned but what we must unlearn to find the
truth of our individual self; our greatest creation.
My
son died on December 10th, a date I memorialize; remembering that my
maternal grandfather also died that date, eleven days before winter
solstice. M’s birthday is the next longest day: the 22nd. Only one
astonishing facet of she who saved me from ending my life.
Love,
for, or from me, never tells another who they are. Possibly
incomprehensible to them and thus a burden instead of a gift. My only
exception being to remind them that they can be fearlessly precious
to themselves.
Be
well. Be the wealth you are for others.
121204
0844 burlesque
©
2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved
