Got a low ignition point aflame from dropped lit matches falling from the heavens in solitary nights. Thinking of loss and he who claimed being my father but was in fact a silly boy and an infrequent friend. Sometime friend like an older brother I never had. Playful then suddenly indifferent. Wandering off dreaming of women who wore skirts, fancy cars and things he’d like to be able to say to glean the attention of his ‘Betters.’
Saved my ass once or twice swimming a fabulous distance to drag me back from going to sea in an inner tube. Latter on terrorizing a neighbor boy older than me making me cry with nasty words about mom. Had him on his back whacking him about with slaps and words he did. Couldn’t we both in times be certifiable as I was making coffee thinking I’d shred my half-brother for the theft of my life’s slavery to earn “our Father’s” love. Sure as shooting I go to eternal hell for the mere joy of tearing them together or singly apart with teeth, hands or toenails.
Orange Men from North Ireland -- crazy with blood lust -- with only me knowing the blues. Must be in the genes. Little wonder I now wandering towards the grave me self the loses I’ve embraced. Passionate for a Sphinx who leads me further into the maelstrom of me incandescent with words leaping about lighting strikes in the desert night blight observed from afar.
Then wide eyed awake in the dark, no dream, just thoughts of being Ginger Rogers and he Fred of course. Me dancing backwards in high heels thinking nothing of playing whatever role it took to hold his attention.
I dream wide awake en kindled with thoughts of the ballerina Degas wrought and hearing of her life at fourteen in a school for paramours. Did he touch her? Seeing her first in a museum she still haunts me. All children do; living or dead or the one who abandoned me.
No memory of benign touch remains save those I gave. And of women best the ones who loved and love me still I remember better the Sphinx and Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. Add both grandmothers and many - many pets.
Could it be that peace can only be communicated by touch?
. . . 130127 09:16 I’ve a new scheme: waiting awhile between idea and posting. Whiling the time between pillar/birth and post/death wondering what to reveal and what to hide. Yet my model is the candor of several who lent me their “Oh! I’m not alone . . . . “: not the only one to question or doubt or understand the full cost of consciousness. Add: the responsibility of choice in action not words.
Names can shame me but sticks and stones break my bones. How to define a life, impossible, absent honesty . . . an exceedingly rare commodity.
“To make no mistake is not in the power of man; but from their errors and mistakes the wise and good learn wisdom for the future.” - Plutarch
Rote and rite have no place in my life. Free flight through all thought is to know the limits of one’s perception. And with effort the source and end. . . . perchance return to the placental sea of unknowing reborn then dying again fearlessly to the sea of uncaring. Ignorance is limitless however to gyre is to measure the extent not humiliating but lending humility expansive.
http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2012/10/25/anais-nin-on-parenting-character-and-personal-responsibility/
"Accept your own divinity. Everything is a manifestation of God. When you know that, the power that is LIFE is inside you, you accept your own divinity, and yet you are humble, because you see the same divinity in everyone else." - Don Miguel Ruiz
130123 01:23 dad
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved
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