Post Cards from Creation

Change is inevitable. In my experience not dramatic, something like awakening as a cock roach. Rather it began somewhere/someplace backwards in time.

Just your ordinary little dust devil dancing alone in the night. From dust to dust; but what dust! We, all life, are the dust of creation attempting consciousness of purpose, from/to, what and why.

I am reconfiguring my sense of writing. No longer a personal journal, as such, attempting to gain sanity. A pretense and pose, attempted and achieved, somewhat, in adaption to my life as begun and near the end.

I think in terms of voyage or journey but neither term applies. Curiosity, perhaps a disease I was born with, is better. A seeking/seeing truth regardless of cost or what is revealed. Initially furtive and covert for fear of being proved the village idiot. And those who knew or know and love me nonetheless have paid the price of caring for an abducted child who in reality merely wandered off.

Possibly leaving behind a trail of bread crumbs or sending back post cards from within eternity.

130109 06:54 Post Cards

All of life is individual, stars within the darkness. Matches once struck, flaring, then extinguished.
Recycled?
The matter yes.
The consciousness?

Quislings govern us for the profit of a few. Who in their turn own us, en mass, a herd: slaves one-and-all. Thinking it bad for me I become conscious it is worse for women.

Something akin to “I wept because I had no shoes until I met a person with no feet.” . . . here it is well to remind you that we are persons, whether women or men, child or adult. Add that “man” is generic for human and not sexist in my perception. But ever aware of the enslavement of women I attempt to alter and alert all to the simple fact that the soul/self is genderless.

It may well be that I am ‘divinely’ inspired yet I claim no divinity to myself nor am I worthy of it. But at that, given five or so hours of sleep I awoke with the word “quisling “ on my lips. Culmination of various and sundry thoughts in the past twenty-four hours. Possibly longer duration. Since a friend described the death of a man slightly junior to the listening audience all beyond retirement age.

Apparently the man was a lumber jack, one who topped trees; those trees whose height is too great to fell from the base. It is dangerous work. He was topping a tree at home and kicked off his perch falling upon his head beneath and dying in his wife’s arms.

To which I responded; “What a wonderful way to die,” having witnessed the deaths of many from attrition, starvation, inability to swallow fluids. The ways of death are many and for myself I would rather be burned alive than most.

I am in no rush towards my own death, yet knowing and being mindful as I am, I sense life is a far greater value than those who steal it from us. Quislings, those who practice cupidity and avarice, those who hoard and those who abet the bankruptcy of the world . . . well what can I say? The world and it’s ways will change. Gazing into the abyss of greed lends me the sense we must change or perish all together. Yet must not change via the covert violence done to us least we become addicted to power and greed ourselves.

130111 00:48 life as prayer

These past silent days have been spent in reverent awe for discovery of actions and choices, in current time, humiliating to me.

How else can one become conscious other than to be become aware of attitudes, perspectives and hypocrisy that are doomed to fail, or at the very least cause the soul to die?

Save what we can, accept what we must, submitting to the flow of our reality, leaving the rest to it’s own resolution. I do still bridle at injustice and sense seeking the cause. That it is not my fight. Not my battle but the war in general that pervades all life throughout history. I change nothing but my self the only variable available to me. Leaving behind notes of encouragement to those who seek the why and how we are we, the family of humans, imperfect. Seeking happiness become joy in peace.

There seems no one author, other than the Author of Life itself, who makes available a construct of coping consumable at one bite. A magic bullet or pill remedying fit for all sorts and conditions. But then I speak of my failings not successes being at times a rock and others a fish in my small portion of time alloted to me.

My process goes on collecting quotes from which I derive a greater overview, a cross section if you will or must, of all thoughts available worthy of remembering in times such as these we live. Remove from them all the obvious progress and the experience remains essentially the same.

I sense myself changing in tectonic ways. Nothing shattering but slowly evolving into someone I don’t know yet. But the process, or journey, is worth it all, since to own one’s self is wealth without measure. Even if that self is discordant with all that passes for reality.

It now seems resolute that for me to write is the best I can make of a life once dedicated to images and music. I sense it was impossible before but now impossible to avoid or deny.

130114 05:20
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