betwixt

Between polarities of dream and awakening, perilous lay, the arch of thoughts resolved. Sometimes forgotten between habit and morning ritual; then: times amplified and unavoidable.

If I find peace in my ignorance is not to say I do not battle it but that there is a source of instruction attributable to submitting to the flow life wearing away: aggression, assertion and acceptance of what is. Hesitant to name God since the verb means so many different things and for the most part idolatry.

Too well do I know my dance of avoidance to not tell it in other ways non-fictional. Today’s fiction becomes a fact fixed and immutable until it is worn away by experience. The deeper I rend my self/soul the more I fear, unlike most, I never was imprinted with trust. Fearlessly tearing farther I know myself better and trust that.

In person I cannot console so much as be there for one who queries. Knowing this better by the agency of those whose solace I sought in times past -- continuing daily by the course of my study to find both wisdom and knowledge with greatest emphasis on the former.

Considering the above I wonder is it wisdom by attrition? Or merely acknowledgment of my way or path traveled to what end? I would rather be myself than any other or ideal. Since my sense and conclusion is that this is what all whose words I read or have heard is what they sought and found. Their acclaim, celebrity or success does not fit me for I would be smothered in their robes; a flea in eternity.

Then factually I do adore: the scientist and saint of any gender, creed or race. And sense our extinction is inconsequential for the force/energy which begot us. Feeling strung upon an invisible string; beginning before and lasting after all that we know will vanish. What urgency can I feel knowing that?

130203 08:52 betwixt

The faults I find in myself are sought to remedy them. Not by palliative but at worst to accommodate, contain and restrain them. I celebrate both rage and ecstasy; the height, width, breadth and depth of all that I know and experience. Yet I find no blame for it is ill to contain rage for long smothering my middle way. Or the life I do live in reality; the ordinary of my life.

What is extraordinary is unbidden by any conscious effort the remedy for what has been the nadir of my life: being unwanted, unworthy of attention, a fool, an idiot. All the facts of life, the achievements, awards and celebrity have no lasting value in what I sought. And when people I know well or poorly speak of “God” I know nothing of what they sense beyond a brand name.

Yet if I can leave nothing of value, having eaten, excreted and died -- no curse but blessing in that -- I do witness God as as my savior, lover and friend. Best teacher I have ever known. Lead to seek and see what is ineffable. Bold to say I never was psychologically imprinted with anything but the why and what found in these previous days . . . a child’s prayer: “please be real!” Answered in uncommon ways. Anyone of which could be remarked monumentally but are not save in the history of my words annotating the process of from whence to where and beyond.

A runaway, not from, but to this -- loyalty inexpressible save by behavior and choice. A loose canon upon the decks of slave ships.

. . . 130104 05:42

Gyring thoughts hurl me aloft, strung together as pedals of roses in bloom--words--compassion incandescent with passion; suck me into oblivion the river of time behind and before me.

At lunch yesterday, M, said; “Why not write a book’ . . . ? (Though) Who me? But then in recognition of the two or so thousand pages those kept and lost--why not? I have!

But then previously I’d perceived books as accomplished things: fixed and immutable and what I write writes me across the void; darkness, not a star in sight.

I am not sad to so late discover the love of words at my hand and mind since I suspect most of us: this generation and those to follow, if they will, or do, suffer, in the majority, being disaffected and unwanted: the many of us who are an increase degrading the lives of one another by our number.

The race, this species, is beyond the point of no return; privacy shorn and no one individual unique as those I read remaining save the sense we are chattels to the rich who factory farm us injecting strange and exotic synthesized chemicals for cosmetic and commercial--mercantile--purposes: cupidity/calumny/usury.

Of fiction I can only say, by experience, they are the vestibule of intimacy. Hinting at what waits within yourself; the greatest experience one can know, if sought, inferior only to the souce of all being: The All.

My prayer for all life is this: imitate no one except yourself as being the best you can be for now and eternity.

. . . 130205 12:21
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Imprinting_(psychology)
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved