apogee

The apogee of my day is that moment upon awakening and integrating the myths, omens and portents of my dreams melding into consciousness: integration.

Twitching, paws flexing, I’d watch Duke, a childhood pet, sleeping and dreaming; muttering in his sleep remembering what? There’s a story in that, but not for here.

Annie my current companion, a dear friend, a cat; knows the moment of my awakening. I suspect from the alteration of my breathing rhythm. Animals and indigenous people seem to have a deeper sense of intuition, or both combined.

Whatever the future holds, near or far, I remain profoundly and sincerely, grateful for the meetings of apogees, M and mine, tho mine at the time was in perigee; she did in fact save my life. Still, I labor to understand why she seems so surprised that I love her for herself and not mere loyalty. Claiming, frequently, to be humiliated or embarrassed for the things I say of her within her hearing.

Speaking of obits, I seem to myself, at times, at various positions: sacred and secular. Relishing both integrated into one, again - at times, none too pleasing to myself &/others . . . at least those few who do comment, mostly on Cultural Book.

But then if my intuition is correct, so are we all. Regardless of renown or oblivion. Folly is not exclusive to anyone; all are imperfect. Yet when I Inquisition myself, I wonder why I still hold dear the crude, rude and salacious?

But then so was Jesus; at least my sense of Him, an anarchist. . . .The All is who defines humility and love and is not for one special person - look inside and find that within.

Retrospectively I seem attracted to massively powerful women. Never understanding, until now, I was attempting to seduce “GOD”!. . . at least, hitherto unrecognized, the part of inherent. To compel submission or to have them yield what was mine all along; but too screwed up to recognize, tremulous, upon a hair-trigger for the first sign of rejection/abandonment or immutable silence.

. . . not so much a runway, train or otherwise, but simply and unacknowledged Berserk-er leaping, screaming, howling at the moon; alone in the desert of my mind. And now, even now, I realize that of need I am solitary for the simple reason that it is my desire to be so, alone not lonely. Since I know that when in apogee, as now, I am untouchable. Not addressable for any concern by anyone; terminal or otherwise.

What I describe as M’s Sphinx like quiet, is as quiet as eternity and, in time, I’ve come to trust her. In her presence is a stillness, a waiting, an attention exclusively focused upon whom she is with. And it is no longer curious, or subject/object of jealousy that all are drawn to her to share their concerns.

Randy, my son, now dead for thirty-six years, remains present to me . . . he once said; “You glow in the dark.” Mystifying me. But now I remember that at times I speak, shout, laugh and cry in my sleep so he may have seen that, or known it in his special and inimitable ways. Then and now.

This time is like all time, before and after us, consciously/experiential. Decorated with trinkets, the tree remains a tree. Our items of technology enabling us to better, more swiftly communicate, alters not one jot or tittle the fact that we remain oblivious and indifferent in our communications. Typical of all life we use so little of our minds that it is pathetic . . . as in my case: doing battle with ignorance, prejudice, hyperbole, arrogance, etc. Add the collective chaos of “Good, Better, Best” and killing others for their indifferent incomprehension. The enemy is me.

. . . and I would hasten to add that my concerns for mental health are not addressed by licit or illicit drugs or addictions of any kind. They in their turn censure the symptom but address nothing of the cause except in those exceeding rare cases of imbalance attributable to biology or physics . . . or merely being, as most of us are, subject/object to the food chain feed upon by the Greeders.

In the numbers game ten, seems nicely appropriate, a tithe, for all of us who are merely tenants owning nothing. More seems addictive, compulsive and venal. Banal in fact and act.

I am not amused, the wealthiest man in the world, is responsible for f@%king up writing computer, destroying Word Star wherein one could type like lightning without moving from the home row. Even William F. Buckley used it . . . though given credit as progenitor of the current iteration of political conservancy, I learned from reading him and Gore Vidal that it is possible to be excellent, from, of course, differing vantage points.

Materialist seem doomed to damn themselves, prizing measurable accomplishment in education. The recitation of things: “Polly wants a cracker.” Instead of thinking, creativity and realization that education is endless for it will never vanquish our ignorance.

Perhaps, for now, like war, there will never be an end to demagoguery.

“Kitsch therefore relies on codes and clichés that convert the higher emotions into a pre-digested and trouble-free form—the form that can be most easily pretended. Like processed food, kitsch avoids everything in the organism that asks for moral energy and so passes from junk to crap without an intervening spell of nourishment.” - Excerpted from “Kitsch and the Modern Predicament” - Roger Scruton http://chasingtailfeathers.tumblr.com/post/45112852365

Politics seems - now - not the craft of that which is possible but stasis, all things made impossible; mice making mouse droppings out the electorate. Such little respect or ‘like’ I have for Ronald Regan is for the following: “Politics is supposed to be the second oldest profession. I have come to realize that it bears a very close resemblance to the first.” - Ronald Reagan

“A free man is as jealous of his responsibilities as he is of his liberties.” - Cyril James

“In certain trying circumstances, urgent circumstances, desperate circumstances, profanity furnishes a relief denied even to prayer.” - Mark Twain

laughter / tears / sometimes both / in awe / reverence / despair / desired or not - me

130313 04:11 apogee

© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved