Arisen from a death like sleep, wherein my initial dream was of incompetence, punctuated with astonishing insights. Not about myself but those I observed, two young boys in a track event in close competition. Their defiance of one another and potentially their demise in consequence. . . . It was then that I awoke remembering the otherwise drudgery of professional photography as I had practiced it.
Then too I visualized the sure homage I owe to those who chose, in their time, to write. Like refracting crystals the light dancing through them arrhythmical an exquisite dance. The light always transcendent.
Of and/or about myself, now, it could be said that I love, Love, knowing nothing of the end of it; the longest novel/poem in four letters infinite. And then it seems this must be the way all life is loved by the origin of everything.
I am thinking of M, my beloved hour glass, we passing through each other; endings and beginnings that is all. Gifting one another!?
Belief or none, seems irrelevant since the creator has us either way, regardless of insular/parochial definitions of who, what, why, when, wherefore . . . is not faith indefinable but best known by experience not war. Could it be that before we render ourselves extinct we will agree we had it all and destroyed it?
At lunch, yesterday, in jest I offered to pay with my library card. To which it was suggested that I could wash dishes instead. Whereupon I said; “I’ve been washing dishes, professionally, since the age of thirteen; M chimed in stating she’d been at since four upon a stool.
Brother Lawrence and Durer where are you when we need define creativity by the humble us all? Meek not proud. . . . that filmy sheen of perspiration making we glow! Inner light manifest.
. . . "To argue over who is the more noble is nothing more than to dispute whether dirt is better for making bricks or for making mortar." - Saint Teresa of Avila . . . Happy your birthday what you were and remain.
Mother once asked of me, close to the end of our relationship, why I, at two and one half years of age had touched her cheek and cried uncontrollably? As if I could then, at the time of act or fact stated, know. I offer, this being curious about curiosity, from slumber transiting this nation from infancy until now, I would awaken in odd conjunction with objects and thoughts. And now still wonder is it call and response, my vision/version of the occurrence?
The concept of conspiracy better said as conspire or co-creation or collaboration with that which we cannot control: Life. Creation. The time of birth, length of life, moment of death
Yes
She is, experientially, an hour glass. We the grains passing through, at some point in time still yet passed on to others that they may love as we do. I do reverence who turns us tumbling now.
“We never live, but we hope to live; and as we are always arranging to be happy, it must be that we never are so.” - Blaise Pascal
“We never live; we are always in the expectation of living.” - Voltaire
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© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved
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