previously

Once thought of, or felt, self-love seemed, to me, furtive, masturbatory and shameful. Yet now realized, as all I am to myself. Otherwise a life lost in adaption to the expectations of culture; a greater shame have I for the latter.

I adore, so, these stolen hours before dawn; candle burnt both ends middle melting. The silence. No one stirs and nothing heaves but the sea slowly snoring; rippled mirror of eternity merging the stars within both. For a time I am both sailor and strider. A match briefly flicked & flown extinguished gasping, tssssing, cold submersion.

At the hour of awakening, played Aeolian, the threads of all that was, is and will be played upon the winds of creation. Woven a tapestry beyond my keen affirmed unfolding.

Robed in dawn, covered with stars, she, Mother Mary, invited me into her pulsing pink grotto home silently. Twice. I have yet to see her face beneath the hood shadowed seeing her in all women now.

I’m guessing here, between this and that site, 30,000 hits?! And what I said cannot be unsaid. Still wondering, wandering within, had I not written for me alone; notes of a life unfolding anonymously.

Goggle, ogle, gape remembering Can Can on Broadway at twelve, drowning in Vincent’s paintings, by the way Happy Birthday, retrospective at the Met and several prints haunting my adolescent bedroom by mom placed mementos graven

None of this is about me, but us, what holds the stars in their courses, for now at least. Creation is real, with or without: observation, discernment, judgment . . . The good, bad, grotesque, ecstatic of it all available; should only you ask, or knock upon the door of your unknowing.
Fear.
Terror, actually, for me was finding myself unworthy of life; merely that which we generally take for granted. Worse was the specter of insanity . . . add . . . and more true of me than I generally accept the knowing of; finding an excuse to live another day. In some sense longing for an authority to tell me that I was okay.

It works for me that I was in error seeking a woman to mirror me as well, whole, capable. Not a failure as male, father, lover, husband. More importantly -- as a person. Being that way left me owned, like a pet, or used as a convenience. Always subordinate, inferior; an inconvenience.

19:53

There is a point of expansion, departure, acceleration achieving exit speed; a voice of one’s own. My reverence for others, mostly women, slays me again and again . . . I cannot, I refuse to again be a wooden figure in someone else’s doll house.

. . . could it be, Mary that is, who I see when I look into a mirror?

130330 02:53 previously
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