ribbit the company of men

In the company of men, as a soldier, I learned by example and experience, what leadership is: to train those lead to replace you instantly. That was a fact, or ideal, as impossible then as C. G. Jung's advocacy that the last phase of integration is to address mortality; abstract fact then, but imminent now. Not for me alone, but all of us.

Death is a conviction inherent in birth. I have a sense of having little time to wander or wonder about what happens afterwards. Yet have, in time become aware, that kindness, love, joy, compassion, empathy are values I am willing to die for. Not ever having served in combat I intuit that troops live and die, not for a flag or ideal, but themselves as family; for each other. That is the brotherhood of men/women who commit and participate in what is real.

There are light years of separation between aggression and assertion. The peril I am aware of has nothing overt that should concern you with. My intention is not alarm but to suggest that you, as you are, are precious and should sell, donate, or sacrifice your life dearly. Commensurate with the value I see in our family of mankind; uniformly and equally. (Later added: collaboratively?)

My truth is not a brand, governance or religion since I sense nor discern none adequate. Save in the universal rule: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

KISS = Keep It Simple Stupid

Laughter. Amongst photographers there is a saying: “Unlike doctors we cannot bury our mistakes.”

07:19

At an illogical stopping point, between wise guys and wisdom gals, prophets, poets and authors, even a few statesmen--too few at that--I came to sense something ominous; putting it on the pillow with my head.

Where I live there is a season of wind; upon us now. In my headlong plunge seeking to balance my perceptions, informed by thinking, feeling, intuition, sense and instinct: what I decide my personal reality is or is about as actionable truth. I fell to disquiet blindsided by, from desperate resources, an aeolian harps distress. Humming my synapses, the only thing equal to light, perhaps faster in travel.

Here, in this season, the wind will suddenly raise dust to the extent one would be ill advised to travel about, since vision is constricted as severely as a blind fog or enveloping blizzard. Dust, like water, filling every void; extinguishing all conceits, presumptions or ambitions until it is over, scourging all life. Drowning in air?

There are too many of us, and I will gladly leave, but tarry a while for the children, who innocent of death, teach us to be at ease dying.

Never sure of being a curse or blessing in these times, I slump into silence (rarely) yet nattering on. Humiliated and humbled.

I still wonder what I will be when I grow up?

I lie. Words, mere words, build and destroy me. Thinking I was finished my eyes fell upon:

“To keep oneself safe does not mean to bury oneself.” - Marcus Annaeus Seneca

. . . it is a way, not The Way, but works for me, this that I daily do when alone . . . just a rogue thought crossing my attention now: escape and evasion is constant motion, if captured forgive your executioner. Did not Cicero say to his assassin; “Strike!”

If you would hear God, listen to God's Children: All of us.

And should you think yourself God you are not.

PS

What I left out of the previous post, or posts, can't remember now:

“I realized that the deepest spiritual lessons are not learned by His letting us have our way in the end, but by His making us wait, bearing with us in love and patience until we are able to honestly to pray what He taught His disciples to pray: Thy will be done.” - Elisabeth Elliot

14:08

And then another nap, in which I dreamed most salaciously, myself as venal. Immoral! Okay! I say let me see myself as I am, not as I would be. Unethical! To know one's self and accept that as . . . what . . . the light year gap between ideal and real.

Be careful of what you consume. As for myself. I am just as capable as anyone (thinking of politicians) phony baloney. Just for laughs.

What I dislike about writing, versus image making or capture, dance or stage event, is that when you review it, I, at least, discover vast vistas ignored. Pregnant with potential. And wonder should I go on or delete it; or myself? It is an odd task this that I put myself to: solitary, arcane, obtuse (laughter thinking of my bitchy muse amused with me squirming. Twitching and writhing upon this vivisection board) what I knew moments ago utterly changed. A foundation become quick sand.

And Yes! I love it more.

ribbit

130425 02:12 MDT the company of men

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