Wounded in life, I seek to staunch the wounds of others . . . . --xoj

"Jack Spratt’s two centavo Guide to Redemption”
©2012 by Jack Spratt All Rights Reserved

God's tapestry, all creation, my greatest value an attempt to live/love for: in gratitude, mercy, forgiveness, regardless of Age, Race, Creed, Gender, Gender Proclivities, or Generosity . . . seeking to make redemtion salvation & resurrection potential in all unique, precious, individual lives, human, plant, animal, world. . . .through words & images - Jack Spratt ... KISS

Sunday, April 7, 2013

US'a dreaming

My day begins with laughter, tears, humming and screaming; whenever I awaken from, not rest, but dreams astonishing: always! Regardless the time or place; running around the ceiling.

When last I wrote, yesterday, I began a bit about Ishmael, wandering off to read and then viewed “The Last Temptation of Christ.” Somewhere mid-stream I gave up since it was (the movie) so constipated compared to reading Kazantzakis, anything/everything, I began to understand that we as infants are the center of the Universe and in time, mature? Become vaporous, ephemeral, to me ready to leave the chaos for sanity.

Going Home.

True of me, I hotdog on The Torah, The Bible, etc. And hear God laughing; Her sense of my being a fool for love. Sweet Jesus on a go cart, in downtown Paris, at rush hour, how I love playing with words. The Good Books about God are paving stones while those written by Kazantzakis, Roth, Singer, Malamud; the few, yet many, who describe life as lived and loved. Like the magician littering the stage with motley scarves, hidden behind them, so many, I draw the authors I’ve read from within my heart . . . and now, only now, remembering meeting The Dalai Lama, that the hand I shook had touched Thomas Merton’s; embraced him and later prayed at his grave.

Lord God Almighty! Free at last!

Odd. The confluence, conjunction, collisions of elements: About Ishmael. She was a forty something foot schooner out of Greenwich, Connecticut. Sailed by a young man, a friend of the bride-of-my-youth’s younger brother; one of three.

You see I have always seen myself as white trash from the wrong side of everything. While she, her brother, their friends and neighbors were the white, washed and holy. Merely another way of saying, especially in these times of poverty, the obscenely rich . . . at that, the person with one eye in the land of the blind is wealthy beyond all measure.

In any case, the bride, long fled with children and I alone save for being accompanied by a man and woman who had stepped in to rescue me. We were invited to accompany the captain of Ishmael to a hippie conclave in the tidal marshes of Virginia wherein I was given a joint that rendered me hysterical crawling about the paw feet of a round oak table asking; ‘why I must be crucified endlessly.’

A mystical experience? Yes. I never smoked another joint. Later being informed that it had either rat poison or smack inserted within the weed.

They laughed, of course, as I now laugh at the experience.

Thinking metaphorically, time has become something of an ant farm, or wave form, glass encased, visual. An experiment going back-and-forth, forth-and-back. Endless. Futile. Fascinating.

I’ll have to go back and re-read Melville. Consulting Brewer Phrase & Fable, the thumbnail, yes, it could be that Ishmael is me. Laughing. Gore Vidal once mentioned the children chained in the attics of those button down Victorian Houses for the obscene unspeakable acts and pleasures of their parents. Greenwich, Connecticut?

YES.

OBVIOUSLY!

Not everything is specious, superfluous, fatuous, flatulent in the words of men. Or man as family; one and all. But the process enables me to observe myself comparitively to what I’ve ever said of others. Add. I remain enchanted with the chance? Conjunction of quotes as I wander between what I write and record of others. However when I view television I laugh instead of cry; the supercilious farting of time. With especial gratitude to Fox and the demigod who owns it. To think, once-upon-a-time it was my vocation to make the fools look wise; recalling now the lolling tongues, nose picking, crossed eyes that I excluded or deleted. The problem with irking the ire of the superficial is that they, in their boredom, will make your crucifixion longer for their entertainment. God grant me, please, the grace to not cry at the time of my departure.

For a brilliant woman my mother could be incredibly and rudely scatological. She could swear any Master Sargent or sailor under the table I’ve ever known. As for myself, in anticipation of another monthly, capricious, arbitrary, obviously demonstrative of self anointed administrative importance, inspection/violation of my privacy (as welcome as a napalm enema) I have begun imagining my fellow denizens, of we about to die (HUD housing) in a Drum & Bugle Corp. Who then could goose step with mops and brooms up and down the parking lot in review. Apparently the fecal minded have taken over the world.

One would be well advised to realize that it is possible to die from laughter.

Imagining myself wetting the trouser leg of my superiors while in my step-and-fetch-it mode; listening with focused, rapt attention on their pontifications. Otherwise, in protest, I might simply burn myself alive on their doorstep.

Possibly, I could convince St. Loony Tunes (Rupert Murdoch) to be the Drum Major while his minions record the events, for the delectation and edification of Ayn Rand’s resurrected/reincarnated selfishness coupled with the legends, in their own minds, baboons of Congress?

Salaciously reverent and divinely irreverent I think it not too odd to have awakened this time with thoughts of being a vapor no longer corporeal. Ecstatic. I no longer need to pretend to be “nice.”

Interesting and found at this close:

130407 02:37 Dreaming
© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved


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