scant

Between dream and coffee, scant are my worries for loss, the lightening bolts that awakened me. Since, oddly or not, Wikiquote reminds me in, most often, very explicit words. Once bewildered by chance, coincidence, collision or serendipity the secular in me says synchronicity and the sacred says Thanks Be To God.

I sense no conflict between the two; being a writer now, no longer dependent upon external events to record photographically. An answered prayer actually, remembering how for years, when idle, I wondered surely there must be a better way for me to live. Independent of beauty or tragedy: laughter or sorrow; external.

And then and again I destroyed almost everything I’d ever produced professionally or personally except, of course, now recognized: myself.

Long have I remarked; “Everyday is Christmas and Easter; an-eternity-in-a-day.” With Thanksgiving sandwiched in-between. Spring has sprung, the season of resurrection, rebirth, the earth reincarnated and renewed. All Holy, these closing days for me, since Buddha too is celebrated this time. We all reside in a Universe loosely measured 24/7/365. Yet, in retrospect, I sense the holy within sorrows and joy, melded or mangling me into what I am now. No longer caring whether there is another spring within my body.

Lovely, loving the sense in which I experience, the will towards a common good for all of us; spoken in various voices and times. Weaving together the wisdom of all ages and places. I sense an obligation, unrequited, to express gratitude for those whose kindness has encouraged me to walk the walk using talk. The faces and places, gesture and actions, given that I might live just another moment before stepping off the bridge. (Laughter) I illustrated a suicide and remembered by calculation it was high enough to end it all, simply by the fall, not drowning.

I think myself at an age when childish things should, or could, be past, retaining a child’s gift of astonishment, reverence and awe. Instead of building cathedrals of greed or grace; running, jumping and shouting; instead I write.

Coupling words together, mere symbols, might, maybe not, cause a pause in our collective suicide?

Keep It Simple Jack = KISS: I have no extraordinary relationship with anything other than myself. No self ordination or consecration but merely an education self-derived from curiosity. My quest affirmed, daily renewed, by those who did speak of all things considered. Otherwise I freely admit being a failure at formal/vocational training by which, and all indications, I should be a menial laborer. Crying, once in adolescence, considering that thinking was a terminal disease. It is if measured by the inverse proportion of knowledge versus wisdom. Greed versus compassion.

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I love savagely and lust ferociously, thus it is well I discovered today: “When I'm not near the girl I love, I love the girl I'm near.” "When I'm Not Near the Girl I Love" in Finian's Rainbow (1946) - Tommy Steele version – Yip Harburg And this saved me from, discovered before retiring last time, in an email: “. . . You melt my heart with your words and insights! I carry your missives in my heart like a special gift.” The tussling angels and devils within seek no prescription or excuse but I now know peace being myself naked of desire for anything from women save what’s best for them.

Women have been my ‘saviors’ time and again. Especially now at or near my vintage. Confidence and intimacy redefined, healing the “castration” mother’s incorrect accusation implied: incest with my six year younger sister. Who when asked what she remembered said; “She tried to beat me to death!” The gynecologist visit, before or after? Call me Lucile or pansy, I then and now still long that love be possible in this world. Not for me alone but all of us.

Amongst the many, more than several traumatic, events: My father walked in the front door caring my mother stiff as a board, as in rigor mortis. Drunk from a social event. She was allergic to alcohol, however at the time of her death it was not uncommon for her to drink at least one or two quarts of Scotch per day after business hours. He dressed her in bed clothes and proceeded to pack all he could in his car. Before leaving he said to the twelve year old I was then; “You’re in charge take care of you mother.” And left.

Mother and sister slept through it all and I never said a word. He returned from Scranton, PA some ten hours later; hundreds of miles driven.

Between abandonment, beatings, slander and rage, my life has been dancing upon marbles. More like the rug, floor, foundation being withdrawn from beneath my feet, from birth until quite recently.

M saved my life.

Devils and angels line up in a chorus line quacking when I pray. Reminding me of all I owe to each woman and breathe I take. Oh! Be still my floundering heart; with gratitude to those who wrote, and acted, kindness at all. But most especially M who always wishes me rainbows though I am over the moon for her.

And yes! Happy Birthday Yip! Thank God for all poets of whatever form; in words and flesh. Saving what otherwise would take an eternity to learn.

Not to mention the loss causing suffering explained.

And even now Jesus transmogrifies from cradle to cross again and again; sometimes in part or nearly whole resurrected in us collectively. For me, not the only savior, but one of the very best.

“The poet is in command of his fantasy, while it is exactly the mark of the neurotic that he is possessed by his fantasy.” - Lionel Trilling

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