The
process is better described as an asymmetric tuning fork. Instead of
the note A 440 it sounds a dissonance.
Awakened
by a dream, needing
to void, initially I sought return to rest but then subtly a
disharmony occurred in which I began to question the superficially
ordinary scenario.
No escape!
It
seems there were several odd elements to a familiar landscape. Which
I presumed embellishments inserted to add color. Obviously, now, it
was intended by the ‘author’ of the dream. Affirmed in stunning
ways when I began my methodical pursuit of quotes. A practice that
works for me; being as ignorant as I am, I seek not
knowledge but wisdom. And dear reader it is for thee. Free.
To be free.
Discovered
is a resource I am advised not to reveal by several authors beginning
with Confucius and Einstein; one extrapolated, naked of wishful
thinking, common across history. Indicative of a wealth, common to
consciousness; should only we dive deeply enough through our inherent
perceptions.
My
discernment, derived exclusively in this dream, is humiliating:
recognition of my adaption to rape. Which according to M is simply
all forms of abuse; synonymous. Possibly my kindness towards others
was self-betrayal. Recalling my fathers advice;
“The world is filled with predators.” Now seems correct. Kindness
is learned and not inherent, at least in me, honestly.
Covertly
I have perceived The Bible, as well as other wisdom resources, as
owner’s manuals. What to do with this, experientially, once and
only once gift of life: precious.
A bit chary there, since I don’t believe in death as rot and loss.
But that’s me! And my fondness of saying; ‘Nothing is lost in
eternity.’
Most
magnificent. in this journey, is in saying yes to the invitation to
fully live and become a real person; that which we take for granted
but it is not. Is that the process is expansive; a reserve which
while given freely away, is ever filled and made better: a profit
from being profligate with kindness. To give until it becomes your
nature, is rewarded in ways unspeakable, unique to each of us. To
take is the way of death; pleasure for now, no joy later.
Laughter!
At myself, this busy little boy attempting maturity. Flabby white
ass, warts, wattles, wrinkles,
white whiskers and all!
In
compassion the emphasis is on passion. Too late the longing to get
laid vanquished by empathy for the other; women only. Who, intimately
reveal their abuse, of which there are many degrees from grotesque to
benign; exclusive of cultural and historic slavery to men. Think
about it once-in-a-while: it is possible that someone cooked the good
books claiming that Adam, not Eve, came first!
Snick,
snick, the blade sharpened by abrasion in contest my life and
survival bet against the mercurial modes of my mothers providence. I
know the town well; Providence, Rhode Island and its founders
intents. I know better now, by process and proofs personal, the
Providence and the Author of it.
Retrospectively
it seems I misappropriated reverence and awe to the wrong resource.
Am I alone in experiencing recreational sex as akin to seeing the
numinous? Those astonishing fleeting flashes of divinity? What happen
next: baby/babies, slavery to wages, smothered beneath obligations
obnoxious in the extreme; imprisoned by what I then thought as love.
Worse!
I became object/subject the attentions of those in authority. The
predators. If you turn around, backward/forwards, “The Chinese
Curse,” we can become authorities, at least in our lives privately.
Dare I say in forgiving our assassins
meeting the joy of eternity. Perhaps, maybe not, returning, or
staying with the resource whispering in my dreams?!
Swept
into the maelstrom described above, a child then of my time, to
exercise the desire for joy I sacrificed everything I then knew.
Oblivious of the consequence. What and which I know now as the hammer
blows upon the then mailable steel I am, forging me into what I could
not imagine until now.
Fraudulent,
addicted to nothing, except coffee and cigarettes for breakfast;
arising at all hours of darkness incandescent. Sex? Yes! I was but
now know better.
Why?
I
knew nothing better as an expression, nothing so vulnerable,
requisite of trust, to communicate that I loved at all.
In
recognition of former ecstasies, I recognize, not the product, but
the process. As now, so then, submerging one’s self into creation.
Wile E. Coyote and Ray Bradbury aside, I’m
learning to fly having stepped (or being pushed?) off the edge of
everything presumed true as perceived.
Is this my version of “run, jump and shout” or building
monuments? Artists are monks of a different order; contemplative,
meditative writing themselves across the void.
Be
well being your best self.
In
parting: It is unwise, although common of me, to irk the ire of those
immoral and ethically challenged. For the most part all in authority,
but most venal, of those, are politicians and administrators. The
ones who mind don’t matter, those who don’t mind do. Save, of
course, for indifference or they in denial.
Add:
For now at least; I oscillate thrashed against the gibbet from which
I am hung. Doubting, a gift akin to curiosity, my choice to be
transparent to a fault regarding those who I love, women of course,
who I have consigned to The All for their care.
If
I have lied to you consider it worse when I lie to myself. There
seems a truth greater than I can tell for now within me and all of
us.
130410
0407 MDT The Process
©
2013 by Jack Spratt – All
Rights Reserved
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