To
sail cat's paws half way cross Narragansett Bay with a dragon fly
resting upon your shoulder is to understand the meaning of freedom.
In those moments turned hours, find love beyond speech. We were, he?
her? and I? One. Driven by the wind.
In
the worst of times, doubt would abort my everything, and all my
thoughts as being unworthy of having habitation within me.
Occasionally I still visit that dark fetid state; but know it now for
fleeting instead of being burned at the stake.
I
am the worst assassin of myself. In a nation given to killing
anyone/everyone for making ripples in the pond of conformity.
I
discover myself filled with myths and metaphors, omens and
portents--tared and feathered with them. Or, at the very least,
cockle burrs clinging to the whole fabric of my days. I am
apprehended by my sense love resides within each, every and all of
us. Waiting to be let out. Thinking now of Francis remarking that
perfect love is to cross the dark night in November raining soaked
through knocking at the gate of his home and there being no answer.
Could I be wrong in my advocacy of knock, ask, say yes, and it will
be answered? Since I now sense, experience and live what is within
knocking my heart asking to be let out.
Empathetical,
I wonder what it was like for the young women beheaded in neighboring
Juarez Mexico. The AIDS
orphans of Africa, India and China. The disappeared and those found
divided into many parts spread across abandoned fields.
Submerging
into rest I asked what it is to advance human consciousness and saw a
Chinese Dragon dancing at the head of a celebratory parade while its
tail remained motionless. Then a pile of plates stacked highly and
the top most blown away while the base stationary. War is profitable
while peace is not; the 1% gain while the serfs bleed and die. The 1%
colonize our minds with fear taking wealth from health wholesale.
Even love making is politicized.
03:02
Predawn,
falling from my perch, I soar over the abyss of my gratitude; the
vast array of those whose kindness grew my wings.
Of
instinct, courage is the better, not fear. About myself I know the
pros and cons as in confidence games: charlatan, swindler or
mountebank . . . why I so freely call what I see in others fraud.
Possibly I should or ought not to do so since it works both ways: to
love as I do. Is, I sense and experience, in M, a curse. But being a
beast of burden I take it as it goes; from day to day, minute by
minute and know the nature of love is reverence requited or not.
To
have or have not, to be or not to be . . . do I inflect, impose or
infect with my love. Momentarily astonished; to realize that the loss
of my children compelled the adoption of all children; regardless
their ages. To irk the ire of the pretentious is a pleasure and play
for me since they factory farm us. Much ado about nothing. Public
servants abound serving themselves exclusively. Seemingly, the fox
rules the hen house deciding who is next to consume. You cannot love
someone into loving themselves, but that is precisely what she does
did continues to do to me. But then, there are these precious hours
alone! Loved as God loves us all unconditionally.
Like
the assassinated women of Juarez,
in whose memory I am possessed, I must ask, is it worth being myself?
From first to last, regardless the torture, length of dying slowly or
swiftly. Sacrificed upon the alter of American greed for escape the
indifference of our leadership. There seems a remarkable similarity
between the fanaticism of free market avarice and that of those who
would destroy what we think we should export to the rest of the
world. It ain't all mom and apple pie you know. Who's a terrorist
now?
At
the risk of being stomped like a cockroach I'll say; after one
thousand and one “dates” with M, our relationship defies all
definitions I am aware of . . . thinking of Francis and Clare, Teresa
and John of The Cross . . . chaste making marriage pale. Lovers of
another kind.
My
version/vision of what I believe Jung implied; the great marriage is
inside. And at that its only value grows if only given freely away.
If
I make neither literary or literal sense remember these are only
notes on a life work in process. Finding a reason to take another
breathe.
.
. . could it be I am addressing myself, the eejit who never knew what
poetry was/is? Too pragmatic to try and fail? After all, in all
things, I am as empathetic to the predator as prey.
And
so the parade goes on and I wonder less why those I adore forgave
their executioners. All monuments erode but love grows.
To
close: A memory seldom considered; mother gave me a book about, but
never read; Heloise and Abelard. I was then an adolescent and
consider now her bequest of that, implied/inferred, greater than her
quarter million dollar will stolen from me by the gamblers on Wall
Street. . . .My fault really since I thought myself too stupid to
attend either fortune. Possibly why I find myself in a frenzy to know
myself differently? Sincerely, I am torn between a desire to
dismember them joint by joint, then resurrect them to do it all over
again. And merely forgive them, as I pray God will. And mom, forgive
me the loss of your wealth.
“The
perversion of the mind is only possible when those who should be
heard in its defense are silent.” - Archibald MacLeish
"The
love of liberty is the love of others; the love of power is the love
of ourselves." -
William Hazlitt
130426
01:57 MDT Value of Freedom
©
2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved
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