about her was

tho she thinks herself undesirable I see her as child, nubile and as she is: causing discomfort is not my mission being evenly divided between introvert and extroversion.

130508 02:13 unaccountably

Love at a latter age is different. Intimacy is defined by naked souls as well as bodies, with

emphasis upon the former. Love it seems is, both eventually, while most seem disinclined in our culture to define it so. Possibly impossible, love and passion, at any age coupled with friendship.

Distilled, discovered, yesterday: “If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain; If I can ease one life the aching, Or cool one pain, Or help one fainting robin Unto his nest again, I shall not live in vain.” - Emily Dickinson . . . defining my self ordained intentions totally.

Then today: “There are very few human beings who receive the truth, complete and staggering, by instant illumination. Most of them acquire it fragment by fragment, on a small scale, by successive developments, cellularly, like a laborious mosaic.” - Anaïs Nin

While making coffee, moments ago, I envisioned myself a man remaining a little boy; cocked hat, wooden sword, riding a hobby horse, tilting at windmills. While those I adore, all women actually, are grounded in reality by experience.

I have no sense of Jesus as God, but god besotted, as many men and women are, in the course of life lived for others. Preamble to my sense of the perfectly balanced person integrating evenly all points of perception beginning with male/female, extroversion/introversion, etc.

Celebratory is my admission that these two authors have defined my experience and expectations. . . .So well that I am stilled to silence, mute with awe. Since, for me, that better defines the nature of both love and friendship potential between women and men of any age.

I am in a state of transition from one place to another. Nearly as alarming as if I'd discovered the loss of my short term memory and anticipated irrevocable altercation with what I anticipated in my life. Love not Alzheimers is the cause. There is about this time, a painful evolution, organic in nature, I would liken to my sense the formation of crystals, sped up beyond my comprehension.

Laughter: God and love will do that to people; not what we want but need. There is a nascent poem within me going something like this: “A seed become root then stem a tree motley decorated with branches, leaves, birds and prophets adorned / aware the winds gentle and storm blowing me hither and yon yet experienced planted in solid ground.” What can I say? I am besotted with love irrevocably altered, death of one life while previewing what comes next?

It is true of me, I follow no singular prophet, but attempt as Matsuo Basho said “ . . . to seek what they sought.”

“I want to break out — to leave this cycle of infection and death. I want to be taken in love: so taken that you and I, and death, and life, will be gathered inseparable, into the radiance of what we would become...” ~ Thomas Pynchon

In the trackless waste of my life, attempting fabrication of paths for others, finding none specific, in reverence for the exquisite truth of each individual encountered, I remain in love with process not goals. Sensing now love savage not pleasure, happiness but unalloyed joy. In all former times I fell away apostate and hated myself for failure to bear up beneath the gifts bestowed.

From dust to dust / upon the winds swaying me / I must follow love / as always revealed. Becoming what I am: merely a dust mote flown by the wind as I am written upon it inconsequential. Humiliated becoming humble.

Death throes similar writhing to birth.

130507 10:21 about her was

© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved