crib sheet

"Sit down before fact as a little child, be prepared to give up every preconceived notion, follow humbly wherever and to whatever abyss nature leads, or you shall learn nothing." - Thomas Henry Huxley

Random reading of various authors and poets could be a resource for many literary forms. However I am testament to free healing by The All. The process is first thought, then affirmations. Extraordinary! I know.

I remember words that I adore saying like 'spatula' and 'trebuchet': delicious in my mouth. Then come others not near so tasty but memorable and curious. Passages of music, poems misunderstood, novels by the ton, read long ago. and current. Scenes from movies, plays, behavior on the streets. Of late I am cramming all the science I can find for free on the Internet; especially about the mind and evolution.

Having been assigned to record aspects of plays and movies I am seldom seduced by their artifice. but adore being so. The performance of need be stellar. Pornography, on the other hand, amateur or professional, is something of a joke since in most cases it is a performance art/craft. Actors mugging the camera: Gee Golly Wiz look at me!

Sadly I have discovered my self caged by shoulds and oughts culturally enforced. Gag ordered by The Church . . . about which: we are the church and within our hearts the psalms and hymns written.

Nonetheless I intend to, before I die, sooner or later, write erotica inspired long ago by John Updike's Poor House Fair and use of 'lubricity'.

Person, place or things memorable to me, stay with me, surfacing randomly wherein I laugh. Usually alone, since I fear being captured by dudes with coats that fasten backwards otherwise.

Following my father's practice of calling me 'you little fart' I continued saying it to my son Randy. Until he said; “Yes, Big Fart?” in reply . . . you know you're clean of grief once you remember only the good times. Randy had a penchant and proclivity, or so I think/remember, of speaking in a deep gravely voice. Odd for so young a child, he died at ten. And so now when I lurch dance about mimicking his voice to Annie; she just watches me very carefully. Her version of a cat laughing? Staring wide eyed! I even sing to her, basso profundo, outrageous lyrics. There ain't nothing aloof about either of us when alone together.

I pay homage to those people and resources who have brought me thus far; free of fear and envy. Kindness is a religion worthy of attention and “I see you” the next best thing. I could not see myself, ever as worthy of attention until I started to write in my journal long ago. Living death being in the presence of people with whom there is no trust. Absent trusting myself I had no life, no home, no future.

- Michael Jordan

"I’ve failed over and over and over again in my life and that is 

why I succeed."

"Some people want it to happen, some wish it would happen, others 

make it happen."

07:30

Awake again. My mind is like a mud hornet nest, benign until stirred up. P is a nurse, not a fetish figure, but one I trust by experience we met at hospice. An arch like a rainbow over/through which, like Palladian windows leaks in reality, I travel. Unlike Vonnegut and his mirrors: benignant.

Behind me is an industrial wheeled cart; bearing a host of dictionaries, including the Complete Oxford in miniature, frequently molested—all of them. Preamble to a pitch, unpaid, for WordWeb Pro which, unlike neither M or P I fondle frequently as well. As yet.

Once married to Carol Steiger/Stigger, we lived for a time near The United Center, Crystal St. Chicago. No basketball fan, as with all other sports: too much exposure via photo journalism and being run over five times by football players.

I have held, unconsciously, until now, a fondness for random associations coupling with my dyslexic apprehension of meanings. Taking to adding quotations should I ever pass this way again: i.e., read this post. A vivid memento. Improbable.

Life unfolding annotated, I am at the moment especially aware, I may have dug a grave with my mouth. At the same time recognize my unfailing reverence for choice in the beloved.

Once a beggar for love, a squishy schmo-schmuck, love and affirmations running off me like a gazing globe in a typhoon. Was I with those who could not get through to me? or merely that I too blind and stupid of mind to hear?

These stellar celestial hours I no longer care for yesterdays or future, I've been extruded from that base metal into something else; neither sword or plowshare, possibly, merely a moth flutter about, happily so. In all the prior hours I knew no ability to ask for love. Blowing up, apart, or running away when I sensed myself run aground. Dismasted and gutted.

I will close here, at the risk of being more pedantic then most of my previous excursions. With a few clues regarding the origin: Why, what, when and where I am now and came from, for the moment.

Both parents were addicted to success and alcohol. Suspecting I might be so inclined, I began to attend AA, plus a host of other iterations: Sex, Codependent, Adult Children of Alcoholics, Al anon, etc. All 12 Step Programs; peer councillorship. Discovering myself not alone, finally, part of the human family, imperfect and loving the experience. Becoming no “Goodie Two Shoe” anything. While I am capable of compassion I could as easily kill, heal or love dispassionately. Ruled by a simple choice, to never abuse as I was abused.

The ambition I have is to offer awareness that healing is possible, independent of all the expensive alternatives. Especially, psychotropic drugs, which by personal experience, do little but mute the problem, not heal it. Becoming another addiction, comparable to alcohol, but sanctioned, profitable and licit.

'Be well' is more than a sentiment, it is deadly serious.

“Virtue is a state of war, and to live in it we have always to combat with ourselves.” - Jean-Jacques Rousseau

wrenches by Diana Zlatanovski

130504 05:12 crib sheet

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved