loving now

Despairing / resigned / to solitude / bereft of love of/by real / another

I find my life flung skyward

waxed wing of my gyre / grown stronger day-by-minute – Requited

Love’s no prison / her love is my loving her / as and where she is

me thinks for now she loves my vision of her / in myself arisen from stupefaction

impossible yet real / potent / fecund / although of certain years fertile of new life together

I dream, beloved reader, you know already that, yet in my awakenings I am repeatedly plucked of liver

by happenstance not an eagle perhaps but merely affirmations in spades

I had quoted St. Teresa of Avila last we spoke Pamela and i then first up there She was:

“It is love alone that gives worth to all things.” ~ St. Teresa of Avila (Teresa de Jesús)

. . . Wikiquotes become a massive St. Valentine missive

works for me howaboutyou what works?

Beloved

your are you know

don’t you?

Fear is potent—potential in all life given up — this has happened primal

to enter a new life for me is a process of moving towards the unknown/unknowable — risk of chance

faithful to guidance obscure/covert/subtle — yet this is real / happening tears laughter joy

no matter what

It is obvious that love is not original to me, nor are the words, obviously said many times across this globe’s history, our home, by others. Love being a verb — doing not saying — but talking about the walk is all I can actually share with you for now.

We are never absolutely lost/alone — the interlocutor — is there as when, He Jesus, asked this cup be passed — resurrect in part in me and I so love the process / trackless paths walked until now.

Without apology,

no rationalization,

or excuse,

we are divinity regardless of gender for Divinity is something not exclusive to either.

Inherent

I cannot heal the longings of your heart, merely suggest that you listen to that small quiet voice going bump humming/burbling in the night: the blight of sorrow and grief within / do not avoid it . . . trust,

be safe,

abandon fear,

be well

listening to yourself / that once and only /

you true to truth

Belief is someones idea. But faith is the robe worn by your experience, defined as process, not persecution ideal. Define yourself.

05:37

I fear that I may fail this I do, my greatest joy, write. Whatever it is doggerel or divine, happiness and growth for me. Yet I find in the concern redefining fear as a positive not a negative in that it draws me towards what community and communion is. Sex. Yes. But more than that. Sex in time is the lesser part of any relationship. What is overwhelming in youth — becomes celebration at a later time.

Each person in relationship is, to me equal, if not, equally enslaved.

Between us, we a common — nothing to look at couple — nothing to see overt / there is transparency: no lies. But a peculiar bias for one another / the best we can be together or apart. My ‘problem’ is to retain the sacrosanct of these hours alone to write . . . initially/merely annotation of dreams, visions, metaphors, etc. Become something else. What relationship is — as defined between two people — is virtually the same between myself and writing.

In love, I think, intuit, feel, sense an instinct: We seek a state of being; not subject to theft or decay — symbiotic. When reviewed with a dispassionate eye, I have seen couples who in their love, obvious, to me are magnificent. Yet emerging from poverty, my self loathing, I tended, formerly, to annotate only those whose accomplishments would otherwise be impossible; one without the other.

My liberal awareness of all wisdom traditions, in so far as I am able to comprehend, there seems, inherent and by practice, two separate ways: alone or together . . . how bereft would we be had not the Huxley family been? Or the James! Add. I adore Emily Dickinson, a celibate, as much as any other celibate; irregardless of institutional reference.

Tempted here, to quote what it is said that Jesus said, immediately drawn to Rumi. Laughing at myself for not my folly but joy. Those I love and admire, by list, endless. Then, obvious to me, is the interlocutor, who by any other name is lover, friend, companion and I am so blessed as we all are or can be should only we say yes to the feast of love.

Flashing across my mind, myself and Pam, hand-in-hand, beneath the shower head expelling lethal gas. We who cannot create, or love, destroy.

The greatest wealth is love not addiction, active in the eternal now, growing beyond death. The before and afterward of all.

Ignore me please attend yourself.

That which is within you to be best doing no harm.

07:02

Allaying fears — I called her in reply to a discovered email — I check every three and one quarter minutes— when it feasible.

In summary. I conclude my eccentricities, neither clever nor cute. Rather obnoxious of me and objectionable. A reasonable clause/cause for rejection, abandonment and all the terrors I’ve suffered since childhood. Yet in honesty and candor / between us / arises a new meter, language / potential of something never before

hopefully, prayerfully available to each and every conscious life together or apart — a bridge to infinity.

. . . and yes, love, actually

There is an organic velocity between us, from which we have grown together, rooted in hospice service. A place where there is departure and rebirth implied/inferred should only we collectively love one another.

There are many ways, methodologies, paths, imagined goals, but one interlocutor, who whispers in the deepest despair that we are loved

safe

07:46

Burbling in the background:

Love is what can be said yes or no to.

Addiction on the other hand is: that which can not be denied nonnegotiable.

For now, these moments luminous, incandescent with joy absent all sentiment, expectation, unconditional: yes

130519 MDT 03:55 loving now

© 2013 by Jack Spratt—All Rights Reserved