quickening

An observation about solitude and creative/artistic endeavors. I have no literary friends with whom to qwery the good or ill of what/how/why I write. Leaving me with my head in the toilet singing lullabies to myself. A masturbatory exercise.

Considered from another point of perception, these being the happiest days, hours, minutes and seconds of all. Are expansive to places where no person has ever traveled except in their heart.

Ecstasy.

Why would I risk losing that to be with a person when I, at whatever hour arise, besot with dreams, messages, dialogs, ideas and ideals? There has never been for me someone as affirming specific to what I’ve written since a friend looking at a painting of mine raised his arms horizontal and screamed. Cause and effect intended, later I was see him crushed beneath a car straddling his motorcycle looking at me as he died.

Reality is far more fantastic than imagination.

The Interlocutor is silent, for the most part, lending me clues as serendipity, coincidence or synchronicity; what has sustained my solitary singing in the commode.

Inspiration: being breathed into . . . and Pamela Joyce — I love calling her that — there will be other terms of endearment later on but for now . . . my love for her, however expressed, of needs is adequate. Add. Of course I’ve always been incapable of expressing either love or the need for love effectively anywhere near my sense of its majesty . . . that is until I began to play in orchestras and bands, then paint, the photograph and now write. Which initially was a method of finding sanity in an insane world; i.e. No one listening to me — me learning not to listen to myself. Early on learning not to ask for, nor expect, anything; taking whatever was given . . . like many — if not most or all — scared by the experience. My writing this, as most everything else, is addressed to those of us, who like me were — or are lost — without voice or comprehension of what to do with abuse, rape, death, mutilation or merely loss/grief.

Recently I have used J. S. Bach and “fisting” to analogize the experience of Pamela Joyce’s response/reply via insertion or play within my self. Rude, crude, inadequate to the fantastic lofting she gives me: specific to my intentions suggesting an interest in more.

In a way, a sense, I could die this moment ecstatic in her love. She in me. And, we’ve not yet kissed or embraced outside dialog . . . simple conversation.

At first meeting there was lust of course. But more. Some ineffable intuition that she was desirable on a multiplicity of levels and facets. Now my feelings are; then, now, and future, there is more. For which I would fight to gain. I have a reason to live outside my solitary self and a sure conviction that there will be more than anything I could possibly imagine or makeup . . . something so vastly beyond: attraction, lust, consummation, boredom, death.

Of suffering and death we both know too well from hospice and in ourselves. This moment too precious to waste. Being so. This minute becomes eternity and an endless eternity until Face-to-Face with what comes next

130523 MDT 15:23 pace quickening

© 2013 by Jack Spratt—All Rights Reserved