sing your continuum

Experientially I recognize myself within a continuum of surprise. About which I could parse and triage it many ways, as is my proclivity. Simply stated before the time, long or short, a few weeks ago was demarcated with material poverty — rich in and of myself but alone. (afterthought) Unaware of my primal terror: never having a woman like me, in and through whom to grow.

130521 01:01

There was a nearness overwhelming, impelling me awake. No vision, omen or portent, merely a presence, overwhelming. Awoke confident, what was expected, finding nothing else, save sense abiding I’d held the long previous period of time: We are woven into a fabric—a community of empathy—for others not obvious. Care givers not takers.

Lingering is a sense of loathing, being a man, for men are more often cruel to life than women. Of whom I have an untoward reverence. Knowing kindness and empathy more common amongst them expressed/incarnate. Add. I had fallen asleep aware that there might or will be an end to all that preceded this moment.

Joy/Confidence/Serendipity redefined/lost!?

Wondering what am I to do with this oddly overwhelming awakening? If nothing else—or less—it too important to acknowledge it, the who, the presence, so close in time.

Sensing a scenario wherein I as a little girl gone to school, cut down in half, life asunder, mutilated or taken by machine gun fire then resurrect/reincarnated/reborn. More awesome than that. A drive-by by God? Something—or part of—or about me irrevocably changed all behind me no longer accessible just jimdandy.

And I am concerned for Pamela Joyce. Since last we spoke I touched upon my reverent gratitude we’d found one another similar yet clothed differently . . . she in jammies and I scarcely covered . . . laughing at my desire for her and she too aware being a woman alone. This girl boy difference of little concern, for even that will pass, what remains will be those words spoken in the dark last converse.

I wish this were fiction then I could make up a different truth, ending or beginning something else. But this is my truth, scribbled not dictated. A fine, celebratory madness this, who would ask—or could long for—anything more? Wealthy before but now rich beyond that. Near an hour has passed between awakening and this moment; perhaps I should simply return to rest and dream some more?!

The relationship I am thinking of is: Always say yes or no to, no ambivalence nor equivocation allowed in congress. Consequent nothing obvious. Just a dance between one party and another: personal. Nothing to hold on to, just a sense of being touched or bumped in the night, dark, no more or less than any other time; before or afterward. Imperfection a constant until we meet the interlocutor face-to-face.

A scrivener I am and will become a writer, perhaps, better knowing the works of others. None so admired on a Good / Better / Best Scale. But by the spirit flowing through them. Then discovering: "Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed." - Alexander Pope (poet)

06:04

. . . another way of addressing this same sensibility—empathy—sensed through my dominate: intuition/instinct.

I feel the suffering within those I meet and respond. And to those who, as mine, their suffering become peace, love, kindness, generosity—I bond/wed/welded. Passing forward what is not altered by greed—eternal—infinite.

Inverted bell i am clangor with quotes clapper

. . . I seek, finding, nor scribe, any new Gospel. No tablets of stone graven with wisdom. But write in sole the words only of my scars upon the root of me. This, that you read, is merely annotation of an unfolding—ongoing. My reverence is for your silence and the seed within growing only if you attend it. Magnificent as you are I see the luster within greater. Pamela Joyce only? No. In one and all.

. . . and this is only that i write

Otherwise I would be silent/inconsequential/superfluous leaving you as found as in all of it.

“Life has ... taught me not to expect success to be the inevitable result of my endeavors. She taught me to seek sustenance from the endeavor itself, but to leave the result to God.” - Alan Paton

Life is a stern mother, mistress, muse. First for me perceived and experienced, initially, as an adversary. Only now as a teacher from my first breath to that breathing me now. Forgiven and loved.

This day, as any other, long before my vision of it, and afterward—has a frisson of urgency impelling me forward. I am soon to Audition for a lover and woman who, unlike my mother, will allow me access to all of her; yielding what was intransigent immutable impermissible. Previously negotiated, conversed about, detailed, accepted.

For the moment, conscious, there are many spills between cup and lip. Should I die for whatever reason between then and now I am fulfilled nonetheless. My sense a new epoch is arising ineluctable as the dawn. And with the light a new born peace between women and men; slavery impossible.

Consummated here is her affirmation of what I write specific. In reply, I write differently now. Free at last of my terror: never being loved or affirmed. About all of it—from beginning to unending—whatever will be will be. Yet there is a sense of gratitude/ineffable/inarticulate. Envisioning being sewn together two clothes made a new garment grown from the ground of our meeting first til last. Playing every note within the symphonic score invisible or visible only to us.

130520 MDT 15:36 continuum

© 2013 by Jack Spratt—All Rights Reserved