I am to myself shameless in confession of all that composes my thoughts yet conscious that there is another to whom I profess unknowable in any other venue. Too serious not to find laughable. In derision and joy perpetual into which nothing else can enter . . . what fear can death provide me now?
My education continues in random eclectic ways aware or mindful, more so now then ever before, the nature of my perception and source/resources manifold available to all. Add: an abiding faith that this that moves me is inherent to all life . . . additionally: i would have it no other way. I am not this body, these thoughts, impelled by something grander than all that I can see of The All/Om/God or at the very least what is commonly understood as “god.”
My earworms are not exclusively musical but collective. A ‘mashup’ of all that preceded me; as much mythical as methodical/scientific as metaphoric/metaphysical. It is in this sense that I relish being an Aeolian entity working upon itself -- that which changes and that which is changed by evolution or revolution . . . a life lived for others as was those who form the pantheon of my heroes: known and unknowable. The before and after of everything created by any means or measures.
This is not about ‘me’ but ‘us.’ All we who live and have lived or will; should time and consequence allow.
It is true that most men never grown up but merely old. True of me even now for I labor to concatenate the fragments of a self broken into shards. My experience with love is discontinuous, like most, if not all, of us, oddly misshapen and misinformed. I learned, with difficulty, decades ago the phrase anger is not assertion . . . not precise or verbatim but adequate for my intention, for now. Like it intimacy was sexual and oddly impermissible in any manifestation other than through marriage. I do not harbor thoughts of random freely experiences of “one-night-stands” with any one. Not even Ava Gardner when she was eighteen or as she was when she died . . . knowing that my vision of woman is informed by information neither male nor female but possibly both (thinking the image of God as exclusively male is repugnant to me.) And despite all the pleasure of sex I’d rather have intimacy now . . . with either the numinous or another of any gender, age, race or proclivities.
My version/vision is that I sense, think, feel and intuit the beginning, middle and end of everything. Hard won through failing my ideals. But most especially in attempting to find within another the mirror that might magnify myself as more than merely nothing lovable, unworthy of life itself.
I have gratitude beyond expression, in any manor, for these passages from one attitude to another and cannot, or refuse, to prescribe a script other than to seek within yourself a truth for which you are willing to live and die for. To know yourself you must become intimate with all of it: good, bad, grotesque and ecstatic.
Now if I propose love as eternal I know this as true by experience, since it informs my intentions towards those who then, now and in the future tell me otherwise . . . redemption, it seems, at least to me, always possible if only we can sincerely say yes and accept the invitation to truth. Such love is within all life. Though for the most part lost in confusion, ignorance, denial . . . indifference.
. . . if you profess being a Christian you must be like Christ. Not merely talk about or visit once in awhile. The same is true of Mohammad or Buddha or any one of a host I could name and do solicit for guidance.
As witness I do not need to prove or apologize but lend an ideal of finding such things for yourself and my only limitation is that you seek this not as power but as love least it become idolatry. The rule of love is fearless.
. . . doing no harm.
. . . to close: During infancy I was suffused with music of all kinds -- remembering my mother crying when Lady Day died -- hum a bar and I could tell you where it came from The American Song Book . . . impossibly I did the same with all the words and phrases of conversations and slanders aimed at me: burs stuck in my craw . . . just now and then hating being white and middle class knowing myself as just another crow
130220 04:57 shameless
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved
