Dare I say The Author of it All has bestowed upon us more than we can know at one sitting. In the banquet of this we call life. In some sense to do so would be to drink the universe in one gulp!
Innocuous, a tread actually, seems a greater truth than all the wisdom books together end-on-end. But I be a fool to so say since I’ve read only snippets of them. Yet gargantuan in my appetite for the words and worlds of those different in gender, religion and convictions regarding governance from mine.
And of what I write the lesser parts of threads bonding me to generosity; nothing lost but less said. At that compelled more to speak in my own way the random rogue associations caused by experience.
. . . it was a bitter November night, filled with portents of the coming winter, distress compelled me towards he who sat before me in a small pool of yellow light listening to my plea. The audience he gave, the quiet still listening remarkable more than what he finally said that made of me pacific a mill pond unwrinkled. . . . to wait, be silent and wait some more
Sad sorrow and exultant joy, reverence too, began there, or where perhaps merely another thread wrapping the cable of my certainty now . . . not to speak of myself but by way of illustration, a literary device, not egoic. (laughter!) could it be that time and galaxies wrap us like a golf ball unraveled rocketing towards another place?
After all, upon awakening I remembered the sun works 24/7/365 and that I am not strange, at least to myself, eccentric to others, to anoint the day when I do sans light save that which explodes from within.
And then, then remembering the vision of myself at the oar, one of many, moving the lot of us forward, centimeter by centimeter, becalmed upon and endless immobile eternity awaiting the coming dove with olive branch; Peace Eternal.
It seems The Author speaks to each of us in various ways and diverse tongues. Astonished. We then take it as revealed truth and kill one another to prove a truth actually common to one and all.
All is hallowed, this ground of our being now, yet owned by some and contested by others. Add. I remember he and wife who sailed the Golden Rule into the area around the Bikini Atoll in protest.
“I shall be like that tree,—I shall die at the top.” - Jonathan Swift
http://www.thefreedictionary.com/ a way station on the course of my day begun at whenever I awaken, seemed to explain my urgency to speak before I drool, my brains vacated by the fools who attempt to own/control everything. I've seen ‘the beast!’ not evil so much as vacant and a cynic incorporated.
Closing thoughts before retiring for the rest period: He who I called my son, came through me not for me (paraphrase of Khalil Gibran) and was for himself what he need to be or become in life or death. The same is equally true of my daughter both of them, one dead the other AWOL. The time of my generation is passing away -- Good riddance?! -- Sadly we've left you little, growing less daily, to live for, or by. . . . That is a material view, metaphysically we've the entire universe ahead. The common threads discovered lead to joy for all equally.
04:12
Several collisions coincident: Having finished A Canticle for Leibowitz (in places lucid lyrical transcendent - to me salvific) I viewed shortly thereafter PBS broadcasts on the largest explosions made by man. And thus integrated the woe I anticipate from the mindless collection of data about us individually and consequent applications in the Police State, our current status, factory famed slaves for the greedy. For whom we seem a herd of lemmings to be sacrificed wholesale. The majority of what passes for communication being propaganda supporting nothing but failed ideals.
. . . M seems little inclined to judge the good or ill of me, having set me free from bondage to my past self-enslavement to others; as victim or prey for predators. As I would do for all life, if I could but the fact is that we heal ourselves, or can, should only we discover we are worth more than all the money in the universe; no one of us greater than another.
“Who is the happiest of men? He who values the merits of others, and in their pleasure takes joy, even as though it were his own.” - Johann von Goethe
. . . if you do not own your life, others will, and then consume you as they have materially. We are a world apposed to cannibalism, yet they are our masters. . . .who pretend to be otherwise. Supping on your brains and soul.
(Caption for illustration:
To see The All in a raindrop is a gift seldom bestowed. Grander, by far, less obvious divide called The Grand Canyon. Between Creation/Creator/Created)
130322 02:55 dare I say
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved
