Gifts & Road Kill

Suicidal, enraged with insane grief, I was a clotted knot which she, M, opened; become a generous open hand, no longer a fist. 

Odd to realize that I can kill, as well as praise, with words. I learned to argue in childhood, internally and silently, against the locus of power. To be honest it only now occurs to me that I was, and remain, capable to both destroy or love in the extreme. At least inside. To me, my sense is, that Jesus was both Lion and Lamb. No excuse, of course, since in time my ideology of the numinous has changed, as He suggest, Love not Revenge, is best. 

M & i are odd in our differences, widely divergent on secular issues, yet as friends, two peas in a pod; in this envelope we call life. I would call her to ask what day it is just to hear her voice. Knowing this she will say; “I’m going to let you go . . . “ At times I think she is an egg timer (laughter, much laughter, raucous.) I love her of course. And the oddest thing happened in recent time, I viewed a cosmic version rendering of my conjoined ‘glass funnels’ in space; a galaxy of sorts. I wonder what the venturi is. Who, what, why, wherefore it is? So make, it & her, a divine egg timer! My myth made physically manifest.

I awoke - from my previous rest period - with a certainty that I’d at long last found the knot of my despondency. Recognizing that where I am rude, crude - salacious, internally, I would, if allowed, dissect issues in sophistic manor but in terms that might heal not destroy surgically.

Metaphorically I have for long described myself as Road Kill. A child, or pet, in infancy, left in a plain brown paper bag over which many had driven thinking it merely litter. Looking at today, at now, I laugh, realizing that I’m still ‘in the bag.’ Oblivious of yesterday and/or tomorrow - more laughter. Waiting the crush.

Simile: My self as a greasy spot on the front of a Greyhound Bus cosmically traveled. Returned from light years promising farther adventures beyond my ken.

Funny. Whenever I’ve stopped, attempting to inhabit life in a more-or-less fixed relationship, or place, it has backed up and run me over. Road Kill Stew. Really, the metaphor doesn't describe what power and force have made of the world; a toilet, backed up, violently explosive, waste everywhere . . . oh God! how I despise authority.

130324 05:33 Gift
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

in reply

Journal keeping was a closed circuit until my sister suggested that I ‘vote’ on an Internet site donating meals to stray dogs and cats. Since I’ve been in companionship all my life, from cradle till now, with dogs &/or cats; knowing, too well, the consequence of their being in pounds and unwanted, euthanasia.

I then began noticing additional sites with similar dedications and went there, eventually landing on Care2.com; then posting: first in reply to questions of a general nature; which in turn generated additional thoughts that needed more space for exposition. Eventually they thew me out; no explanation. I sought other venues, not social network sites per se, but whatever came up.

In order of significant response: Cultural Book is best, Opera is next and last was FaceBook, which I abandoned in a fit of snark combined with profound disappointment over the load of “friends” whose principal claim to discourse to was to declare what they didn’t like about the universe. The sole exception being from a high school classmate who commented, albeit cryptically, on something I’d published ala ‘stream of consciousness;’ “WOW!”

I am most grateful for the response received at CulturalBook.com. Including those leaving me shred, or ventilated, as with grape shot, in tatters.

I have a quirky sense of play with words and concepts, initially self-deemed dyslexic. And abuse, misuse words in extreme contrast -- not a literary devise so much as actually what happens when I listen closely to my response. Problematic when I read since ideas go off in my head like the 1976 fireworks over New York Harbor; about which I left being unable to stand the noise.

Recently I compared pearls to pebbles based upon my appraisal regardless of origin we are all more alike than unalike and jewels seem pretentious. Writing this I am suddenly aware that “do not cast your pearls before swine” associated in my mind with “the pearl of great value” better explains my sense of being - lifelong - bewildered why anyone would forgive their assassins. I do not regard myself as a “goody-two-shoe” ‘Christian.’ I regard my internal devils and angels with equal opportunity for me to say yes or not to. All life is of enormous value, none more so than another; including my enemies and/or those who may or will destroy me.

Significantly I have had stolen from me many things of material value. Lately I am subject, as all who live in my community of HUD augmented housing, to monthly invasions and inspections by the authority who abrogate this access to themselves. While seeking alternatives I discovered that I need to adopt an attitude, not of anger or resentment - a just response - but as I have with all previous thefts, and as advised by one of my mentors who said; “what you are enraged by owns you, let it go.”

From which, in the context of my current reading; Walter M. Miller, Jr., SAINT LEIBWITZ And The WILD HORSE WOMAN (second of his only two novels) I have been able, just now, to extrapolate the potential that if what I say; “pearls are present in all life” then it must be equally true of those who have stolen from me . . . to forgive and forget lets me live another moment free of what otherwise would hold me captive and lead me astray . . . perchance to exorcise my diabolical imaginings in writing instead of flesh.

My enemy does not own me, I do. This possession is sufficient to hold me, for now, from mayhem. Add that I am continually aware of the resilient fragility of life; mine as well as they’res.

Suffering seems the tempering of a steel resolve to leave the world nominally better than when found at birth.

130322 13:54 reply
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved