I
neither
water nor thirst, but am
a
pump between both. At times what was, is, and will become of me naked
of sentiment or romance: sorrow and ecstasy passes through me.
Daily
I prime, or am primed by words, ribald or wise. The grit within
growing an ever larger carapace around it; from some perspectives,
dark and misshapen – near invisible; and others viewed as precious.
Not those who judge
me, but seen,
my
blind inward sight. Not
a gem so much as a well worn river pebble becoming rounded.
Witness
to my daughters birth, emerging from her mother’s womb, wound
apparent at birth: death certain. As it was when my son was diagnosed
with Leukemia, but silent then again and again, since my thoughts
seem to poison the innocence of others especially the
bride-of-my-youth. Who, now unknowing herself cut off from me at the
soles of her naked feet, will become what is intended, or she intends
for herself, absent my body but never my love and prayers. For as I
have said, finally free, the she remains a stranger to me, from first
sight in third grade until now and forever more.
It
seems I’m finally wed to myself and welded to the creation: author
and all of it. Not
whole or complete but getting there.
Love,
to me, is the greater power. And I struggle to embrace it despite my
anger, wounds and sorrows. Fully conscious: the same in others as
well, as those who act with indifference, their violence towards me
or they for whom I care the most: all of life, and in death, no end.
“Words
are the voice of the heart.” Attributed
to Confucius but I have yet to find explicit attribution. It works
for me as do the others I carry reminding me of the Tibetan Buddhist
Nuns who self-immolate in protest the violation of their home by
specious materialist. My prayer wheel grows. Conscious, equally, of
those who I do not, cannot know. Nameless lay people whose choices
reflect grace not graft in the face of mindless greed.
My
daughter’s birth was the last recall I have of going into shutdown;
a howl of silence. What saved me while being beaten and abandoned
serially throughout all my life until that moment. When. It could be
said, as I say to myself now, I ceased to be silent.
To
myself I am coldly analytical, a Nazi, while hotly
euphoric
as Goethe. Why Teutonic when my heart is Sufi? Zen? Or by root,
nature/nurture, belonging
to Jesus. Who
by growth, at least to/in
me, seems indicative of other wisdom figures as well; eclectic.
Who
am I? Living to what end? For what and why?
.
. . these things I cannot know for now . . . perhaps when
face-to-face with the origin of all consciousness and creation.
Methodically
I labor to educate myself knowing my intuition is not the only
function . . . to see, perceive and experience everything in its
inherent state not as I wish to know it.
I
fail my aspirations in conflict with people and
institutions/constructs,
I sometimes think-feel-sense-intuit, addicted to power as a shield
against their fear. Failing. I grow restive, vicious, with sharpened
vocabulary, think to eviscerate them for their invasion of my old
age, seeking to die in peace quietly without their capricious rape of
my attention. Which for me is as taxing as another human companion in
my dwelling; albeit infrequent but regular and serial, contrary to
what is legislated.
A
personal peeve illustrative of what happens to be, world wide,
governing us.
130404
04:33
.
. . it seems, whistling into a Tsunami, this, what I do (quietly
chuckling at myself.) A dog chasing its tail; finally catching it
reaching escape velocity, spiraling out of sight: ecstatic.
Could
it be the mind behind every deed, or legislated action, is greed?
Whether Republican or Democrat for most, if not all, are rich;
becoming more so daily. The Congress, that unlovely assembly of
Baboons incarnates the best of folly: selfishness. . . . At best a
pimple upon the posterior of corporations: Exxon, Bank of America,
the manufacturers of death by puncture, wholesale, united in
cupidity.
"Love
your enemies because they bring out the best in you."
- Nietzsche
“Be
kind to unkind people. They need it the most.” - Ashleigh
Brilliant
“Most men would
rather be charged with malice than with making a blunder.” - Josh
Billings
My process, perfect for
myself, unable to change ought else, continues.
130403
13:44 sentiments
©
2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved
