My
day begins with laughter, tears, humming and screaming; whenever I
awaken from, not rest, but dreams astonishing: always! Regardless the
time or place; running around the ceiling.
When
last I wrote, yesterday, I began a bit about Ishmael, wandering off
to read and then viewed “The Last Temptation of Christ.”
Somewhere mid-stream I gave up since it was (the movie) so
constipated compared to reading Kazantzakis, anything/everything, I
began to understand that we as infants are the center of the Universe
and in time, mature? Become vaporous, ephemeral, to me ready to leave
the chaos for sanity.
Going
Home.
True
of me, I hotdog on The Torah, The Bible, etc. And hear God laughing;
Her sense of my being a fool for love. Sweet Jesus on a go cart, in
downtown Paris, at rush hour, how I love playing with words. The Good
Books about God are paving stones while those written by Kazantzakis,
Roth, Singer, Malamud; the few, yet many, who describe life as lived
and loved. Like the magician littering the stage with motley scarves,
hidden behind them, so many, I draw the authors I’ve read from
within my heart . . . and now, only now, remembering meeting The
Dalai Lama, that the hand I shook had touched Thomas Merton’s;
embraced him and later prayed at his grave.
Lord
God Almighty! Free at last!
Odd.
The confluence, conjunction, collisions of elements: About Ishmael.
She was a forty something foot schooner out of Greenwich,
Connecticut. Sailed by a young man, a friend of the
bride-of-my-youth’s younger brother; one of three.
You
see I have always seen myself as white trash from the wrong side of
everything. While she, her brother, their friends and neighbors were
the white, washed and holy. Merely another way of saying, especially
in these times of poverty, the obscenely rich . . . at that, the
person with one eye in the land of the blind is wealthy beyond all
measure.
In
any case, the bride, long fled with children and I alone save for
being accompanied by a man and woman who had stepped in to rescue me.
We were invited to accompany the captain of Ishmael to a hippie
conclave in the tidal marshes of Virginia wherein I was given a joint
that rendered me hysterical crawling about the paw feet of a round
oak table asking; ‘why I must be crucified endlessly.’
A
mystical experience? Yes. I never smoked another joint. Later being
informed that it had either rat poison or smack inserted within the
weed.
They
laughed, of course, as I now laugh at the experience.
Thinking
metaphorically, time has become something of an ant farm, or wave
form, glass encased, visual. An experiment going back-and-forth,
forth-and-back. Endless. Futile. Fascinating.
I’ll
have to go back and re-read Melville. Consulting Brewer Phrase &
Fable, the thumbnail, yes, it could be that Ishmael is me. Laughing.
Gore Vidal once mentioned the children chained in the attics of those
button down Victorian Houses for the obscene unspeakable acts and
pleasures of their parents. Greenwich, Connecticut?
YES.
OBVIOUSLY!
Not
everything is specious, superfluous, fatuous, flatulent in the words
of men. Or man as family; one and all. But the process enables me to
observe myself comparitively to what I’ve ever said of others.
Add. I remain enchanted with the chance? Conjunction of quotes as I
wander between what I write and record of others. However when I view
television I laugh instead of cry; the supercilious farting of time.
With especial gratitude to Fox and the demigod who owns it. To think,
once-upon-a-time it was my vocation to make the fools look wise;
recalling now the lolling tongues, nose picking, crossed eyes that I
excluded or deleted. The problem with irking the ire of the
superficial is that they, in their boredom, will make your
crucifixion longer for their entertainment. God grant me, please, the
grace to not cry at the time of my departure.
For
a brilliant woman my mother could be incredibly and rudely
scatological. She could swear any Master Sargent or sailor under the
table I’ve ever known. As for myself, in anticipation of another
monthly, capricious, arbitrary, obviously demonstrative of self
anointed administrative importance, inspection/violation of my
privacy (as welcome as a napalm enema) I have begun imagining my
fellow denizens, of we about to die (HUD housing) in a Drum &
Bugle Corp. Who then could goose step with mops and brooms up and
down the parking lot in review. Apparently the fecal minded have
taken over the world.
One
would be well advised to realize that it is possible to die from
laughter.
Imagining
myself wetting the trouser leg of my superiors while in my
step-and-fetch-it mode; listening with focused, rapt attention on
their pontifications. Otherwise, in protest, I might simply burn
myself alive on their doorstep.
Possibly,
I could convince St. Loony Tunes (Rupert Murdoch) to be the Drum
Major while his minions record the events, for the delectation and
edification of Ayn Rand’s resurrected/reincarnated selfishness
coupled with the legends, in their own minds, baboons of Congress?
Salaciously
reverent and divinely irreverent I think it not too odd to have
awakened this time with thoughts of being a vapor no longer
corporeal. Ecstatic. I no longer need to pretend to be “nice.”
Interesting
and found at this close:
130407
02:37 Dreaming
©
2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved
