Something
changed yesterday. I am no longer alone as in all the days before; a
lifetime of loneliness realized. Communion, not communication. Being
touched; at last embraced in ways that have utterly altered me
unspeakable. Incandescent. Not fireworks, apogee, but simply
enkindled; becoming fire itself.
I
asked, said yes, and Yes said yes back.
Could
it be that the author of unconditional love announced being present
in ways unimaginable; unconditional? To whom could I give attribution
for what inseminated me making new life forever.
Yet,
and yet, outwardly I remain as I was before; like Saul on the Road to
Damascus; turned upside down, inside out what was hidden now plain.
Love
is not the property of any one soul but all in concert; triumphant,
symphonic, an endless ode.
I
think, knowing by experience, I am not wrong nor mistaken. That which
touched me, and remains, is unnameable for no concept or construct is
adequate is is the always thou. Truth. What we all seek.
To
be transparent. I feel asleep conscious of wanting; a desire to own
and possess that which angelically was given. The Truth cannot be
owned but given freely unconditionally and so it must be that I
remain now nearly angelic in myself: genderless. Something akin to
earth, water, wind and fire all in one. But, somehow, more.
By
what I discover, I am inadequate the chore, being poor. A mere clay
vessel soon to be dust again. Cracked and leaking with an overflowing
to be given only to those who like me remain poor, meek, humble. Once
broken: mended.
Everything
remains, already spoken. We are the only thing new under the sun; we
who cannot hear, see, taste or touch. Since our perceptions are
addicted to what we want to see not what is.
05:57
Wholely
unrelated: M is given, if not actually very fond, of rainbows.
Just
discovered: "The soul would have no rainbow had the eyes no
tears." - John
Vance Cheney
Ofttimes
I fall silent. Fearful that I inflect, impose or infect,
inappropriately, fatally? my agenda or intents upon others. This
concern reminded me of the second then third renewal of wedding vows
with Susan, the bride-of-my-youth. Then my, or our failure, to gel
into that promised. The first and last conducted outside, once upon
the rocky shore, the other anointed with a rainbow.
Humiliated
by age and many failures. I wonder now what consequence could, or
should, be attached to being touched by grace; at least insofar as I
perceive it by all integrated faculties. Adding now, a sense myself
both male and female as I knew/know Jesus to be. Not He alone but
many who choose to live alone instead of merge with another. Am I
wrong in my estimate that in doing so we become something, more or
less: other? Naked, bereft of desire, no longer willing to name and
claim anything save the ever changing experience; truth being mutable
not immutable since it is the nature of creation.
As
I am, is all I will ever be. Sufficient for now; waiting what is
next. No simile, metaphor, analogy but blank: an empty stage upon
which the play of time will incarnate. Enough. In leaving she said;
“I want my husband!” Not you as I knew myself then or now. Guilty
in my choice or manor, the behavior/excuse/rationalizations.
Something formerly unforgivable. More so when she later suggested
“closure” would have been desirable.
Now
I ask, receiving no answers, is not all life a sacrifice. If so, to
what end. Heaven is not milk and cookies. Or laughter as I laugh now.
My sense, inarticulate then, but better defined now, is that had I
remained I would have been not husband, or friend, but her child;
mindless. Totally eclipsed by her choices and behaviors. Not a
judgment between good or evil but simple acknowledgment she would be
will and I believe she is without me.
Bewildered
by yesterday I attempt to compose some understanding. Not a monument,
but a life continuing beyond touched by the beyond. Humiliated then
humbled and meek.
A
love once said of me that I was ‘ribald’ then ‘sullen to
discipline.’ Now as I methodically farm quotes, discovered by he
who long ago died this day: "Everything comes in time
to those who can wait." - Rabelais
I
sense myself as erotically charged, a sensualist, needing no touch to
make love, since yesterday love was made possible in ways beyond
definition.
I
belabor the vernacular of life because there is nothing generic about
it. The only Brand I can sell you, is yourself.
130409
03:47 MDT something changed
No.
Not exhausted, merely tired, as in: ‘When hungry I eat, when tired
I rest.’ A luxury only a solitary could, can & may afford. But
then when in company: a pair, throng or mass, some are renewed in
silence within.
At
the horizon of oblivion I thought in reply: “You melt my heart with
your words and insights! I carry your missives in my heart like a
special gift.” . . . in response I could only annotate my
astonishment regarding the most magnificent thing ever directed at me
by another in words.
Then
submerging in slumber remembered the first ever poem still haunting
me: "Man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven
for?" - Robert Browning Which
even now, ever
more, staples
me to the dead tree, The
Cross, and He who said; forgive them. From a solitary to The
Solitary; whole, holy and complete.
Dragging
with me the corpse of what I last wrote. Like a sailor upon the stars
leaving no wake. I take what the weather brings without sorrow; for
any day is a day in creation, expanding,
creating more; happy the
ability to acknowledge.
Like
a trombone I am on a sliding scale of squeal or blat corkscrewing up
and down the scale of all the notes potential. Wondering did I say
what I intended.
Could or should I try harder to simplify or embellish? Do
James Agee or Jack Kerouac, possibly Lao Tzu, simple broadly drawn
or, as in the former, so like Inge tickled to the point of
embellished insanity; a mirror maze, Byzantine, a
labyrinth.
If
allowed. I would stand before Him speaking The Beatitudes. Feeling
his breath upon my brow watching his eyes. For if love is given free
and flown, never returning, then it is love nonetheless true. I
can no longer scourge the have and having not. Always
emptying and refilled.
Laughter:
Not whatever, but writing, asking for more. Empty,
what I wrote forgotten, I remain indebted to those upon whose
shoulders we stand awaiting the next generation; a human ladder to
the infinite. Always curious I ask is it possible, having the methods
and means to extinct ourselves, nothing whatever will be left?
Definitions
seem, betimes, coffins
or trampolines.
130409
10:05 MDT more in reply
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2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved
