mirror maze and facets

In my life of greed for love and approval I did allow in, several who proved to be quick sand instead of geysers; a quagmire versus levitation. Where do I go when despondent? Rarely depressed, but having been upon the bridge about to leap I know what depression is within myself. It takes more courage to live than leap.

For me, upon the Christmas Eve bridge, it was then: Jesus, J. S. Bach and Fritz Eichenberg. And the thoughts they had shared. Or I had fond sticking in my body like petards bleeding with rage and angst. Bellowing. My head soon to be mounted in the dark vault of Banksters; cynics who know the price of everything and the value of nothing. Greed never slaked.

Ask and the door will be opened.

I met with a new-to-me author this morning who reflected, almost word for word, what I had moments previous written. Something several orders of magnitude more significant than what Gideon asked of a moist or dry lambs wool before his tent, to me.

No.

Not The Big I AM but nearly so; a new friend. Someone whose words I can chew in times of despair instead of bottom feeders and stones while drowning.

My list of All Time Favorite Authors grows daily. Equally balanced between Women and Men; endless. Highlighted with the usual; those extraordinarily memorable. Coupled with some not so, but nearly. Saints and Sinners, even materialist; about to say scientist but then remembering Einsteins covert theology like Confucius not naming their resources; more teleology than theology. If I use the name “God” it lends an idol not a friend. Especially in these times of “like.” I would rather think I had touched one or two, possibly several, readers than have a trillion “likes”

Michel de Montaigne, for his revelatory transparency, was first; and to whom I frequently refer when lost regarding what to say, why, and how to write it. Newly found is: John Churton Collins, from whom I have a page or two of quotes and snatches of his diary illuminating his choice to take his own life.

What I take from these two is not their style or syntax but the spirit of their questions. And their observations/conclusions on what it means to be alive, in love and becoming a person.

At my origin, it was my maternal grandmother who quoted The King James Version of the Bible and Shakespeare planting those infernal eternal questions which I continue to seek answers to. Remembering the child’s song: “Yes, Jesus loves me because the bible tells me so . . .“

I am haunted by love requited. And now sense that it was not only through Jesus and/or the other prophets, regardless of creed, that truth spoke. But by many others to the end that we be free to be ourselves in love and truth doing no harm.

"The love we give away is the only love we keep." - Elbert Hubbard

"The pleasures of love are always in proportion to our fears." - Stendhal

130410 20:52 MDT mirror maze and facets

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved

The Process

The process is better described as an asymmetric tuning fork. Instead of the note A 440 it sounds a dissonance.

Awakened by a dream, needing to void, initially I sought return to rest but then subtly a disharmony occurred in which I began to question the superficially ordinary scenario. No escape!

It seems there were several odd elements to a familiar landscape. Which I presumed embellishments inserted to add color. Obviously, now, it was intended by the ‘author’ of the dream. Affirmed in stunning ways when I began my methodical pursuit of quotes. A practice that works for me; being as ignorant as I am, I seek not knowledge but wisdom. And dear reader it is for thee. Free. To be free.

Discovered is a resource I am advised not to reveal by several authors beginning with Confucius and Einstein; one extrapolated, naked of wishful thinking, common across history. Indicative of a wealth, common to consciousness; should only we dive deeply enough through our inherent perceptions.

My discernment, derived exclusively in this dream, is humiliating: recognition of my adaption to rape. Which according to M is simply all forms of abuse; synonymous. Possibly my kindness towards others was self-betrayal. Recalling my fathers advice; “The world is filled with predators.” Now seems correct. Kindness is learned and not inherent, at least in me, honestly.

Covertly I have perceived The Bible, as well as other wisdom resources, as owner’s manuals. What to do with this, experientially, once and only once gift of life: precious. A bit chary there, since I don’t believe in death as rot and loss. But that’s me! And my fondness of saying; ‘Nothing is lost in eternity.’

Most magnificent. in this journey, is in saying yes to the invitation to fully live and become a real person; that which we take for granted but it is not. Is that the process is expansive; a reserve which while given freely away, is ever filled and made better: a profit from being profligate with kindness. To give until it becomes your nature, is rewarded in ways unspeakable, unique to each of us. To take is the way of death; pleasure for now, no joy later.

Laughter! At myself, this busy little boy attempting maturity. Flabby white ass, warts, wattles, wrinkles, white whiskers and all!

In compassion the emphasis is on passion. Too late the longing to get laid vanquished by empathy for the other; women only. Who, intimately reveal their abuse, of which there are many degrees from grotesque to benign; exclusive of cultural and historic slavery to men. Think about it once-in-a-while: it is possible that someone cooked the good books claiming that Adam, not Eve, came first!

Snick, snick, the blade sharpened by abrasion in contest my life and survival bet against the mercurial modes of my mothers providence. I know the town well; Providence, Rhode Island and its founders intents. I know better now, by process and proofs personal, the Providence and the Author of it.

Retrospectively it seems I misappropriated reverence and awe to the wrong resource. Am I alone in experiencing recreational sex as akin to seeing the numinous? Those astonishing fleeting flashes of divinity? What happen next: baby/babies, slavery to wages, smothered beneath obligations obnoxious in the extreme; imprisoned by what I then thought as love.

Worse! I became object/subject the attentions of those in authority. The predators. If you turn around, backward/forwards, “The Chinese Curse,” we can become authorities, at least in our lives privately. Dare I say in forgiving our assassins meeting the joy of eternity. Perhaps, maybe not, returning, or staying with the resource whispering in my dreams?!

Swept into the maelstrom described above, a child then of my time, to exercise the desire for joy I sacrificed everything I then knew. Oblivious of the consequence. What and which I know now as the hammer blows upon the then mailable steel I am, forging me into what I could not imagine until now.

Fraudulent, addicted to nothing, except coffee and cigarettes for breakfast; arising at all hours of darkness incandescent. Sex? Yes! I was but now know better.

Why?

I knew nothing better as an expression, nothing so vulnerable, requisite of trust, to communicate that I loved at all.

In recognition of former ecstasies, I recognize, not the product, but the process. As now, so then, submerging one’s self into creation. Wile E. Coyote and Ray Bradbury aside, I’m learning to fly having stepped (or being pushed?) off the edge of everything presumed true as perceived. Is this my version of “run, jump and shout” or building monuments? Artists are monks of a different order; contemplative, meditative writing themselves across the void.

Be well being your best self.

http://www.famousquotesandauthors.com/authors/charles_caleb_colton_quotes.html

In parting: It is unwise, although common of me, to irk the ire of those immoral and ethically challenged. For the most part all in authority, but most venal, of those, are politicians and administrators. The ones who mind don’t matter, those who don’t mind do. Save, of course, for indifference or they in denial.

Add: For now at least; I oscillate thrashed against the gibbet from which I am hung. Doubting, a gift akin to curiosity, my choice to be transparent to a fault regarding those who I love, women of course, who I have consigned to The All for their care.

If I have lied to you consider it worse when I lie to myself. There seems a truth greater than I can tell for now within me and all of us.

130410 0407 MDT The Process

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved

today is changing

I asked, no begged, her forgiveness: given. Yet until now, beginning yesterday, less ignorant than ever before, I apply the teaching whispered therein.

If I cannot forgive myself, as I am, or when I committed, my leaving her decades ago – tomorrow is her birthday – I will endlessly abort myself. Grotesque. But less than what I have, every day, gone through. Thinking of her instead of praying for her. Oblivious. I should equally pray that I learn what it is to forgive myself. No absolution or forgetting.

Maybe – Maybe not: less arrogant in my ideals of which she was and remains: immutable, silent, Sphinx like. Not her problem, but mine, always overtly beautiful. Could it be in leaving her I gave freedom for her to be what she needed to become.

That is what has happened to me.

Astonished!

Did I write that?

What does it mean?

I have always had difficulty tendering good wishes and glad tidings to those most important to me. Finding when sought, only boiler plate sentiments, or ecstatic conceits worthy only of God: romantic.

Searching quotes is not seeking marching orders. In a sense it keeps me alive and out of mischief; before I lose my memory and all memory of me become dust. So I lend you the following wisdom; “Don't spend time beating on a wall, hoping to transform it into a door.” - Dr. Laura Schlessinger, found just now @ http://www.famousquotesandauthors.com/random_quotes.html

There are others, quotes that is, potentially more significant in a broader sense. Do I play pinball with words?

Yes.

So long did I silently argue myself not what mother said, or implied: exclusively her problem. Later. It now seems, Psych 101, I married my mother in another guise. With both, convenient or inconvenient, I seemed an armchair to furnishing their doll house.

Sometimes a pinball ricocheting, awaiting the tilt. At other times: a flea – whither goes the dog go I.

Is not love, at base, acceptance. Not attempting to change the beloved into an ideal but loving the beloved as is.

Speaking of The Sphinx; she was more articulate in our parting embrace yesterday, somewhat akin to the anonymous author, touching me with words, I quoted and replied to. Both for now will remain so: anonymous to everyone except myself.

130409 12:12 today is changing

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved