light years to travel

Light years, of needs, travel before I rest as dust upon the desert.

Perchance to arise in another form or merely lay decayed, finally mute.

If now I depart it is fine with me for I trust the process leading me to this moment.

All seventy-two years of it.

And in that trust is my peace, the only I've ever known, alone or together, in the world. . .

this that we call “life.”

Neither life nor death is my enemy.

A lover once asked that I never change. It was the death knell between us. More killing than her telling me herself pregnant with our child. At which point I fell silent, the tryst ended, the friendship never. My son dying after his sister was compelling me. In a sense or way to kill us both; the lover and me.

Khalil Gibran suggests that our children come not for us but through us—for themselves. Obviously, if you know me, a problem for all of them lost. Regrets? No! Since the child who writes this is borning.

Change, or Process, is the true nature of Nature itself. Slow revolution. What some might call evolution. And for me it is the solar winds that I sail. Not being, a two dimensional cutout cardboard figure in anyone's ecstatic play. And those I love remain beloved, ferociously, savagely, in my silent regard. A conflagration of prayer. Not for me, or us, but they; the best of all the cosmos intentions.

I am not this body, these thoughts, those feelings, but gossamer, a spider web woven daily anew. Yesterday and all days before it, trivial. Future unknown—unknowable. Now is glorious and sufficient. What is blown away, apart, vaporous; not timorous any more, ever again.

Resilient/Resolved

Imperfect and unconscionably rude, towards many closest to me, I wander on seeking nothing discernible save that I give birth to what I am now. Caring not a wit about tomorrow.

Abuse?

Yes!

But that was then from birth until yesterday. Now levitated by a new understanding of who, what, why and when it happened to me; no one but myself to blame for allowing it. Thanks to M who, when asked, twined two fingers of one hand, indicating there is no effective difference between sexual and emotional abuse to the victim. In consequence a life bent, mangled, contorted by an on following attempt to define and evaluate the why of it. When, most of all, it is not because of anything other than opportunity for a moments amusement; entertainment for the vacuous and bereft of empathy or compassion.

Formerly I was intuitive to a fault. Not a flaw. But prone to magical thinking. Speaking/Writing before engaging the several other faculties available to all of us in balanced application. Requisite: to place phenomena in context of hard facts. What some call evil is often merely biological. My enemy is myself if I do not engage my antagonist learning his/her perception of me.

We are what we consume by food, air, water or information. About which I am indiscriminate giving credence to random associations within me. So I am not writing a gospel for anyone other than myself and understanding. Merely annotating a process available to us all, as refracted through our individual perceptions, understanding and capacities.

We are legion, myself included, abused, disaffected, disenfranchised, throughout our lives. Until we discover that the violence done to us is not always physical, penetrative, but emotional as well. Leaving us helpless in fear, attaching to smoke and mirrors; promises of safety. How our “rulers” manipulate us into voluntary slavery having never known what freedom is: to be ourselves unique. Unwilling to take responsibility or participate fully in this, once and only life, precious, our only wealth. As for those who “rule” most, if not all, seem now, from my point of view and perception, to hide behind pretense their fear of being inadequate.

“Let 'Miky' do it!” Or “Be All That You Can Be” Go to war and come home in a bag or scrambled emotionally and physically then abandoned by those who promised to take care of you.

"If there is a special Hell for writers it would be in the forced contemplation of their own works, with all the misconceptions, the omissions, the failures that any finished work of art implies." - John Dos Passos "Looking Back on U.S.A.," New York Times, Oct 25 1959

Here I am thinking of advertising intended to sell you not what you need but what you 'want.' Topical but true throughout history. We have life that we be free and not slave to anything or one including the author of everything. (at the moment of proof, edit, rewrite I am equally compelled to examine my own words and at that, naked of the original enthusiasm clothing them.)

Hell's Bells and Twinkle Toes, I ain't even a slave to myself. But now attempting to close there is always a question to publish or delete. Thinking that like, prayer, words change nothing but the author; am I cynical or skeptical?

Conjecture:

Power: A mask that fear wears, and force, in proportion to inner terror, else why is God silent allowing free will?

Frauds passing in opposite directions, shouting equal salutation, hell bent for election; towards glory or perdition. Never say of another what could as easily be said of yourself. One is called projection the other self-possession. If the truth fits, wear it.

130415 03:27 light years to travel

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved

credit capture: Mike Brodie “A Period of Juvenile Prosperity” about which I can only say I am reverent but not sanctimonious and inordinately appreciative of his vision.