good lord willing and the creek don't rise

Don't know why but exiting the pool from water aerobics today

magical things have happened there before

I asked myself, 'Could it be that it is my fear of failure with women that holds me back?'

and then

and then

this and that happened

in the ordinary of this day

Sidereal time extraordinary, what we in the newspaper biz called; “It flew in over the transom!” Inspiration or collaboratively respired, I respond with potential implications.

Opportunities similar to my being swept down a roaring rain swollen creek, my friends laughing while my head pounded rocks, until, floundering, I found a eddy of peace and emerged unscathed but otherwise terrified.

Sincerely. I have no excuse for being alive, so many times I've been near death and survived.

Dr. Ballard, the discoverer of The Titanic ship wreck, talked about sidereal arrayed sonar and I knew exactly what it implied being a lover of light, which like sound can reveal objects otherwise invisible. He seemed surprised, while I was delighted with his talking car, from the back seat being the dummy; just a photographer with a reporter doing a assignment.

If you think me foolish for my inspirations, random associations and dyslexic understandings of things fixed and immutable. You should also know I wonder more often than I confess: just exactly why do I do anything; much less write.

The above clipping is from Parabola Magazine celebrating their 150^th issue. From the image and by the words: it dawned upon me that I too was lost, now found. Cliche, I know, but, Amazing Grace!

To love, and be loved has consequence--astonishing . . . an unfolding that seems endless. Blossoming. As indicated elsewhere, by me, epiphanies continue. The problem being, to integrate them into some communicable form. Not for fame, acclaim or being a legend in one's own mind but to share, give away freely. For the process of renewal, being filled once empty, is continual.

Conspiratorial?!

I will labor to be more cogent and prescient. While inappropriately revelatory of my experience; current and historic. I sense it worth the potential of saving one life from desperation.

Tossing acorns, broadcast, across the WWW, growing a few oaks here and there, under which I'll never know the shade.

130429 17:18 MDT good lord willing and the creek don't rise

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved

obturate/block/jam/impede/obstruct/occlude

The word obturate then a need to void awoke me now, well, actually long ago before making coffee and the first cigarette. Yes. I know: death wish. Logically but intuition says I don't care in my race to create.

Odd. First the word, need to pee, then the first quote of the day:

- Henri Poincare:

“It is by logic that we prove, but by intuition that we discover. To know how to criticize is good, to know how to create is better.”

And so it goes; at it again taping the keyboard. Not surprising since I don't know how to spell, punctuate and hate my handwriting. Easier to write on a pad otherwise, but now I cannot live without a computer. Farther, for that matter, I don't know how to write but why.

Gideon's proof, possibly, not a crutch, but works for me daily.

In sincerity; there was a string; a one-line poem of, sorts about stains and things constrictive in culture. Anal Retentivity ruling the world while the poor get poorer; consumed as whales eat plankton.

Obturate, near-sighted, glaring self-righteous rectitude, occlusion of all life made redundant; a stain upon the earth, the wealthy.

I am an ignorant person, self educated, unworthy of what I sense as grace. Thinking, at the moment I should be clubbed unconscious by what, and where, I intuit this comes from; squashed as a swatted fly mangled.

What the rich have done, historically or especially in recent history, is criminal. Avarice and cupidity beyond anything Nazi Germany ever achieved in their indifference the cost of their success.

And old man soon to die, leaving behind my shame for not learning that my heart belongs to the poor; until now. Amongst whom I see God more clearly than anywhere else. Laughter, I can hear the pontifical posturing of the rich and politicians shouting all the imprecations: lunatic, insane, fool, etc.

The first spreading of wings, reading, initially a great joy, now eclipsed by writing down what I never thought of listening to. Unworthy of annotation.

As an image maker (painting and sculpture) then image recorder (photographer) always suffused with music. I sense myself, convicted and literate in many modes . . . at the moment thinking the greatest thief is Bill Gates for simply destroying Word Star. Which even William F. Buckley adored. Gates is in and of himself a greedy man who in his avarice has cornered what I might otherwise had made some sort of living from: Stock Photography. My point being that literacy is shifting from word to image, both are merely symbols one requiring learning and the latter nothing but seeing.

Look at what you see. Simple?! But if applied with mindfulness it becomes a horror. George W. Bush comes to mind: facile, handsome, beguiling smile but that's all: zero content. Beauty is an internal and eternal quality. To me the Koch brothers and Rupert Murdock are grotesque on any plane of consideration.

What we have is tits and ass plus false toothed smiles; tinkle down economics. For the rest of us urinated upon there is less and less dryness daily. Always stormy weather, drowning.

Wealth is relative. In that I consider myself wealthier than any person, place or thing I know or can imagine. I fear nor envy no one. My personal ecology is a disaster, addicted to coffee and cigarettes, indicative of indifference to myself with a warrior's creed: “To day is a good day to die.”

I am reminded, frequently, what I write, are merely notes on a process of a life living itself. Taking a lifetime to discover it impossible to compel anyone to love themselves; embracing the best and worst elements within them. Integrated into a whole person beyond the dictates of conformity to any ideal. Which, in my thinking and conviction, is idolatry.

Whereas creativity is something available when we find the root of our self. . . .God knows this as all that is required. Or is it the beginning? Of what new thing we can become! Alive not subsistence. In all my travels abroad and within I have yet to discover anyone living who did not have dreams and ideals. Fanatics seem the most fearful people; regardless their creed, politics or gender.

My advocacy and appeal is to the few who sense a need to change and grow. Having suffered, I feared the process possibly suffering more, but find all my sorrow and grief resolved. Finding joy immeasurable.

As an ordinary person I recognize my foolishness. Folly and failure teaching me more than success; real or imagined. This, that I write, is derived from a personal journal, an attempt to write myself sane. Discovering in the process that to irk the ire of those for whom I have no respect is to invite troubles, sorrow and grief which I have had enough of for a lifetime.

I can be, and am at times, as lunatic and fanatic as those I call so. Not in judgment or anything other than jest. Everything has consequence as experienced. Where I find benefit being raped, mutilated and bankrupted, I expect no one else to join me. To forgive and forget or contemplate dismemberment.

Well acquainted with my own addictions I feel compassion for those who have abused me. Aldous Huxley said it well: "There is only one corner of the universe you can be certain of improving, and that's your own self." It is our world collectively, we are family, some more lunatic than others but still family; one body: humanity—we need each other.

130429 01:38 MDT obturate/block/jam/impede/obstruct/occlude

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved