crib sheet

"Sit down before fact as a little child, be prepared to give up every preconceived notion, follow humbly wherever and to whatever abyss nature leads, or you shall learn nothing." - Thomas Henry Huxley

Random reading of various authors and poets could be a resource for many literary forms. However I am testament to free healing by The All. The process is first thought, then affirmations. Extraordinary! I know.

I remember words that I adore saying like 'spatula' and 'trebuchet': delicious in my mouth. Then come others not near so tasty but memorable and curious. Passages of music, poems misunderstood, novels by the ton, read long ago. and current. Scenes from movies, plays, behavior on the streets. Of late I am cramming all the science I can find for free on the Internet; especially about the mind and evolution.

Having been assigned to record aspects of plays and movies I am seldom seduced by their artifice. but adore being so. The performance of need be stellar. Pornography, on the other hand, amateur or professional, is something of a joke since in most cases it is a performance art/craft. Actors mugging the camera: Gee Golly Wiz look at me!

Sadly I have discovered my self caged by shoulds and oughts culturally enforced. Gag ordered by The Church . . . about which: we are the church and within our hearts the psalms and hymns written.

Nonetheless I intend to, before I die, sooner or later, write erotica inspired long ago by John Updike's Poor House Fair and use of 'lubricity'.

Person, place or things memorable to me, stay with me, surfacing randomly wherein I laugh. Usually alone, since I fear being captured by dudes with coats that fasten backwards otherwise.

Following my father's practice of calling me 'you little fart' I continued saying it to my son Randy. Until he said; “Yes, Big Fart?” in reply . . . you know you're clean of grief once you remember only the good times. Randy had a penchant and proclivity, or so I think/remember, of speaking in a deep gravely voice. Odd for so young a child, he died at ten. And so now when I lurch dance about mimicking his voice to Annie; she just watches me very carefully. Her version of a cat laughing? Staring wide eyed! I even sing to her, basso profundo, outrageous lyrics. There ain't nothing aloof about either of us when alone together.

I pay homage to those people and resources who have brought me thus far; free of fear and envy. Kindness is a religion worthy of attention and “I see you” the next best thing. I could not see myself, ever as worthy of attention until I started to write in my journal long ago. Living death being in the presence of people with whom there is no trust. Absent trusting myself I had no life, no home, no future.

- Michael Jordan

"I’ve failed over and over and over again in my life and that is 

why I succeed."

"Some people want it to happen, some wish it would happen, others 

make it happen."

07:30

Awake again. My mind is like a mud hornet nest, benign until stirred up. P is a nurse, not a fetish figure, but one I trust by experience we met at hospice. An arch like a rainbow over/through which, like Palladian windows leaks in reality, I travel. Unlike Vonnegut and his mirrors: benignant.

Behind me is an industrial wheeled cart; bearing a host of dictionaries, including the Complete Oxford in miniature, frequently molested—all of them. Preamble to a pitch, unpaid, for WordWeb Pro which, unlike neither M or P I fondle frequently as well. As yet.

Once married to Carol Steiger/Stigger, we lived for a time near The United Center, Crystal St. Chicago. No basketball fan, as with all other sports: too much exposure via photo journalism and being run over five times by football players.

I have held, unconsciously, until now, a fondness for random associations coupling with my dyslexic apprehension of meanings. Taking to adding quotations should I ever pass this way again: i.e., read this post. A vivid memento. Improbable.

Life unfolding annotated, I am at the moment especially aware, I may have dug a grave with my mouth. At the same time recognize my unfailing reverence for choice in the beloved.

Once a beggar for love, a squishy schmo-schmuck, love and affirmations running off me like a gazing globe in a typhoon. Was I with those who could not get through to me? or merely that I too blind and stupid of mind to hear?

These stellar celestial hours I no longer care for yesterdays or future, I've been extruded from that base metal into something else; neither sword or plowshare, possibly, merely a moth flutter about, happily so. In all the prior hours I knew no ability to ask for love. Blowing up, apart, or running away when I sensed myself run aground. Dismasted and gutted.

I will close here, at the risk of being more pedantic then most of my previous excursions. With a few clues regarding the origin: Why, what, when and where I am now and came from, for the moment.

Both parents were addicted to success and alcohol. Suspecting I might be so inclined, I began to attend AA, plus a host of other iterations: Sex, Codependent, Adult Children of Alcoholics, Al anon, etc. All 12 Step Programs; peer councillorship. Discovering myself not alone, finally, part of the human family, imperfect and loving the experience. Becoming no “Goodie Two Shoe” anything. While I am capable of compassion I could as easily kill, heal or love dispassionately. Ruled by a simple choice, to never abuse as I was abused.

The ambition I have is to offer awareness that healing is possible, independent of all the expensive alternatives. Especially, psychotropic drugs, which by personal experience, do little but mute the problem, not heal it. Becoming another addiction, comparable to alcohol, but sanctioned, profitable and licit.

'Be well' is more than a sentiment, it is deadly serious.

“Virtue is a state of war, and to live in it we have always to combat with ourselves.” - Jean-Jacques Rousseau

wrenches by Diana Zlatanovski

130504 05:12 crib sheet

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved

cultural artifacts

“The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.” - eden ahbez

Noised about, commonly where we live, is the sense it the poorest place for those with allergies airborne. It follows that few notice my red eyed lab rat condition with curiosity. M, of course knows my lack of schedule; engaged in my covert love affair with words. Mere symbols, until you understand your perception and their meanings to you. The most impossible of all is: 'love'.

Friends, family, lovers and others observant, would soon be jealous had they seen either of us with our constant live-in companions: small and furry. Upon whom we lavish the most obscene affections: languorous strokings and love talk adoringly sung, or silently communicated.

Since our first meeting, when she began the long process of saving and giving me a life, annually I am allowed the privilege of visiting her home. At first, fed, I'd flee early on but in time came to sense the best was yet to come and stay later of late. Of the few images I am allowed to capture of her, amongst my most favorite, shows only her hands upon Koko, a companion of nine years.

Point being, I am simply gaga for her and P. Wondering now what will become of me, Annie, and the maverick mistress/muse, writing, should I surrender my solitude? Either one could ask for one or all of my vital organs and I'd freely give but . . . but . . . but? What me worry? I could easily be swept away by a passing Cadillac Escalade Sports Utility Vehicle, operator texting, sexting, talking inattentively. I pray they kill me instead of rendering me useless to myself.

Could be a city bus or a runaway rhinoceros; I'll save eating a passing train for last resort. Crawling in between the wheels not leaving to chance leaping in front.

Aside from random kindness and drive by affirmations, all women of course, these two have lent me reason to keep breathing . . . it seems possible to grow a soul but personality requires accomplices, communion, community and goals.

Both spirit and body in fine fettle I seem to be on the middle way as yet. Feeling the warmth of two hands one and the other with me in between. Thus the lofting gliding sense of being aloft flying. From either, at times, I receive clues that they have read something this intimate of me. Both knowing the terror of my childhood mother, forgiven and recognized as the source of my, sometimes rude, vocabulary. Well shaken, stirred, tamped down, compacted within it the alchemical retort my mind.

Such intimacy is perilous when published; but it is from my personal journals that I've learned to listen to myself. And potentially save another life; one would be just Jim Dandy. It wasn't so much singing for my supper as humming to keep alive. She was a terror in general, at times, especially when intoxicated, otherwise silent: never benign. I am so fortunate, even at such a late date, to be healed by both M & P differently. Given a history of love in spite of it all, I tend to give undivided attention to these two, for whom I would give my life.

Historically I began to distrust all prior women fatally. Not boredom but simply concluding myself either unnecessary, or fatal, to them by their antics. Lessons learned by mom's tutelage have been near impossible to unlearn. For the majority of what I formerly called 'life' really subsistence I concluded that I inflicted or infected others by my existence. By choice or chance near death I was saved. Why?

Thy will be done?!

I sense life is, in itself, a self-portrait. Not what we look like, but are, and do.

The nature of my love is to give, independent of response, refusing to be defined good or ill by anyone, regardless the consequential meeting face-to-face with what I love most above all: The All.

To be the dark angel fallen hearing the last word of love, "Be Gone!" Or otherwise. So too with these two women.

"Fare thee well! and if for ever, Still for ever, fare thee well." - Lord Byron

keys by Diana Zlatanovski

130504 02:47 cultural artifacts

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved

loom of dreams

From the clay cup he passed I drank hearing

'. . . in my memory . . . my blood . . . '

Then idle draining the dregs of last evening--still--the Merlot, my eyes flooding in memory of He, His Dream, and now me with mine, celebrating life. Dreams awaken me, my subtle alarms, whose yarns are woven and loomed herein.

A book in a box, compact yet deep, from which upon opening a cake discovered, imbedded within the first page. The box and book, wrapped in white, the first page faint but fine. Of all I idly unwrapped while reading; then called to my mother who came and accepted the white cake and awake, here I am. Sipping the coffee I made plus the next cigarette.

Curious about shuttlecocks, threads and tapestries; gossamer beliefs woven into faith absolute. Remembering the Cloisters collection of bejeweled chalices and the Unicorn fenced, encircled, corralled, captive.

"The unicorn, through its intemperance and not knowing how to control itself, for the love it bears to fair maidens forgets its ferocity and wildness; and laying aside all fear it will go up to a seated damsel and go to sleep in her lap, and thus the hunters take it."

”Men standing in opposite hemispheres will converse and deride each other and embrace each other, and understand each other's language.” - Leonardo da Vinci

I disremember now, it was so long ago. Remembering better the sense of awe singing through my adolescence and thrill of discovery: Leonard's poem recently.

For the portents and omens, the dreams and images, I should be, but am not, terrified. Remaining disabled to claim exclusivity to the Christian version of God ascribed. Grateful am I for the gift of awe and being so loved with mutual reverence.

“God” seems to speak to and through all life.

And of the love I experience kindness seems dominant.

130504 00:26 MDT loom of dreams

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved