no priest am i

. . . yet once a priest always a priest; catholic not Catholic, odd for a nominally “Christian Methodist” boy, eternally so as child to God. Brethren with all faiths Universal knowing in anger, hate, fear, resentment we are owned. Free, only when we forgive. Oddly, for one so explicitly secular I have known and loved many clerics, some taken in sin yet loving them as well.

My sense and conviction being that what happens to us is, when seen with love and reflection, what makes us/us. There is a justice beyond mercy and for me it is LOVE. Yes! That four letter word, profane and sacred, genius inherent within all life save those few biologically limited or challenged. Unforgivable only in that those few can comprehend/apprehend/appreciate nothing of the concept then forgiving themselves for being human slightly skewed.

Largely inspired by Father Denis, whose remark, “it is impossible to disprove a negative” is dominant at the moment to my thesis. We have no dialog politically but stasis; fanatics seeking dominance while the world withers in neglect.

An immigrant irresponsible tenant in life I am touched by the grace lent by those whose last days, hours and minutes before death attended. As well, and as deeply, by those whose lives seem an endless continuity unbearable or celebratory. Hammered on the anvil being forged into something I cannot define . . . seemingly . . . life happens that way. Acknowledging my ignorance, penchant and proclivity for apostasy makes forgiving myself possible. Thence becomes available growth.

Yet there is something, someone, vastly more compassionate than I, reminding me that as resident in an elder community soon to be Arbitrarily, Capriciously, Unreasonably inspected serially and monthly, judged and found lacking by any means or measures and evicted . . . I am to learn by the experience.

What Father Denis caused to be created, now disinvest/laic , while I remain. Conscious, myself coupled with the community, stained by Fascism resurrected; The Third Reich incarnate. Our homes become internment death camp. Do I protest too much or too little?

I am fraudulent to be outraged at the infliction of such attention. Becoming aware in micro terms the macro consequence of aborting the Bill of Rights, preemptive war, torture, the World estate become the playground of terror. Wondering why not random rampage? I am scarcely able to restrain my own.

Larger fish to fry, while this sprat becomes a cinder?

It is astonishing what business people and politicians conclude their rights to be.

“One of the laws of paleontology is that an animal which must protect itself with thick armor is degenerate. It is usually a sign that the species is on the road to extinction.” - John Steinbeck

17:09

Of late I have become fond of wandering about the public library and Coas, a retailer of second-hand books, by their claim one the seven largest in the United States. Humiliating to ponder the many who write poetry and discover a sincere appreciation for you who read me in any form.

At or about this time of day I fall to curiosity/preoccupation if Pam will write, call or telepathically arrive. Wishful thinking of course. Obviously convicted that she is for me the one I am less chary to name her. Thinking it not so odd knowing life and death to nearly, clearly, daily. I moderate my sense of tomorrow as never arriving; as we unconditional the narrative of the interlocutor. Add I do not want to crowd her especially into something she may later regret . . . as for myself, I'm GONZO! By she and M enabled to land on my paws regardless the fall from whatever height. Astonishing to love and be loved, free and finally realized, now is the be in me and yesterday or tomorrow doesn't exist.

I, for now, will close without naming my Nemesis, the property management company abusing me and my neighbors. HUD regs suggest an annual inspections while their (the unnamed Nazi's) are serial rapist of my time and attention . . . it seems folly to irk the ire of the specious and unworthy of my time for now. Add I seem to myself incapable of real damage but once shamed I can be vicious.

be the change be well beloved

130508 0557 no priest am i

© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

if

Given my astonishing ignorance, being a commoner, mortal made of dust, sometimes moist clay. Blown into cyclones, but mostly laying there, plain as I am: dirt. If it can happen to me, it can happen in all life; to know ourselves loved in ways uncommonly overwhelming. Magnificent we are! As that, the who, which loves us.

It seems now for a lifetime I have questioned: is my life a mistake? Arrogate authority from parents to presidents, seem malevolent-seen in retrospect. Actually savage aggression to define the ineffable. Presuming power as demolished by the motto on our 'holy' dollar; our religion is greed.

Being human, no behavior astonishes me, for I too have been robbed and raped and buried alive in the maelstrom of cupidity-explicit the obscenity America has become world wide. To which, for myself, I entertain thoughts of dismemberment knowing what goes around comes around; an eye for an eye leads to communal blindness. Love, preemptive, restrains while law, remedial, too late. Remaining venal as anyone I would desecrate love's labor seems best to forgive but never forget. Learning daily to live within the terror of a government religion gone insane.

There ain't nothing comely to see, nothing special in me, but that which I experience is beyond description and yet I wonder what will become of mankind?

Does “God” really care? Weeping I ask, did Jesus die in vain? Or any of the several other prophets I know of and many hinted by behavior? The power I sense, experience, think and feel is benign, a servant to life . . . I have no answers . . . but love the questions. And will that, if nothing else, we accept responsibility and participate in making life, liberty, love possible versus impossible.

Could it be than I a merely a bait fish?

Gospels mean little, other than idols, least you respond as where you are, and will to become, a whole person . . . essentially being a Christian is to be like Jesus. Wearing the cross is to be willing to be crucified if need be. But then many have died for their faith, experiential, by other names. Yet by any name love is universal and unconditional service--the opposite of theft. Choose.

. . . or love may become extinct

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-21866456

130508 04:05 if

© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

about her was

tho she thinks herself undesirable I see her as child, nubile and as she is: causing discomfort is not my mission being evenly divided between introvert and extroversion.

130508 02:13 unaccountably

Love at a latter age is different. Intimacy is defined by naked souls as well as bodies, with

emphasis upon the former. Love it seems is, both eventually, while most seem disinclined in our culture to define it so. Possibly impossible, love and passion, at any age coupled with friendship.

Distilled, discovered, yesterday: “If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain; If I can ease one life the aching, Or cool one pain, Or help one fainting robin Unto his nest again, I shall not live in vain.” - Emily Dickinson . . . defining my self ordained intentions totally.

Then today: “There are very few human beings who receive the truth, complete and staggering, by instant illumination. Most of them acquire it fragment by fragment, on a small scale, by successive developments, cellularly, like a laborious mosaic.” - Anaïs Nin

While making coffee, moments ago, I envisioned myself a man remaining a little boy; cocked hat, wooden sword, riding a hobby horse, tilting at windmills. While those I adore, all women actually, are grounded in reality by experience.

I have no sense of Jesus as God, but god besotted, as many men and women are, in the course of life lived for others. Preamble to my sense of the perfectly balanced person integrating evenly all points of perception beginning with male/female, extroversion/introversion, etc.

Celebratory is my admission that these two authors have defined my experience and expectations. . . .So well that I am stilled to silence, mute with awe. Since, for me, that better defines the nature of both love and friendship potential between women and men of any age.

I am in a state of transition from one place to another. Nearly as alarming as if I'd discovered the loss of my short term memory and anticipated irrevocable altercation with what I anticipated in my life. Love not Alzheimers is the cause. There is about this time, a painful evolution, organic in nature, I would liken to my sense the formation of crystals, sped up beyond my comprehension.

Laughter: God and love will do that to people; not what we want but need. There is a nascent poem within me going something like this: “A seed become root then stem a tree motley decorated with branches, leaves, birds and prophets adorned / aware the winds gentle and storm blowing me hither and yon yet experienced planted in solid ground.” What can I say? I am besotted with love irrevocably altered, death of one life while previewing what comes next?

It is true of me, I follow no singular prophet, but attempt as Matsuo Basho said “ . . . to seek what they sought.”

“I want to break out — to leave this cycle of infection and death. I want to be taken in love: so taken that you and I, and death, and life, will be gathered inseparable, into the radiance of what we would become...” ~ Thomas Pynchon

In the trackless waste of my life, attempting fabrication of paths for others, finding none specific, in reverence for the exquisite truth of each individual encountered, I remain in love with process not goals. Sensing now love savage not pleasure, happiness but unalloyed joy. In all former times I fell away apostate and hated myself for failure to bear up beneath the gifts bestowed.

From dust to dust / upon the winds swaying me / I must follow love / as always revealed. Becoming what I am: merely a dust mote flown by the wind as I am written upon it inconsequential. Humiliated becoming humble.

Death throes similar writhing to birth.

130507 10:21 about her was

© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved