An
observation about solitude and creative/artistic endeavors. I have no
literary friends with whom to qwery the good or ill of what/how/why
I write. Leaving me with my head in the toilet singing lullabies to
myself. A masturbatory exercise.
Considered
from another point of perception, these being the happiest days,
hours, minutes and seconds of all. Are expansive to places where no
person has ever traveled except in their heart.
Ecstasy.
Why
would I risk losing that to be with a person when I, at whatever hour
arise, besot with dreams, messages, dialogs, ideas and ideals? There
has never been for me someone as affirming specific to what I’ve
written since a friend looking at a painting of mine raised his arms
horizontal and screamed. Cause and effect intended, later I was see
him crushed beneath a car straddling his motorcycle looking at me as
he died.
Reality
is far more fantastic than imagination.
The
Interlocutor is silent,
for the most part, lending me clues as serendipity, coincidence or
synchronicity; what has sustained my solitary singing in the commode.
Inspiration:
being breathed into . . . and Pamela Joyce —
I
love calling her that —
there
will be other terms of endearment later on but for now . . . my love
for her, however expressed, of needs is adequate. Add. Of course I’ve
always been incapable of expressing either love or the need for love
effectively anywhere near my sense of its majesty . . . that is until
I began to play in orchestras and bands, then paint, the photograph
and now write. Which initially was a method of finding sanity in an
insane world; i.e. No one listening to me —
me learning not to listen to myself.
Early on learning not to ask for, nor expect, anything; taking
whatever was given . . . like many —
if not most or
all — scared
by the experience. My writing this, as most everything else,
is addressed to those of us, who like me were —
or
are lost —
without
voice or comprehension of what to do with abuse, rape, death,
mutilation or merely loss/grief.
Recently
I have used J. S. Bach and “fisting” to analogize the experience
of Pamela Joyce’s response/reply via
insertion or play within my self.
Rude, crude, inadequate to the fantastic lofting she gives me:
specific to my intentions suggesting an interest in more.
In
a way, a sense, I could die this moment ecstatic in her love. She in
me. And, we’ve not yet kissed or embraced outside dialog . . .
simple conversation.
At
first meeting there was lust of course. But more. Some ineffable
intuition that she was desirable on a multiplicity of levels and
facets. Now my feelings are; then, now, and future, there is more.
For which I would fight to gain. I have a reason to live outside my
solitary self and a sure conviction that there will be more than
anything I could possibly imagine or makeup . . . something
so vastly beyond: attraction, lust, consummation, boredom, death.
Of
suffering
and death
we both know too well from hospice and in
ourselves.
This moment too precious to waste. Being so. This minute becomes
eternity and an endless eternity until Face-to-Face with what comes
next
130523
MDT 15:23 pace quickening
©
2013 by Jack Spratt—All Rights Reserved
