Moving is a pain in the sit
down and heart; a death really, while one wonders is there life
afterwards? Yet it, as death, is exactly what I envisioned when first
considering the idea. My current residency is within an elderly
community wherein it is not uncommon to see the dumpster filled with
someone else idea of precious things.
And I have moved so
frequently you’d think I’d know better than to collect mementoes
of the various rites of passage from one modality to another. But I
have, and find myself chagrined at what was once precious; indicative
of a future never inhabited. Some dearly bought still sealed in
shipping tape and quite expensive by any measure.
Absolutely, I am not the
things that possess me, regardless of their once-upon-a-time
desirability. Not “Buyers Remorse” but simple indifference since
finding the most precious thing I have is myself. About which, in
recent converse with M, she annotated the entire ordeal saying, “You
now love yourself and no longer are indifferent to death.”
Which curiously explains my
several abandonment of all that I ever did before: clippings, awards,
negatives, slides and prints. Happily so, since had I not, I would
otherwise have merely committed suicide placing myself in the
dumpster instead of my ‘stuff.’
It follows that I am moving
to another place. Not a geographical fix, so much as a welcome to
love and creation of a new present and future with another person . .
. a knowing of myself in, and from, a different
perspective/perception swimming free of my self-imposed solitude.
Keep It Simple Stupid: The
things I will leave behind are in fact mementos, bulwarks against my
otherwise self-negligence, writ large and clear, 5 X 5. In this that
I do: write. Absent too much rationalization I now see that in words
I can penetrate the surfaces of things invoking/eliciting other
and/or all senses. Whereas I formerly would simply kneel weeping at
the altar of ideal idolatry; what was versus is.
The aesthetics of life are
ever changing, a kind of dance by myself or with something/someone
possessed by inspiration. And I’ve never been especially
conservative of myself or product. In a sense what I just wrote
astonishes me. I am not by nature, nurture or choice sensual. Given
to stroking surfaces for tactile pleasure. Add. I conclude, for now,
that I am not so much compulsively seeking the future as being
impelled towards it.
A running towards, not away.
Moving to inhabit/incarnate love differently in real time versus the
abstract of writing about it . . . did I just imply: practice what I
preach?
Nevertheless, or either way,
the same result is locked in. Inescapable.
About this galling grinding
time is a covert motive to simply take Annie, several dictionaries,
one of three desktop computers and steal away in the dark. Leaving my
apartment furnishings to be spread amongst the poor: food, clothes,
pots and pans. Realizing simultaneously that I will, in the process,
for several days driving, lose this most precious time when I write
and collect quotes. More, or most, humbling will be to remain
diligent attending all the affairs I have procrastinated: bills of
course. But piled atop is the choice between which books to leave and
those to carry forward. Too well aware that the books I own are
seldom read, holding them as treasure for when there is time to read.
Suddenly aware that I am by choice oblivious of that which I take for
granted: time.
130614 MDT 02:31
First long sleep since my
return from St. Johnsbury, VT: eight hours straight. My dreams were
glorious, a reprise of all that I loved in others revealed in their
context and time. I had fallen into emotional exhaustion and lost,
essentially, my enthusiasm for what lays ahead. The evidence, made
obvious, not fear, but merely being my age and able to process only
so many psychically and emotionally demanding challenges. The promise
of rebirth realized.
Resurrection, Reincarnation,
being born again, have prevailed in my attention. Curious what that
would look/be like. It is difficult for me to imagine a clone of
Jesus, but a Jesus returned many times since His crucifixion in other
guises. To me, now, He was a whistleblower and an anarchist, seeking
the freedom of life to live free in our common hold, the earth. And
we, collectively, are no more well than the secrets we keep.
I did not ask for my name,
it was given by accident of birth. Yet I well know what it is to be
ridiculed and vilified. I do not endorse the descent and protest of
others for their violence towards me, or the collective, in that it
is similar: the protest of the powerful their secrets revealed. What
can we learn from either slander or praise? What we say of others
often reveals what we refuse to address within ourselves. Jesus was
profoundly a scape goat for all the covert violence he protested. Was
He not then a true patriot of the Universe? Add, it seems clear that
what He sought was sought by many others; freedom to be ourselves
defined as whole, well, loving, kind and generous.
130613 MDT 02:47 moving
©
2013 by Jack Spratt—All Rights Reserved
