insufficient room for all the names and incarnations of Truth

091224 07:51
No one is more noble, than any other, by birth, or activity, in life. Some walks between birth and death may be celebrated, anointed, annotated by our special attention for their lives lived for us. Servants are self giving and generous while others, the majority, live in fear of never having enough. Therein is the origin/nature of addiction.
How can I know this?
I know it best in my own addictions, hypocrisies, bigotries and failing the Ideal--Jesus who was merely God in disguise and crucified as a criminal for us.
. . . and i am convicted that He died to end all fear.
At the end of life no secret is unknown to God. From the beginning, before speech or symbol was published. It is this child’s sense that, The Garden of Eden a metaphor is now, and we, pass from generation, fetishes and piles of stone dedicated, for punishment, instead of forgiveness and reverence the individual child who comes not for us, but through us, biologically. In the Garden was the advent of consciousness regardless the consequence.
We, the broken, despised and ignored, are legion. Yet we linger in denial, our divinity, so common to us oblivious. We murder or steal holding captive the ideals of others as better than ours made common weal for life, love, liberty and discernment when enough, is enough. Too many children to feed, clothe, love and enable their unique gifts; none more noble than another.
I will write more about this in the later future should God and others to/for whom I an inconvenient allow. For example the KKK was born this date long ago and I have been witness photographically in recent decades and have empathy for those, who, had they known me then, or now would kill me for a nigger lover ala Langston Hughes.
For now it is enough, and never too late, to be charitable with self given to others as gift that they grow in knowledge, truth transparent. I could, and have, given of my photography and/or words, my gift to others. Fully conscious the gift received from the inventor, or progenitor: The Gestalt of Color Psychology; Joseph Albers. The meeting through by a beloved childhood friend, niece, and God. Of Joe I was suffused with his generosity and well remember our harmonious words mutually spoken “music” over a color collage I was otherwise too ashamed to confess authorship of.
My point, beloved of God, is that you may give little, or much; little is welcome and needed at Wikipedia to keep them up and running for the future. I gave and thus am no longer guilty and slinking about when, in greed, I seek knowledge; otherwise unavailable. Were it mine to give I would buy the place and give it back for the joy of their facility.
Otherwise there is insufficient room for all the names and incarnations of Truth in the Universe.
. . . remember this, if you must invoke Christ, He was anointed better by water, the blood of God, not oil.

. . . person-hood

091218 06:53
This date and a bit before this hour, I awoke conscious of a woman who loved me when I loved myself not. And I loved myself less while in training to defend our nation, this blest place. To me did she send a box filled with post cards from all the cultures of person-hood and then I did not understand the height width breadth of her consciousness the glory of all Art. I would upon barrack cot sit paging though them one-by-one with slowly dawning realization that the greatest Art is life itself.

I’ve left behind the box in one of many leave takings, dysfunctional relationships abandoned and trashed, as I’d been from beginning until now, the birthday of my father who watched in silence my training to be who and what I am this moment. The first and last day in infinity the eternal NOW. It is no mean trick to forgive such silence, yet now I do love him more than at any other time of our lives together or apart. Courage does not always wear a uniform of dedication, badge, rank or intention clear.

Yet the same applies to the mother who with fist, bludgeoning spoken rage screamed my stupidity and failure to be what she so confidently presumed would save me in the maelstrom of our time from Depression she had survived as my father did. Then War with the World embroiled--yet I loved them then, I love them still, with passion I adore their tutelage more now nearly equally to that of our mutual Creator whose love is both terrible and gentle as a Dove’s under feathers floating in a still pond riffled with gentle sighs.

. . . if we sow death we must accept that death will sew us into itself. To weave love is to give generously of self to others that they live as the child whose birth we celebrate soon. Who died for us that we live free of fear. He died, executed for inconvenience to the time in which He walked this earth, a criminal amongst criminals, rebellious; a terrorist. His sacrifice being sacrificed . . . crucified slow humiliating suffocation blessedly brief in his case was the final sacrifice? Yet knowing this he was born, lived, walked amongst us and visible in the poor remains awaiting to be resurrected in each and all persons . . .