Few of us realize that we have a God given right to be ourselves

100106 12:06
The Hurdy Gurdy is being played faster these days. Solo, it calls the dance for life and liberty at a frenzied pace. I know few as blessed as myself born, raised and sooner-or-later to die suffused in music: frantic and slow, laconic sighs, blues to minuets. Never forget Stravinsky!
If you want to live--dancing--you must pay the ‘fiddler’ or hurdy gurdy musician.
Few are allowed to stand aside as audience since all are required to leap and shout about everything under the sun. The riotous din is, staggering, drunk with chaos.
Sadly I must invoke memories of my father’s intentions for me. It is merely that our parents are our first and primary teachers; by word and demonstration. A poor, gimp and lame imitation of our real Mother/Father/God.
In recognition that I could have been burned at the stake, then--and perhaps now, I stand and deliver my experience for whatever it is worth should anyone attend me.
Life is a participatory event and it may well be that I am both pagan and heretical; I’ll take the change. In empathy and with, or so I now believe, kindness--believe me it wasn’t my fault--I never asked to be born. He gave up his quest for fame and fortune and burdened me with a musical vocation; selling the instruments, and ink defaced flesh of dead trees.
Vaulting the walls surrounding culture and civilization, I am impaled upon my pike/petard. Knowing that trees sing, in fall, winter, spring and summer, I am stunned, actually knocked unconscious by my metaphor and simile, remembering the ‘forbidden fruit’ and the tree upon which Jesus was hung sighing His last breath. Trees actually sing in birth, life and death. Perhaps I am a Druid?
Think the Amazon River basin denuded.
. . . for the lowing of cows.
Oh well.
Few of us realize that we have a God given right to be ourselves; as painful as that may be to the administrators of the kindling and match to immolate me before I finish this sentence. Peace is not seditious. Now doesn’t that sentiment open doors of iron, steel or stone?
Wisdom is a woman I court daily and constantly fail her embrace. However amongst us she remains a scullery maid in the basement of our institutions. At the loss of a shy brief half smile she awaits our attention flirting with her role as mother, wife, sister, cousin, lover. Or whatever role we assign her in our oblivion. At what cost? The loss of everything we cherish: peace, love and the meaning of life.
The Shepard’s Crook will soon drag me from this brief stage, into the night preceding & following my dance--in no lime light, lurching--into the endless night again.
I hear no applause, one-handed, or otherwise, I tap-dance for myself pleasure.
In closing my ‘act’ I can only say that I celebrate both sets of parents tossing roses to them off stage.

“Silence is a true friend who never betrays.” --Confucius

091222 06:09
I am happily removed from the fray. The stressors and frenzy of too many folks in one place. Gladly gone from my daily attention. The hours in automobiles stalled in forty mile long parking lots. People waiting to get home and have a moments reprise the peace they, or was it only me? had with the morning’s first dragon mouth cleanser happily alone in peace and silence.
I think we pay too little attention to the realities of our loneliness and never listen to ourselves.
I have never thought my dreams oddly absent monsters and terrors.
Instead they have always been populated with people whose personalities are relatively benign compared to mine. And in my sleep I came to sense another’s presence--and now I weep for what?
The brother or sister whose life was aborted. Who, had they been allowed birth, would be more-or-less one year or so younger than I.
Odd. Could it be at this nodal point, the end of the longest night, the earth awaits that convulsion of birth the next seasons course returning to this once endless night of terror for me.
Small wonder I so adore she who healed me for this is the date of her birth. And we, though separate by years and miles, hold equivalent proclivities for greeting the dawn’s loom, the slow weaving of the new day’s tapestry.
We individually give a song of greeting for the gift of another day to Mother/Father and then debate over coffee which is what; the Father Earth or Mother Sky? More important is our penchant for mutual reverence our choices to be alone. Our pets become our keepers.
Feeding the doves and my extemporaneous shuffling dance plus ad-lib prayer of gratefulness. No act of charity for the greedy doves but my greed for their beauty seen closely. Of course Annie Fanny, my love, and cat, waits patiently their arrival--the brunch bunch. Of course I only call them the ‘brunch bunch’ since I adore playing with words; and they are late risers compared to me.
Seriously we need to listen to ourselves and measure the treasure of our lives individually. Perhaps then we can be part of the solution instead of the problem; life lived as packed rats gone insane. it could well be that I am actually lunatic since I see at times events that I accept as gifts just for me. . . . And what I write mere doodling while awaiting the next incredible thing; a gift of attention from the Origin of attention. “Silence is a true friend who never betrays.” --Confucius