091222 12:23
By & Of more than one woman was I attacked for my love affair with computers.
While it was true that I sought, when available, the pleasures of pornography, it has become
more readily apparent that I doth rely too much on the facility proffered in computing for writing & photography. My own record--what was sold before, now so graphically, freely, lightly given.
Yet there is, a was, hidden Saint Nicholas in the stacks of dictionaries suggested by, a then writer, disguised as a reporter, and former lover of Tom Wolf’s, who espoused The American Heritage Dictionary.
Obvious now my arousal at the visual marginalia suggestive of alternate reality and/or associations . . . I oft times fell into reverie ecstatic with far flung potential nude. Or merely synchronicities that I then thought mere coincident. That was a long-ago opportunity my lover then invoked, and from that, we begat a child, and I taught at University.
Of the child aborted, now more sadly so, the loss of all my other children, save those of you willing to be adopted by me. I was, then and now, confident of the practice and product stud known. Yet remain bewildered by the prospect of creating written words or teaching anything.
As child and adult I have known rejection and abandonment thus learned to live by my interior dialogs caroming between rage, desolation and mirth.
In fact, degree and kind this season of winter became my nadir ricocheting into manic delight at Easter Tide. Little knowing then that the prospect of banishment to my material grandmothers home was heaven and haven or simple sanctuary.
The auguring turn of time screwed into my innocence that arrival of Labor Day reprised and returned the insanity of my parents house.
Apparent in this moment is the tutelage failed they beat indifferently into me something other than whatever it is that I am now.
Obviously I was a savagely silent wild child and were it not for grandmother’s easy recognition the mother of me otherwise I’d assume wrong parentage. Randomly stolen Christ Hospital nursery.
I never presumed derangement in my parents and attempted to be all that they instructed: dumb, deaf and blind incapable of finding my sit down while talking. Prayer, medication, contemplation and psalms sung for survival were heard and replied to but never known then the transport to this moment of delight no longer medicate bipolar.
Seek and ye shall find, ask and it will be answered; rebbe Jesus was there all along. His truth has set me free, the prisoner released and through His Mother I know God as both androgynous.
Though apparently touched by grace I remain the chastised child i was. . . . and long for Jerusalem to become our Universe. . . .to know yourself better than not.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Not all that I say or do record is worthy of anything more than a child’s play
091222 15:32
Divine inspiration is true since it endows the dead corpse of our ambitions, and conceits, resurrected in light. Loving light, and the reflections of it, photographically or writing with light, is a passion now; melded into surprise revelations of ordinary presence, the present, of love recorded; weal or woe.
Small wonder i once thought myself insane and that as messenger I should be destroyed. Not all that I say or do record is worthy of anything more than a child’s play. Though I am aware of my conceits, the teacher taught, there is no goal, or gold, save the journey or process towards a greater reality and truth than is found on common paths. Of my bigotry, endlessly ground into dust, useless bread for anyone save myself. Since I do reverence all life and creation. Amen.
Divine inspiration is true since it endows the dead corpse of our ambitions, and conceits, resurrected in light. Loving light, and the reflections of it, photographically or writing with light, is a passion now; melded into surprise revelations of ordinary presence, the present, of love recorded; weal or woe.
Small wonder i once thought myself insane and that as messenger I should be destroyed. Not all that I say or do record is worthy of anything more than a child’s play. Though I am aware of my conceits, the teacher taught, there is no goal, or gold, save the journey or process towards a greater reality and truth than is found on common paths. Of my bigotry, endlessly ground into dust, useless bread for anyone save myself. Since I do reverence all life and creation. Amen.
. . . individual choice to live in weal or woe inflicted, or imposed . . .
091222 2:22pm
It is not simply for pederast priest do i protest. The popish Congress knells and Liberty fled. The choice to birth, suicide, or spending life with another of same gender, gone. I would rather be obvious in my dissent instead the covert RC Bishop lobbyist of 'god.' There is no religion or politic large enough to hold the entirety of God's Love. Save in the individual choice to live in weal or woe inflicted, or imposed, by another.
Think, and see, Gandhi's simple hobby, spinning wool, upon a wheel; truth manifest instead of chaos. To pretend truth given of God is no truth at all but pretense--control of other's individual rights. There is no "Trust in God" save the motto, or souvenir saved, from all those who bled and died that we live free; otherwise this time in crisis; choice of life or death dictated.
In quest inspired I sought "Famous Last Words"/"Let Us Now Praise Famous Men" infamous, and in the end, this moment, find none appropriate my hunger & thirst for truth between us, enemy or friend. A humble member of life's, global, family.
I die meaninglessly, lost the words sung in my heart, knowing God's weal as my will. Gladly rid this civil war of ideals.No Right to live free the consequence of Right to Life imposed ideally the cost of slavery women bred. To what end? More cannon fodder to spend in the contests, war of ideals?
I, this man--think, feel, sense and intuit--i know Jesus' last words received by Our Parent androgynous, freedom perfectly sacrificed to end all fear. Perhaps, maybe, maybe not, the waste of all mankind.
It is not simply for pederast priest do i protest. The popish Congress knells and Liberty fled. The choice to birth, suicide, or spending life with another of same gender, gone. I would rather be obvious in my dissent instead the covert RC Bishop lobbyist of 'god.' There is no religion or politic large enough to hold the entirety of God's Love. Save in the individual choice to live in weal or woe inflicted, or imposed, by another.
Think, and see, Gandhi's simple hobby, spinning wool, upon a wheel; truth manifest instead of chaos. To pretend truth given of God is no truth at all but pretense--control of other's individual rights. There is no "Trust in God" save the motto, or souvenir saved, from all those who bled and died that we live free; otherwise this time in crisis; choice of life or death dictated.
In quest inspired I sought "Famous Last Words"/"Let Us Now Praise Famous Men" infamous, and in the end, this moment, find none appropriate my hunger & thirst for truth between us, enemy or friend. A humble member of life's, global, family.
I die meaninglessly, lost the words sung in my heart, knowing God's weal as my will. Gladly rid this civil war of ideals.No Right to live free the consequence of Right to Life imposed ideally the cost of slavery women bred. To what end? More cannon fodder to spend in the contests, war of ideals?
I, this man--think, feel, sense and intuit--i know Jesus' last words received by Our Parent androgynous, freedom perfectly sacrificed to end all fear. Perhaps, maybe, maybe not, the waste of all mankind.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Starry Nights
091221 04:11
I awoke with a consciousness of Vincent Van Gogh's, "Starry, Starry Night" which I experienced long ago at, or near, the age of twelve.
I love the artist, all his work, for what I then came to love, was a massive retrospective. But "Starry" especially now. And well I remember witness of it, and my childhood self, as I was then dressed in my "Sunday go to meeting--get buried in clothes." The discomfort of that uniform and the day--lingers, therefore.
As stunning as the dream/vision/remembrance is. I would rather move-right-along into what I now realize is the fantastic elasticity of my mind. For which I am willing to accept responsibility . . . and that God, doth allow, and pull me further.
It is, at times--staggering.
To find myself involuntarily, at one point, versus another, in the continuum of potential consciousness is a delight. I am easily capable of savage nihilism, coupled with the wrath to destroy everything in the sight of my consciousness; including myself in the process. Yet I do, more often now, find myself filled with ecstasy--though I am aware of, and have not tried, the drug so named. I define the kind, degree, nature/nurture of ecstasy, in the presence of God.
To Love Jesus, God, Mary & The Holy Spirit to the extent that, I am now aware this consciousness so informed, has moved the center of my gravity, or insanity, towards the positive--slowly. . . .am i merely, insanely, in love with God . . . yes, of course!
To "lift the crown" from those adored heads of my heroes, both female and male, is to accept their consciousness of all personhood by extrapolation. And in accepting that gift, know myself willing to live, or die, for all the prehistory--and now--of our long, bewildered, march to Truth.
In all my internal/external travels I have never fully conceded to solemnity; in fact I am quite the opposite: irreverent, ribald and salacious . . . do I experience "the laughter of God"?
Of course I do. . . .for what is love without laughter?
No Joy!
The star announcing the birth of Jesus burns bright, a blaze, not twinkling, or winking, since it burned through the haze of time, the heat and cold of the then weather . . . and yes my beloved friends, Santa Clause, is real. Not, however, in the depictions of him as a mercantile advertisement. He was so named Saint Nicholas, the original, more nearly like God in balance towards crime and generosity; addressed with empathy and mercy.
I am profoundly aggrieved by depictions of wholeness, what most call--in their penchant for solemnity--Holy.
I know this of myself. Never surrendering, but arguing silently, without weeping, or grimacing, in the face of my mothers terrible rage. In that--I was well trained. It was her, and God?s, gift to me for which I am grateful beyond measure, the treasury of my being me.
. . . & of my fathers silence; I bless that as well with my forgiveness and celebration now.
I awoke with a consciousness of Vincent Van Gogh's, "Starry, Starry Night" which I experienced long ago at, or near, the age of twelve.
I love the artist, all his work, for what I then came to love, was a massive retrospective. But "Starry" especially now. And well I remember witness of it, and my childhood self, as I was then dressed in my "Sunday go to meeting--get buried in clothes." The discomfort of that uniform and the day--lingers, therefore.
As stunning as the dream/vision/remembrance is. I would rather move-right-along into what I now realize is the fantastic elasticity of my mind. For which I am willing to accept responsibility . . . and that God, doth allow, and pull me further.
It is, at times--staggering.
To find myself involuntarily, at one point, versus another, in the continuum of potential consciousness is a delight. I am easily capable of savage nihilism, coupled with the wrath to destroy everything in the sight of my consciousness; including myself in the process. Yet I do, more often now, find myself filled with ecstasy--though I am aware of, and have not tried, the drug so named. I define the kind, degree, nature/nurture of ecstasy, in the presence of God.
To Love Jesus, God, Mary & The Holy Spirit to the extent that, I am now aware this consciousness so informed, has moved the center of my gravity, or insanity, towards the positive--slowly. . . .am i merely, insanely, in love with God . . . yes, of course!
To "lift the crown" from those adored heads of my heroes, both female and male, is to accept their consciousness of all personhood by extrapolation. And in accepting that gift, know myself willing to live, or die, for all the prehistory--and now--of our long, bewildered, march to Truth.
In all my internal/external travels I have never fully conceded to solemnity; in fact I am quite the opposite: irreverent, ribald and salacious . . . do I experience "the laughter of God"?
Of course I do. . . .for what is love without laughter?
No Joy!
The star announcing the birth of Jesus burns bright, a blaze, not twinkling, or winking, since it burned through the haze of time, the heat and cold of the then weather . . . and yes my beloved friends, Santa Clause, is real. Not, however, in the depictions of him as a mercantile advertisement. He was so named Saint Nicholas, the original, more nearly like God in balance towards crime and generosity; addressed with empathy and mercy.
I am profoundly aggrieved by depictions of wholeness, what most call--in their penchant for solemnity--Holy.
I know this of myself. Never surrendering, but arguing silently, without weeping, or grimacing, in the face of my mothers terrible rage. In that--I was well trained. It was her, and God?s, gift to me for which I am grateful beyond measure, the treasury of my being me.
. . . & of my fathers silence; I bless that as well with my forgiveness and celebration now.
God is: Love/Loving, a verb--not noun
091221 07:35
God is for all of us--what God is: Love/Loving, a verb--not noun, kind, merciful, far more forgiving of us than we, of, or for, ourselves--or even of another---or all Others.
In recognition my malevolent self-disregard, the failure to attend my ecology; smoking cigarettes, the use, and abuse, of women who loved me to the best of their giving. In my shame, the endless list remains, conscious, and never far from the heights of ecstasy.
Both extents held well balanced in my conscience.
Of my economy? Welcome to Club Poverty.
I knew the woman who died recently, in small parts--Mary Kroeger--but knew well, and loved/love still, the woman who knew her, more-or-less, from beginning to end--they were friends.
I am impaled upon the counter spike of remembrance; e.g. Rod Steiger in “The Pawn Broker.” I, in that memory, know another small measure, yet significant pain, of the crucifixion.
Ask, and you will receive.
Focus, dedication and conviction for the next, whatever, moments, or eternity.
Mary Kroger was a glorious, intelligent, vibrant and desirable young woman born of a schizophrenic mother. The mother won in the end. Mary died alone and ignored by such as remained of her family; so misunderstood was she as a consequence of her mother’s tutelage of, and in, insanity.
Why was it not me?
I have no authority to diagnose the degree or kind of my mother’s rage yet I bear the stripes of it upon my soul.
I am too ignorant of doubting Thomas and Jesus, their last encounter after His crucifixion, and resurrection, to quote chapter and verse . . . yet in the mention, i am there.
For the meaningless, neglected death of my friend’s best childhood friend . . . oh yes! I remember now breaking bread with her . . . and though she bore no remarkable beauty then, I well remember her shy charm . . . and gratitude while stuffing left overs in her pockets.
To say I will remember Mary in my prayers, is to announce the expected--and anticipated--ritual response. It is the nature of my love to embrace her daily in the mirror of my heart . . .Rest easy Mary as I am sure you do.
God is for all of us--what God is: Love/Loving, a verb--not noun, kind, merciful, far more forgiving of us than we, of, or for, ourselves--or even of another---or all Others.
In recognition my malevolent self-disregard, the failure to attend my ecology; smoking cigarettes, the use, and abuse, of women who loved me to the best of their giving. In my shame, the endless list remains, conscious, and never far from the heights of ecstasy.
Both extents held well balanced in my conscience.
Of my economy? Welcome to Club Poverty.
I knew the woman who died recently, in small parts--Mary Kroeger--but knew well, and loved/love still, the woman who knew her, more-or-less, from beginning to end--they were friends.
I am impaled upon the counter spike of remembrance; e.g. Rod Steiger in “The Pawn Broker.” I, in that memory, know another small measure, yet significant pain, of the crucifixion.
Ask, and you will receive.
Focus, dedication and conviction for the next, whatever, moments, or eternity.
Mary Kroger was a glorious, intelligent, vibrant and desirable young woman born of a schizophrenic mother. The mother won in the end. Mary died alone and ignored by such as remained of her family; so misunderstood was she as a consequence of her mother’s tutelage of, and in, insanity.
Why was it not me?
I have no authority to diagnose the degree or kind of my mother’s rage yet I bear the stripes of it upon my soul.
I am too ignorant of doubting Thomas and Jesus, their last encounter after His crucifixion, and resurrection, to quote chapter and verse . . . yet in the mention, i am there.
For the meaningless, neglected death of my friend’s best childhood friend . . . oh yes! I remember now breaking bread with her . . . and though she bore no remarkable beauty then, I well remember her shy charm . . . and gratitude while stuffing left overs in her pockets.
To say I will remember Mary in my prayers, is to announce the expected--and anticipated--ritual response. It is the nature of my love to embrace her daily in the mirror of my heart . . .Rest easy Mary as I am sure you do.
Winter Solstice
091221 08:18
On this the eve, the longest night, the nadir of my life, I am impelled to move into a new configuration, dedication and conviction that all preceding this moment is refined into love for others--like myself--broken under the wheel of night never become dawn.
I do not ‘know’ how to ‘DO.’ However i know why, and for whom, i now live in Love.
In that statement I am reminded of all my denial; “I am well! How dare you suggest otherwise!” Indignant I am reminded that I was then a child, become parent of loss, and now merely an old man too soon, or not soon enough to die.
We isolate and insulate ourselves in lies; living in desolation. And we are no better than the secrets we bury alive. Who & What haunts us, about & from which we ask no questions; expecting more lies, or silence.
Worse.
Punishment heaped upon insults, terrorism self-righteously justified by parental precedent. They, the victims, victimize their, Legacy, freely given to children without recognition their abused and crushed soul’s potential bequeathed.
On this the eve, the longest night, the nadir of my life, I am impelled to move into a new configuration, dedication and conviction that all preceding this moment is refined into love for others--like myself--broken under the wheel of night never become dawn.
I do not ‘know’ how to ‘DO.’ However i know why, and for whom, i now live in Love.
In that statement I am reminded of all my denial; “I am well! How dare you suggest otherwise!” Indignant I am reminded that I was then a child, become parent of loss, and now merely an old man too soon, or not soon enough to die.
We isolate and insulate ourselves in lies; living in desolation. And we are no better than the secrets we bury alive. Who & What haunts us, about & from which we ask no questions; expecting more lies, or silence.
Worse.
Punishment heaped upon insults, terrorism self-righteously justified by parental precedent. They, the victims, victimize their, Legacy, freely given to children without recognition their abused and crushed soul’s potential bequeathed.
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