120515 0538
    In any and all events it is shame to lay waste to a mind, body, much less a soul. Yet we hold the measure and means to do both wholesale unto extinction, ourselves and all life known, in the bargain. To aspire health, wealth and wisdom seem impossibilities in this time and place near pointless. In our brief history and culture, a thin and inconsequential veneer to our home, upon the marble we call earth. Within the larger contest of all marbles seen and unseen. Questing for life by our definition “divine?” Our bodies alone are filled with life inimical to our well being held in check by curious defenses at least 90% our responsibility and participation.
    Our sense of peace and equanimity.
    Do I protest the Factory Farming of our psyches or bodies? No. Since it is ideal, at least for me, to Love my Enemy and grant that enemy the right, no matter singular or corporate, to exist as I do. Free, whole and well. Call that Liberal to which I would quietly say, ‘No it is conservative of my sense the Truth spoken, immutable, by He who I call brother. And not He alone but for all the prophets of Freedom to be at all individual.’
    In the final moments of our time together, my father choose to shred my right, in whole or part minuscule, to his estate based upon choices not inimical to me but to him. By choice and chance the list grew intolerable. He weeping sober myself silent gazing and grazing the content of his intention. My sole surviving daughter called a Nigger so offensive I fell speechless and not simply for my knowing we are all biracial stemming from an original pair most likely black in origin. Or that I provided him with no heirs to carry the ‘family name’ forward knowing too well my age and the tubal ligation of the bride of my youth; taste and choice in women thereafter.
    For a lifetime before when questioning the origin of our sir name he’d say, “We’re from a long line of chicken thieves and barn burners!” And I when more nearly mature than before knew the name differently. And not for alone the Spratt who lived on Wall Street in the home of The Exchange property become; chased and badgered with the rhyme implying theft of alms for the poor who he, under Tammany, administered. Or the one who lived on Long Island holding and breeding race horses and slaves.
    By inference or implication I knew we came from Vikings originally, possibly Berserkers, who raped, pillaged, killed, maimed and/or burned our victims. Then in a latter time settled in Scotland, Ireland, England when they were ignorant the collective “Great Britain.” Where the rhyme is recorded, initially, in A Child's Alphabet of Friends.
    No. Frankly I am bored by heritage only fascinated by legacy. The bequest from generation to generation by deeds not fortune or fame. Mythology oft bespeak truths too fantastic to believe yet in simplicity remain a thorn in our sole; a stigmata in the soul.
    If I weep now, for I do, the privilege of serving the Lord’s Blood in a pewter cup, possibly consecrated by a Spratt, Dean of Westminster Abby and buried in the vestibule. Curious. Lady Antonia Fraser confirmed my suspicions while I was the only photographer to ever get them together without bushwhack, she and Harold Pinter. He later allowed me access to the stage upon which I photographed a dress rehearsal for Trinity Repertory Theater an American premier, a play whose name escapes me now, so long ago it was.
    A point of order and recent--at the moment--discovery: I might well be a fly, yellow jacket or mud wasp pollinating from origin either waste or glory. In any case I was never satisfied to record the light reflected from anything but seeing/seeking the glowing fire from within.
    Let us now praise famous women/men who before us stood defiant and self-derived the obscenity called education provided vocational pap for nascent slaves to serve “divine rights” of Royalty or Politicians to so rule our lives.
    And in the end of my quest regarding our sir name I fell fascinated by a legend or myth beneath the one in question: “Jack Spratt could eat no fat..” It was suggested that there was before a “Jack The Giant Killer.”
    Farther I did forgive my father. In doing so became able to forgive myself the fury and welcomed my poverty as St. Francis did to his satisfaction.
    Grinning to anyone who will listen I describe the lascivious imaginings of misspending his wealth indiscriminately fathering children with women of many colors and proclivities populating a world soon to be no more.

120515 00:10
    My dream, were I to attempt expatiation, was like a chess game times five, vertical and twirling in complexity beyond three or four dimensions, possibly five!?
    In these brief moments of consideration, while brewing coffee and voiding, I came to sense it the work of a mind, mine, being willing to accept that our consciousness is vastly more complex than I’d previously considered. Yet mine in particular, more willing to accept, without apology, in child like innocence, the divinely salacious, height, width, depth, and breadth of it as common among we the species called mammalian.
    Visualization in two dimensions reminds me of black & white representations of Dante’s Divine Comedy, of which I am too little familiar otherwise ... something looked forward to. Perhaps should I live long enough and God allows.
    Perhaps I should introduce the various elements, conscious, preceding this event stellar. Today I met for the first time a woman within whom a cancer had grown blocking her esophagus rendering her unable to speak, drink, or eat, or fully breathe, dying slowly--clearly. To witness this in however brief moments I was in her presence was like watching a person drown and starve to death too slowly; completely helpless. And at that the witness of my son, by implication my father and in consequence my persistence in smoking cigarettes extenuated beyond endurance regardless my empathy.
    Earlier I’d requested a doctor to sing my DNR (Do Not Resuscitate). What evolved was a debate regarding the futility of it in current context litigious, political, moral or ethical conducted in 5/8th time. Of equal futility is my willingness to donate any or all parts of my body that another could/should live since mine are essentially worn out by age.
    God! How I adore Jesuits and others of comparable compassion in debate. Being a fool for words adored as well, I, among friends say of myself report: “Jousting with Jesuits.”
    Then too I’d been in the presence of she whom I adore unreasonably and sensed our love making fully clothed in public more fantastic than anything I’d previously longed for physically or within my two dream encounters with The Virgin Mary.
    In childhood I’d been presented with, as fixed, immutable, gospel, The Bible and Shakespeare. Yet in this context, the day and dream, reminded me of my first self-derived/discerned Truth spoken and attributed to Voltaire: “I disagree with what you say but will defend to the death your right to say it.” Perhaps not verbatim yet adequate in this context.
    Suffice it to say that more important then context is the apprehension of the potential Mankind’s reply to God’s love and the passion/compassion within both.
    Process not fixed in stone ... the journey more important than the goal.
    Terminus?
    Could it have been being in the Presence? A conversation unspoken yet illustrated? Possibly annotated by a yin and yang of yes/no in black & white? If so or if not why do I now cry open eyed in joy?
    With humor my potentially only saving grace; I’d rather Truth from the Source than anything said of Him, Her or It. And if I pretend any value to so teach that anyone else can achieve the same end before we collectively stand in the court of consequence inconvenient and incontinent the truths we ignore.
    For me, finally, death has no dominion.
    A final and parting shot across the bow of my own bigotries. This dream seems to indicate that I must, in truth accept the failings of myself, unforgiven until, now the maundering's of those for whom my words, thoughts and  conclusions, remain essentially inconsequential, superfluous and the squeaking a gnat. I would contend with God but to Mankind I remain convicted that we are the body politic and the only ground of Truth potential in context: here and now. More simply said, “We must become the change we want to see in the world.” --Gandhi

http://forum.quoteland.com/1/OpenTopic?a=tpc&s=586192041&f=099191541&m=1...

120514 04:57
    I tend to visualize the highest power as a multi faceted gem and then all life of equal complexity. It would seem simplistic but I refuse to accept the idea that we ‘create God in our image or vis-a-versa.’ Since for me the conjunction of events and elements of my life so often indicate otherwise filtered through my skeptical mind and conception/perception.
    We learn differently through this prism and no one way better than another . . . if you wish to know what love is hug a leaper or mongoloid. I as a cipher, and being superfluous, am conscious that the leaper is me, the mongoloid is many I’ve encountered. And in general terms, in past representations of myself, I though of “The Elephant Man” or Quasimodo until I was better informed that they were more wise and loving than I’ll ever be; to my shame.
    I am potentially better informed about death then most people I know. It follows that I reserve an anger towards indifference to life in all forms upon or within our nest, what we call the World. And regarding suicide, having contemplated it near daily for most of my life (see Enneagram: Type 4), I hold a special reverence for the freedom of choice--to breed or not breed--to destroy one’s life or not.
    My daily ritual of collecting quotes has come to be an education I dismissed as impossible in childhood, the information inferred or implied indicated that I wasn’t worth the effort therefore I never really tried. But like the mongoloid I loved emphatically. It is a precious quality available to all; thinks pets and children who know better than to allow prejudice and bigotry to dominate their perceptions.
    Happily I maintain the virginity of my mind in the following sense: if Jesus had no children than by adoption I am His kid. And not His alone but the child of Mohammad, Einstein, Confusions, Buddha and so on and on and on.
    Factually I have nothing new to say on the issue, “The Truth Will Set You Free”, etcetera. If money, fame, immortality were an issue I could easily repackage the available resources, in much the same way pharmaceutical corporations do aspirin for profit. As for prophecy the idea of predicting events bores me and regarding the issue of protest and descent the hidden governance of corporations posing as individuals has aborted many of our rights to free speech.
    When ever I hear “Right To Life” I privately and quietly ask “What Life?”
    I have larger issues to ponder than the ideas/ideals most fear and guard against thus making themselves good consumers of any authority figure or cult that comes along--it is all process, grow where you’re planted and expect/welcome change--that’s real life.
    The education I eschewed is essentially vocational beginning and ending in a reward: better pay for doing something that sucks the life & soul out of you.
    We generally operate with a fraction of our potential, immensurable, immense, while last year alone 7.1 million children died of preventable disease. I can hear the argument ‘but they were ignorant, a different religion or color than I!” Greed is selfish, love Generous. I am subsisting on less than the national poverty level via Social Security yet remain wealthier than most of the worlds population--and at that without complaint except for the pompous politicians who purport to serve me or us. In a sense think of them, plus their corporate sponsors, as murders. I once thought of German cars being wrapped in the flesh of dead Jews--I still do--yet apply the same concept to SUVs wrapped in the flesh of our dead children mutilated in useless wars.

--Ernie Pyle
When Ernie Pyle, the famous World War II correspondent, was killed on the Pacific island of Ie Shima in 1945, a rough draft of a column was found on his body. He was preparing it for release upon the end of the war in Europe. He had done much to promote the myth of the warrior and the nobility of soldiering, but by the end he seemed to have tired of it all:

    But there are many of the living who have burned into their brains forever the unnatural sight of cold dead men scattered over the hillsides and in the ditches along the high rows of hedge throughout the world.

    Dead men by mass production—in one country after another—month after month and year after year. Dead men in winter and dead men in summer.

    Dead men in such familiar promiscuity that they become monotonous.

    Dead men in such monstrous infinity that you come almost to hate them.

    These are the things that you at home need not even try to understand. To you at home they are columns of figures, or he is a near one who went away and just didn’t come back. You didn’t see him lying so grotesque and pasty beside the gravel road in France.

    We saw him, saw him by the multiple thousands. That’s the difference.

“The men the American people admire most extravagantly are the most daring liars; the men they detest most violently are those who try to tell them the truth.”  --H. L. (Henry Louis) Mencken

. . . in a way it would be better if I were retroactively aborted, or merely remained silent.

120512 03:51
    I have no idea and no memory of what I post from, day to day, hour to hour, save the memory of phrases and ideas . . . or dreams that propel me from ‘rest.’ I refuse to obey the ideal that I must sleep a contiguous eight, seven, six or five hours. It suits me not. For those who ask, in general, I am generous with my time and for a few overly so going so far as to be for them a nurse if need be in the sense I am neither poo, pee, or blood adverse. But in that statement betray myself and fear being kicked to the curb by the one thing I overtly and consummately find, life, love and meaning for: hospice work; yet like the ministry have so little time left to gain the requisite degree proclaiming my right to do or be so.
    I am a person ‘on fire’ with knowing the value and price of each and every moment. And too well aware of death but more the victims of war on both sides. In that I am convicted that death is not the end of what writes ‘immortal’ or not, prose or poetry, or the faltering attempt to cram a new life into a small vessel of time as in think cosmically and act locally.
    Organically growing from my arising methodology of collecting quotes, astonishingly wonderful way to learn to ‘write’--and I’ve never be able to apprehend the difference between crystals and prisms metaphorically . . . or like mirrors and windows, glass is a gas, crystals are something else altogether at least to me in the rock polisher of my mind more precious than any other stone.
    In any case this ‘morning’, for it is still dark, opening my quote files in Jarte: multiple tabs, WordPad on steroids, the entire alphabet available, I fell across Tennessee Williams: “The violets in the mountains have broken the rocks.”, then remembered “Suddenly Last Summer” which like several experiences continue to tumble in my memory until they become transparent.
    If you were to ask all and  sundry relatives, wives, lovers and friends they might well say the I did perpetrate ‘evil’, or no good, did them dirt, especially in my leaving and like the one who suggested I volunteer at hospice I continue where led daily in homage and reverence for them as well as for what I’ve become: bliss, joy, confident in voice, act and deed, at last in these fleeting moments. A warriors mind and poet’s heart; “Today is a good day to die.”
    The sweet baptism of a child is but a dedication, the baptism of fire, quite another. A choice made for whatever reason or season in ecstasy, terror, during mid to later years, is substantive.
    I gave my heart to Jesus over the telephone in St. Petersburg Florida long ago, then my soul recently to God in private. Of the former I fear I’ve made a bit of a fetish, at times nearly a cult figure. Yet of the latter God, unknowable, yet present the song of the wind playing the Aeolian Harp of me best blessed by vagrant breezes and typhoon obvious. Doesn’t mean I’ll not fail nor that I can speak for the personage of many names but I will arise again to pantomime seeking the Elephant groping blind. No birds alight on me like Francis but dragonflies yes and whales too and even snakes in dreams have baptized me. . . . again and again.
    Yet obviously my tap root is in Jesus and my leafy arms reach and find before God all the other prophets sent to heal our suffering individually and collectively. In love there are no boundaries only love itself--its own justification--just like life.
    My sole intention is to aid you in finding your soul magnificent. . . . and we’ll be fools for Love together. Blessings of the day Mothers -- no regrets.

“Prayer reaches out in love to a dying world and says, "I care." --Dick Eastman

"The sheer rebelliousness in giving ourselves permission to fail frees a childlike awareness and clarity. ... When we give ourselves permission to fail, we at the same time give ourselves permission to excel."  --Eloise Ristad

120510 23:38
broken by intent or askew the family born into
we are two so familiar in the eyes of one another
maybe in another time we will be lovers again
making babies and household all that now no
longer feasible  the feast of youth long past half
generation apart so now friends met by accident?

I would be her female to her male conjoined 
healed and wed together imagined bliss if only
it were so this no divorce friends forever life
we seem of a time before time was measured or
treasured as the rule of life that begins and ends

in truth i had no sense of having a soul worth keeping
save for her healing the various sundry ills beset me
insanity of course wishing to die soon by my own hands
type 2 diabetes a broken heart literally and figuratively
and a towering rage apparent only to her there too was
grief inconsolable and she said yes to a cup of coffee
gallons ago

her home visited once per annum celebrating Thanks
giving her birthday and Christmas rolled into one is my
Mecca come Jerusalem Ganges and Bodh tree pilgrimage
my calendar set the New Year the longest day after the
shortest her birth God is zero Jesus eight Mary twelve yet
i’ve no house save these words indwelling impelling
flight unvisited save for once or twice the syntax telling
she has no sense of value in her self save what she says
by ritual quote and I don’t write for her but God and my
self welded had i the grace of Rumi or Shakespeare to
tell the love between us I’d say more but this must be
enough for now it is finished until I cry again we are
beloved by God who in loving us is unable to make
us love ourselves let alone one another in trust
120511 00:28 4m

staring into the abyss staring back at us
in retribution the evil intent is exorcising 
ourselves becoming the abyss multiplied
oddly destroying and/or other wise teach
ing them to be more terrorist than we with
might sans right to kill three million there
fore the 5 thousand or so they destroyed?
did we not teach the slayers of Oscar Romero?
the keeper is kept
the slain slays us
what part of ‘Do no murder’ is misunderstood?

“There's nothing I'm afraid of like scared people.”
--Robert Frost

“Weak people cannot be sincere.”
--La Rochefoucauld

“As long as I know myself to be a coward I shall be unhappy.”
--L. Frank Baum

. . . recent posted research suggest the demise a time of dinosaurs
caused by their flatulence the next dying off will be due the fatuousness of those who purport to serve and protect
the time of war is impracticable and never the ‘Will of God’ save only those who ‘by divine right’ elect themselves as faux demigods ‘God’s Will’ generally implies do no murder nor harm least wise will we be naked crying and playing with cockroaches and rats who’ll survive us upon a bare gray ball pocked with not comet strikes but nuclear f__k you very much Exxon & Uncle Bob Cheney Howdy being wooden and voiceless remains the dummy.

“Don't pray to escape trouble. Don't pray to be comfortable in your emotions. Pray to do the will of God in every situation. Nothing else is worth praying for.”
--Samuel M. Shoemaker

. . . black arts practiced by young children waffling joy sticks playing drones seem benevolent compared to
FBI, NSA, CIA, HLS et al who I anticipate burying me alive the grave i dig with my mouth let it be so i’ll die soon anyway as will we all . . . but what of the children?

“One of the great attractions of patriotism - it fulfills our worst wishes. In the person of our nation we are able, vicariously, to bully and cheat. Bully and cheat, what's more, with a feeling that we are profoundly virtuous.”
--Aldous Huxley

“A straight path never leads anywhere except to the objective.”
--Andre Gide

“When three people call you an ass, put on a bridle.”
--Spanish proverb
http://www.famousquotesandauthors.com/random_quotes.html
"It is written: 'Man does not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.'" --Jesus in Matthew 4:4 --- all above quotes save Jesus’ were collected randomly this day, date, time
. . . least I bore you to tears or self immolation or otherwise to grasp your posterior with both hands and kiss it goodbye also see, please: Going Solo: A Brief History of Living Alone and the Enduring Social Stigma Around Singletons
By: Maria Popova http://www.brainpickings.org/

close session search and write 120510 10:36

can hardly I call it a game or play these moments at awakening when as in the now distant past I’d play Bible Bingo random selection greeting the new day the impact is similar yet the results often strange in difference between now becoming a new eternity lived in a day and sleep a death welcomed without expectation of resurrection again

events of these past several days irrevocably changed me lessening my romantic ideation to something harder less squishy and in my random encounter with quotes collected or new to me I find affirmation of questions and resolutions asked yesterday and long before only more consciously emphatic

it is enough to orchestrate the elements intention to completion in anything we do all is a self portrait anyway rendered yet it oft seems that we hurl our first new born into the night well hearing no splash the sound of one hand is silence best applause derived comes from within yet in another time or conjunction confluence intercourse with another is affirmation of both the origin of love and random mention

providence or divine inspiration seems pretentious but is not all life so the fact of free will alone should give us pause to kneel or fall prostrate in supplication the gifts denied or accepted responsibly for others that they not merely exist but thrive in these brief moments between the beginning and end of infinity

do i capitalize or punctuate these prancing words or like Einstein stand a fool grinning before God in the end who is no White Man with Gold Tooth grinning amused flashing from behind a vast snow white beard an antique Santa Claus playfully

indubitability reading came first orgasm second finally in closing days ecstasy playing with words
father was a marvelous fencing master who having run me through the heart with ‘you have diarrhea of the mouth’ early and often followed with ‘a monkey with a word processor could write a novel,’ and by extrapolation poetry epic or doggerel and between God and Man indifferent to self lays silence as death when last I after many similar verbatim's asked why ‘I didn’t know any better.’ . . . the critic? he loved to mutilate words as i did and do mangled

. . . no, like Lincoln the silence his address at Gettysburg miss thought a prayer The Sound of One Hand echoing . . . “Oh love will make a dog howl in rhyme.” - John Fletcher

120510 03:46 final 08:41