Flawed then less so now still dysfunctional in deeply personal ways I remember my newspaper days.

"God has entrusted me with myself."
“If you wish to be a writer, write.” --Epictetus

"If you want to write, read."
"Use Do words, not Tell words." --Carol McCabe

That and ten thousand books brings me to this post . . . be careful I exaggerate my accomplishments regarding the number of books read. Remembering Ben Franklin's intention to do so in his youth; impossible these days. Read quotes, fall in love and submerge yourself in that author. . . .If only I had the time and life left to do so!

If I am creative it is because various venues have given me joy, more so writing than any other for I runaway from myself, the bag water of carrying me from pillar to post through the ordinary days of my life. 

& if you had any idea of exactly how precious water is there'd be no more fracking allowed. 

I am very grateful for spell checkers in word processors and Jarte is, I believe superior in that it introduced me to Word Web Pro and in many other ways as well. That said I write with difficulty not familiar with grammar, punctuation, spelling and a host of other issues I am aware of. 

You should be aware I've been a bad boy/man in many ways. Carol was my lover, pregnant, abortion; end of story so far as the relationship went. She once said to me; "don't ever change." And that became the preface of our end -- another rend in my heart. 

To create anything, other than yourself, is often a thankless act. Like flinging you heart into a dark well, no splash-no ripples-no sound. Yet oddly the ecstasy is worth it, at least for me it is, since it expands daily drawing me beyond my flaws into conspiracy with something much better than me or  could i ever be. 

Headlines and captions were my first awareness of punch. What captured the readers fleeting attention. Then came my photography column -- thanks again Carol who also got me a gig teaching at the University of Rhode Island Photojournalism for which I had no degree qualifications. I loved doing it, loving the kids and adults who came my way. No lecturer. I would seize upon a 'live-one' and use their work to draw the rest of the class into conspiracies with their vision/version of the world; seeing what they were looking at unique to them.

Now I am aware of Twitter and the nature of short; coupled with Opera's reflex posting of whatever I write to Twitter. So the first sentence is a harpoon drawing you in. Or. At least a brief exposition of what I intended in the first place. Usually lost in discursion and follow-on thoughts. Everything above this is preamble to my gratitude for those who praise or flame me in words. . . . too rare by half. 

Those long lost, long ago days, when the editors received a letter the formula was for one letter there were 1,000 who thought about it and more who would if the could; considering themselves inadequate.

"GI rapes girl in Formosa!" Then what? He gets off end of story. Nothing is said of the family, the community. Raped and abused by slander I am sensitive to the issue and not surprised at those who instead of protest in words, votes or through the chain of command, simply go berserk. Running amok mechanically puncturing with firearms anyone in the crowd. It's whose fault?

I am a journalist, first and last, and think myself a temple whore in the corp of servants -- The Temple of Truth. In the olden days to be a prostitute was noble.

Forget your gender inhabit your virgin soul. Being well; maybe becoming better. To be whole is a process not a goal. . . . or merely an unfolding; or blossoming. Water lilies grow from the nutriment of decay.

120905 20:44 dysfunctional 
© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

Life simple becomes more so when stepping up to the crematoria one of the 6 or 60 million slain to be real soon gone, scraped of the sole of God's shoe; the world's a curb as in curb your dog?

Generally I don't eat much meat of any kind and still wonder how or why I was flushed with gallons of antibiotics at the Hog and Pony Show carnival of hospitals for Profit. Can't be or espouse too much Snarky here since I'm part of the solution or problem either side of the bed you wannabe. Experientially it was more being lofted on a grease rack instead of hot air infused with confusion silently dripping drop by centimeter thinking of the woman CEO of United Health Care Insurance receiving $103,000,000 annually for what her gated community and $15,000 @ night delightful vacations away by far from the peons or pee-ons. What ever floats her boat doesn't float mine. 

. . . is that too assertive or aggressive for the weak out there?
. . . i've curbed my rage it become quite docile now
. . . beware the anger of a quiet man whose son was destroyed by the medical community
. . . & daughter left in custodial care like China

Yes life is fast in the slow lane old farts home. 
I engage people randomly my surveys windup here. The pharmacy front was shambles boxes all over the floor. "Inventory - out-of-date?" 

'No. New shipment have to make room for them.'

"Oh well it beats the tar out of being unemployed."

'Yeah a lot of old folks walk the isles taking inventory though just to have something to do.'

Me thinks: "instead of waiting to die so the two Parties can say something like "Welfare Queen" or "Who needs Old Folks anyway?" Problem is; "who needs the young, the ones with rings in their noses or brown skin, forget the black they're useless to begin with, forget the Native Americans they're all drunks!"

Spoiled Brat, noun? Won't give up anything, sits on the toilet stuffed with money and won't let go profligate lobbying though free with stolen money to curb reforms or purposed regulations. Is that hypocritical of me to criticize? 

My pet dragon laves me nose & toes panting in praise no longer willing to destroy my former childhood school chums. Too late for me my mind will drool out my posterior first dementia then Alzheimer's for me hand grenades cost more than gasoline and I won't embarrass the Supreme Court by self-immolation on Their Front Steps. G. W. Bush wasn't elected he was a shoe in.

http://www.npr.org/2012/09/04/160541977/mickey-edwards-on-democracys-cancer

120905 12:44 life simple
© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

"Yet, taught by time, my heart has learned to glow for other's good, and melt at other's woe." --Homer

In prayer i whisper 'thanks' for those who pass in my presence, or those who remain for another day. I now their suicidal ideations life long everyday . . . helpless i don't ask why since I too have similar thoughts and i do converse with god who speaks not to me save through the agency of those i see daily, monthly, annually or not at all. I must be mentally ill in the lexicon of politicians and their minions the prostitute psychology. 

I am not professional in the sense of having credentials to tell or sell you anything what I do I do for love and you know love by what you're dying for daily -- a job? St. Francis once said of love perfect is to cross the rainy winter night and be denied access to what he called home the door locked. A burr? Yes! I chewed on that for ever in the rock polisher behind my mouth.

God is better seen in the poor than those who merely talk about or pretend to be "him?" dare i say spurious? I called Fr. Denis last night asking what did you mean or imply, "a double negative is ___." He is vastly better conversant in theology and I use and abuse him sparingly since he is like M silent. 

. . . I was in the back of the shop fixing a rental clarinet mind blank with ecstasy focused. Dad said,"I'm good, I'll eat up the street." Someone had asked him to lunch and I lay upon the floor laughing seeing him eat concrete and asphalt. 

Denis is dense. Rich. Generally silent. To me fabulous. What he had said he said was "A double negative is a positive." but what I heard when he said was refracted in my perception was . . . loose transliteration something I do all the time being spiritually dyslexic; 'I was slandered indubitably.'

http://www.yourdictionary.com/double-negative

I met some friends of Susan's brother, or brothers, who took me in for a bath and dinner off the Inter Coastal Waterway, Susan and kids were absent -- more-or-less permanently. The guy was off the schooner Ishmael. They gave me a joint, smoked, then discovered myself crawling beneath a gigantic round oak table over the multiple paw foot legs . . . crying hysterically muttering 'why do I have to be crucified over and over?'

. . . like the many myths, omens, portents, dreams, runes and ruins of my heart; I've often wondered about that &/or my dreams of or about Jesus. 

. . . the tears gliding behind my eye glasses is about all i have left of my awe and fear of anything or envy . . . It's all about you . . . don't see what I see -- see what you see.

120905 05:35 psalm of thanks
© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

It's all about you
what you see when you look at anything
Perception is fickle and unless you close your eyes and look inwards
the world will tell you anything to get your attention. And for me I see inside
you looking not at me but television. I seek not your attention to me but the sensation and noise of silence. An old man now I remember blackboards and white chalk of Dover both seen now in reprise. Diagrams drawn on the blackness of memory emerging in time remembered everything changes and everything is an illusion calling God will provoke/invoke a response yet the God's of television are jokes. The news medium itself once a temple of truth for me not so much in what I read there but their sending me out to collect images to flag their stories and when I said such-and-such they ignored me since my images were merely flags to grab your attention. And now I seldom seek the wisdom of others in quotes since I'm being fed inspiration from just plain folks. Suicide ideation is more common than not and you'd be surprised who thinks about it daily besides me. Yesterday a visiting nurse came to check-me-out explaining that Medicare keeps records of what every doctor says of me then requesting some validation of a remark said in retrospect; "Today is a good day to die." 

"You know I'm going to have to report this?"

"I don't care."

I'd looked into my lover's green emerald eyes and the Sphinx spoke silently locking into place our reality. Metaphorically I heard the tumblers clicking as truth opened. The portal of eternity is at your next breath. 

As is ours. 

WE, She, U & i have control of the volume of violence allowed flowing  into the stillness of self thus our health by any description is 90% our choice to either listen to the singing silence within or attend the volume of violence spent to entertain us. Persuading us to consume indifferently the presumed authority of those who would rule us just for the pleasure of acclaim offering nothing but lies and palliatives to achieve their fame.

The rest, 10%, is just physics and biology; not punishment. The trip is worth the price. Or is it when considering at birth we're given a tour guide at the very bottom in very small print; 'in accepting this trip you must die' and today or right now is okay with me since I know my lover knows I love her and will find her anywhere we go far or near light years apart. 

Next time you pass a mirror think about the last time you looked through plate glass seeing inside all your hunger pressed against the glass.

Step forward entering you desire for joy knowing death will never end it.

oh yes--It was Crazy Horse who said it, "Today is a good day to die" He wasn't crazy it was his horse; his ride. 

120905 03:56 you

if we are as we are what we consume as advertised lies let us eat bankers for lunch politicians for brunch Supreme Court Justice? Thomas as indicated by Anita Hill he's just dog meat let us start one by one eating them who have canalized us for centuries better yet don't eat them feed them to the pigs swine dressed in the gore of children not theirs sent to war returned addled be well do no harm

120905 1130 pink sliced lunch meat

© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

I am not unalike the genius of advertising saying; "Let Mikey eat it!" 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vYEXzx-TINc

My intention and ideation is for you to eat yourself. Metaphysically not materially.

Or.

Metaphorically in the following sense; you are not what any one tells you are. In my case Mother was God and she told me more through her behavior than the questions she asked or the wonderful, at times, things she said. The most mystical was something like what follows; "In life we must learn that we are no more significant than a single grain of sand." . . . eventually I added 'upon the beaches of time.'

. . . after thought later on: in time nothing is lost neither the grain of sand nor the soul who writes delight living dying nightly for your virgin rebirth in life or death all Heaven or hell the hangover for you avoidance. Denial not a River in Egypt.

Just now? i'm not certain-sure-confident since Creation/evolution/adaptation/creation is process not goal. . . . a process of discovery?! A new President, pill or car, is not a new savior/messiah. No one is The Savior save the One who died on The Cross . . . I parse, triage, prize the time, the act, the words and still come up with Jesus leaping from galaxies to Milky Way always ahead of me panting in his wake.

Lovely isn't it? What mom said!

I hunted for years any attribution finding William Blake instead:

“Those who control their passions do so because their passions are weak enough to be controlled.” 

“To see a world in a Grain of Sand,
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.” --The Marriage of Heaven and Hell (c. 1790-1793)

"The Old and New Testaments are the Great Code of Art."
"When I tell any truth it is not for the sake of convincing those who do not know it, but for the sake of defending those who do."
“When thou seest an eagle, thou seest a portion of genius; lift up thy head!” 
"You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough."

. . . copy and pasted from my Quote Book. Upon discovery I felt a hood dropped over my head and slumped upon a bed without sheets, just a mattress cover covered by royal blue towel; the bed and pillow naked for days, the sheets awaiting laundering -- my head upon the same color hand towel over my pillow; my feet naked upon the shorts I wore to keep the mattress from becoming dirtier.

Thomas Merton said it differently, not better, in that when bereft of love (he used the word God) in a desert no sea in sight of need and suddenly a tsunami would envelop him. . . . 

At times, sometimes, in the under toad of the tsunami I am ecstatic since within the tumult drowning in love *God* . . . i don't write poetry not knowing how or why but it writes itself across the helplessness of my blighted heart. laughing at and with the author of all times and things God of course . . . in writing that, what I call a 'string' . . . I saw Aesop's frog and scorpion crossing the river of time drowning. 

Remember when I sleep I die no sound can awake yet resurrected from sleep I do see things anew newly born different in context time and import. 

It was then I recalled at attention in the rain bored out of my brain until I saw a raindrop hanging on my full metal helmet . . . the world in view upside down and backwards . . . i've been to Heaven many times over . . . yet never stayed because I thought myself unwelcome by my own standard self-loathing. 

Aware that my inheritances have been stolen by those who in childhood I attended school with. Their gain, mine as well, since in poverty I see God better. And they having nothing but money mere material. In prayer as Jagger said; "you get not what you want but what you need." 

Despise New Music, Rap, Hip Hop? Why? God speaks through many voices. Yet most worship, if at all, the word not the spirit. The Book not who wrote it . . . the why . . . not the how. To me verified by the few I trust, only women, my sense the Bible an owners manual for individual interpretation of how and why to live at all: less Kings, Judges, Prophets, Saints, Angels, Priests real and faux. If I have reverence for The Church it is merely because it was my portal. Wherein I tarried not overly long.

. . . here thinking about all the Gideon Bibles idle in no-tell-hot-sheet motels across America now idolized like the car was a "Saggon Wagon." Dad drove my tuition declined, a Ferrari, it never got me laid. My Porsche did her ass beeping the horn in Cos Cob Railroad station commuters drunk with alcohol or money obliviously indifferent and I laughing uproariously . . . been there, done that, if bumper stickers were tattoos when looking at me naked you'd only see camouflage OFU endorsements. Don't think WTF instead think why not?

Irreverent? No. Since I speak to those who like me were raped by parents, relatives, strangers and politicians . . . friends who were otherwise adorable. Rape and abuse are equivalent. Sexual penetration by a male into a female vagina at age three, six or nine the maiden head cannot grow back but the wounds in her mind never.

Or so I once thought. After being castrated by mom's unreasonable bigotry it grew back my masculinity independent of her wanting to dress me in girls clothes. My penis is not my scepter just what it is, not a Sword of Truth imposed, inserted, inflicted in Her or any woman it was beaten into a plow shear for a purpose: to till the fertility of your boy or girl virgin soul. If I offend your idolatry hard cheese -- tough spore.

I'm not a doctor making profit from healing you. Why? Because you heal yourself; if you seek a reason for yesterday/tomorrow which obviously by the laws of perception begins within what you see within the tofu of your brain. The process is by Buddhist called 'mindfulness;' why did I fear fell/fall think runaway? So on & on. Simple, really.

. . . what was or will be is nothing compared to the fountain of love within you for now. Now is sometimes agony a pain beyond standing yet I see people of all colors, creeds and genders who in age are bent walking and if you see someone, including me, as savior or god ignore them for god is best found within you. Rumi is significantly more than a poet for he saw god present, invisible and silent within Rumi's self, what he called his heart . . . sometimes his eyes . . . his nose . . . or toes. More better sighing in his ears.

I am dense as marble, like Marble Head, a place I know since my best friend drown there in my absence . . . could i have saved him? I don't know or think so since my friend is with me in the sense that I live his life for him and maybe, possibly, impossibly, maybe not he lives for me still.

So in some sense the dawn over Marble Head is for both this ending night. 

Be careful out there it's chaos -- violence -- remembering what you loathe or love owns you. Indifference is living life dead; deadly to all others.

120905 04:45 labor
© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

Scarcely do I at times know myself; who or why. It is as though looking for footwear, finding only the left flip-flop or Crock, then wondering why Annie likes my rubber shoes; all her teeth marks on the left and few to almost none on the right. 

Then I dressed lurching blest that I'd remembered my 'going out-of-doors-shorts' disheveled orangutan hair unshaved to pay the rent; last day tomorrow; then in consequence attention of the now assistant-property manager. Whose attentions have cost me so much; that were I to die to escape his authority I would consider it a blessing. 

Depending upon the sincerity of the observer; I look ten to twenty years younger than I am. Of men I never ask but of women near always. Then following on with; "Do you like older men?" Leering. 

Factually there is only one woman in whose embrace would I find any peace. I'm having lunch with her meaning M today having set the submarine dive klaxon to awaken me should I nod off prematurely. . . .

. . . May I, or should I, forget my anger towards Bill Gates? Instead of killing him, merely suggest that someone -- after all he is the richest man in the world -- concoct a key command that would reverse two letters; my most frequent typo. That's what I adored about Word Star word processing software and company he submerged in bankruptcy. 

Not not intended -- this endorsement: Jarte is what I use everyday to write with and I love it; my love affair enhanced if only it had Word Star's key commands enabling me to never leave the keyboard; meaning no mouse at all required. A free version is available on the net. 

As I crossed the parking lot traveling the block or so towards the check drop in the rising sun there was a neighbor I know but not well. He was carrying a bass guitar, Latino but his English is more than adequate. I asked him is it "buenos dias" or "buenos noches" = 'Good Morning' or 'Good Night' since I want to be one of them, my neighbors . . . had I the time I'd study not Spanish; but "Spanglish" . . . I love my neighbors and wish to be able to better communicate with them; that is until the then property manger (a Gringo or Anglo, like me) -- the initiator of monthly "home invasions" . . . the women hide their wash, especially undergarments and other things they fear being evicted for, A torment and torture for us all. I ceased to participate in any functions he might attend; including the distribution of free charity food -- I live in poverty. In consequence of my new absence my neighbors, mostly women, asked me why whenever I ventured our during daylight hours.

Federal Law mandates semi or annual inspections.

This is the warp and woof; a mini tapestry of my ordinary life here in the Boarder Lands between Mexico and New Mexico aka Mexico and The United States.

The man carrying a bass guitar is named Benny or Ben, I knew that, but had to reorient my attention to recall it. What ensued, simply, blew me away and apart. I am able to sight read on between nine and eighteen different musical instrument unable to name the key of the music or the various Italian emphasis words but know which key or fret to press playing/performing the music. Which is one of the only bequest my father gave me. Though he never interceded between mother and myself while she beat, kicked, threw me out-of-doors naked, he taught me to fix, repair, rebuild musical instruments. All except keyboards: piano or organs. Benny tunes pianos, is a lay preacher and now a friend. Who in this brief encounter reminded me of the only real peace at the behest of my dad; while fixing musical instruments I went away into my head and there discovered a host of things, actual blessings, that he would deny me otherwise. Though he called when dying and was otherwise a friend with no benefits: any part of his estate that I in, slave labor, minimum wage; to the extent of; when married with child we had to look seventy five miles distant to find a home we could afford. 

I, like Mom, was subject to his intentions and destinations; taken to places he wanted to go. That plus furs and cars were mother's only payment for 24/7/365 care taking his dependencies including bookkeeping for the family business. 

I loved and still love them both now forgiven and not forgotten. 

As a male I am shy to proclaim myself a man, much less a musician, painter, draftsman, wannabe priest, photographer, writer/author/poet since I remain in exponential awe of those who do so much better than I could ever dream of becoming. They are the artist and I merely the audience. Perchance a good one; as I am of God. Possibly my only claim to talent or genius knowing God as real.

As a man I've become less shy and/or isolated from friends I trust, few and precious to me. I now belong to a community in the more than loose abuse of the term; in that I while volunteering at hospice know more than the dying. I know their friends, their spouses, siblings, children. All before and after the soul departs and know some better long after their bereavement commences . . . in some small way embracing their grief; a topic I know too well. 

I tend to trust women for they give me the straight skinny about everything. While men tend to beat about the bush, so to say (pun intended?!) Males tend to talk about, or to, issues; seldom creatively, regarding what they will live and die for above and beyond the cult of Patriotism; in the bumper sticker sense. Like my cute nursery rhyme name, chanted, I tend to ignore those who use common and obvious phrases regarding anything.

I can be and am charming, capable of scintillating conversation on/of/about/regarding an astonishing variety of topics. That describes not dependence but a persona who knows how to meld with and manipulate a crowd. I am not extrovert, at least to my degree, considerable, of understanding the implications and clinical definitions. Meaning, to me, that I derive no energy from the activity and merely used the ability to gain access to one President, a King and his family, Senators & Representatives and any number of hostile subjects I was assigned to photograph and an overwhelming number of excellent artists/celebrities in their vocation of choice. 

Now that I am redundant and awaiting death to be replaced by the next generation; or merely retired. Left to my own devises I seek solitude. Only knowing myself a solitary though the generous gift of M, an expert forensic psychologist, who being a solitary herself would, reasonably, distrust, or at least be suspicious of my request for a kiss; much less laying within her embrace like two kittens in a pile of comforters innocent. 

The day after tomorrow I will learn if I have cancer rampantly spreading thr0ughout my body. She is facing the same issue. 

Coincident?!

I love this woman, the only one I've ever completely trusted. Should she request that I stab myself in any part of myself: eyes, heart or groin -- with an ice pick she handed to me -- I might briefly think about it. Or like the Sufi's say of the 'Devil,' a fallen angel, who in conversation heard, "Be Gone," left now residing in Hell. Eternally loving the last words of God to him.

Then do it. 

She is that near and dear nearly so as to God to me.

It is she who said I could heal, curious three years later I asked who, why, how, when or so my thoughts were flowing; to which she replied; "you will," simply. 

I write inappropriately using slang and my personal life (self-knowledge as in "Know Thy Self") as an example of what healed me. 

Her. 
Obviously. 

Yet in resurrecting me from my tomb of depression, anger, despair; akin to Arthur with drawing the sword from stone; the once-and-future-king is within me; this sovereign kingdom of one -- of no consequence least my paltry talents enable another to cease from suicidal ideation. 

In short what I'm about is far better said by Rumi:

"Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it."

Amen.

120904 06:42 estrangement 
© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

In a world were words are worn out by liars, Advertisers & Politicians, Inc. 

Coupling with their minions enslaved, bought and paid for to prostitute their brilliant minds -- both buyer and seller, absent any discernable, or viable, Ethical or Morals. They in my concern being indifferent Materialist -- Let me now praise, with sincere and profound gratitude, Johanna Mackey for her gift to me reminding anyone who may, or can, read this; that in my lexicon: 

Amateur means a person who works for the love of work. 

Professional means a person who has no love and works to purchase it. 

Love is more powerful than hate, indifference or death . . . to me as I write.

Preface 120904 03:53

"Comment by 120903 Johanna Mackey + reply 9 hours ago 
Delete Comment
Sitting in a congregation, amid people of beautiful hearts and minds, becomes a contagion toward a brand new paradigm of thinking shared.  You already possess a healthy portion, Jack Spratt, so keep the Faith and rid all the rest -- making room for a whole new world to be given thee.  Good authors, good books, good people reading those books (like those here on Cutural Book) will shut out all the ugly aspects of the world made known to you by painful experience.

You write really well when your anger doesn't seek to destroy your work and wisdom.  Let the anger portions go, release them into nihility or fiction.  Substitute something else for those, transfer your focus away from those dark destructive emotions and your voice -- your writing voice -- will further deepen into the well of your own soul.

Keep up your good writing, and reading of great literature.  The rest will all fade away, Friend.   (It does for everyone).     :)"

Not copyrighted by me but stolen or used without permission in prayer that she will not mind.

&&&

Of all the things I might want to be the least among them is a woman.

Each time I return home from hospice i more often then not fall exhausted in bed 
instantly asleep and in that sleep am transformed from what I was upon entry to what writes these characters across the infinity of white. My, for now, universe of delight moving from zero to the speed of light years. Traveled in my dreams, delight manifest, not unlike writing myself into existence wherein looking back I sense myself no more consequent than a fruit fly's life of; but one night and two days consciousness.

Yet consequent to myself since one mystery was explained (potentially) on a recent broadcast of New Dimensions. About and of which I refuse to define further; overwhelmed with what my son said of me more than once; "you glow" 

. . . What. In my sleep? Did he see this only in the dark? Possibly when he or I are awake? Me. Metamorphic?

I have built from my imaginings, of what he implied, a host of images: myself pressed asleep nose pressed against the ceiling levitated.

LOL 

Or zooming around the universe like a party balloon farting helium inflamed, a wake of galaxies dancing behind me. 

The former some what pretentious and yet oddly, dare I say 'divine?' 

The latter scatological -- obvious-- since of my family born; scatology was the norm. 

Thinking now of, the truly divine to me, Ms Ella Fitzgerald and her scat songs singing in tongues!?! Helpless. My attention/mindfulness leaps to The Magnificat 

. . . Were I to describe my thoughts, in terms taught to me by one, the other wife seldom spoken of, who described Word Wheels & their use in literature. Well. Suddenly my frame of reference a blank white piece of paper; or what defines writing with light: photography. Well -- then the frame is no longer blank but beclouded with black on white markings between and into which I delightfully play watching them propagate; a child's delight? Of course it is to me for I giggle then laugh taking my breath away with joy of the creation apparent across the night become day obvious. Darkened by characters no longing banal but celestial?

Being a woman of course my first wife, upon my leaving her, changed her name from Mrs. Jack Spratt to something I will not, can not, repeat. Since I still love her unreasonably. 

If you might consider, or become mindful of, what I'm about to say -- then follow me closely: to be called Jack Spratt with a giggle and smirk is boring since it describes nothing but a label tattooed across my face telling everyone who so calls me merely a nursery rhyme saying nothing of or about the experience of being myself. 

So it seems to me, on one level, she scraped me off the sole of her shoe. Seldom high heels; one of my prime sexual fetishes since I adore all Women indiscriminately and high heels are but one symbol of them whom I dare not touch but what she scraped of the sole of her, actually beautiful naked feet or otherwise, was dog dodo -- that was a bird now extinct and what I intended is do do; or shit. 

Without entering what for me is THE THEOLOGICAL TANGO sometimes thought of as mumbles or Mojo or Juju, or merely a thorny thicket into which someone, at birth, placed me: a sticky black tar baby for others to giggle, smirk and poke; like a horde of fire ants now covering me in agony.

Well aware of my real/insanity as I was informed by some of the first words I heard and began to understand as describing me to myself . . . Repeating the same thing or action repeatedly expecting different results is INSANITY! At least to the man who I adore, admire and would if allowed follow from a great distance since by nature I am unworthy to inhabit the same universe as he. And He is but one a now legions including Women whom I have equal if not greater reverence for.  

Laughing at myself is a prime pleasure since I take myself not seriously. Except when I write since in writing I am defining myself as some one or thing not INSANE. 

. . . She was extraordinarily beautiful and intelligent, at least more so than me, and I adored her. And her mother was a GAS explosively so much more than her daughter (jazz term of my era; "you are a gas; that riff you just blew!)

. . . is anyone there? I mean does anyone read me? I am alone in the night with Annie sleeping peacefully near me . . . 

Between the metronome of time the tick-and-the-tock I hear, "Do you want to live another moment or not?!"

. . . otherwise alone in space -- the void of my mind. 

Apparently the girl, whose name is, or was, when I speak of or about her Nancy. She married a man I intuited a sadist but Nancy seemed to adore not her mother but her father and the man she married wanted to be call FATHER! As or so I imaged then and now only the devises change in my dreams conscious to me: toothed nipple clamps twisted and she ecstatic?! I adore intelligent women who think and speak and teach me about living and thinking and being. It was she who said; " . . never ever use the same word twice in one sentence and if you want to be a real writer don't use it more than once in an entire paragraph . . " She, before marriage, was a book editor.

What follows: this string, or stanza, is a distillation of many slanders accepted -- describing me to my self: "You are unworthy of life!"

I've never been able to understand apprehend/comprehend why I've drown five times over? And yet I still have 'life!?' Five times five thousand nights (metaphorically) I entered what I now call 'merely rest' but then it was: "Now I lay me down to sleep" -- ideally the rest is -- "I pray my soul to keep should I die in the night." My subtext or back story, unconscious then but conscious and mindful now was; "I hope never to awake."

Thus I think, I never wanted to be born, any more than any delight a woman could/can provide me otherwise. So pain filled did my mother seem consequent to my being ever born. 

Rage. 

Rage unimaginable even to me who was enraged at the defamation of me.

. . . wandered off there/here . . . coffee, etc. . . . 

Nothing it seems can distract me from the real chaos of creation -- or -- THE BIG BANG! . . Through which I at times soar and at others am simply evaporated, not death but, in ecstasy. 

Then too there are times the dragon of my rage (so large I can see neither the beginning or end of it)in whose mouth belching flame, vaporizing my fingers, do I attempt to bridle and thus control it's flight dragging me through mountains of stone or transparent night the plate glass shattering; and fully conscious I'm in the FARGO SHREDDER not dead but feeling every nick the severing of every nerve attempting to avoid the pain. 

Impossible agony like being burned alive never dying no escape.

By Her witness and verified on my birth certificate: I was born November 8th at 11:59pm. Or, as is my common practice, this being a 24/7/365 global time experience of life: 401108 23:59. Not on the certificate but as told to me by her: I was born after 58 hours of dry delivery during which, implied, inferred or told; she wanted to die frequently.

By publication, choice, chance or dedication I fear nothing. But those times when I awaken and there is a poem or psalm complete upon my lips I am terrified but have learned to live with my fear/love of God & Women. 

There have been dreams without monsters but conundrums, puzzles, complete short stories and mazes from which after five times I escaped finding myself in a moonlight desert naked looking back and seeing a crenellated castle with banners waving indifferent my escape to wander the trackless eternity of life.

Life is, for me, sometimes, burning in Hell without respite -- helpless & hopeless. 

Endless pain. 

And now, or so it would seem, as I was blamed for her pain -- I experience someone who unwittingly or deliberately causes me pain. I -- sensing-thinking-feeling-intuiting -- I'd like to reach down their throat pinch their sphincter between my fingers and draw in up and over their head smothering them. Then resurrect them to do it all over again. . . .As suicide has been my constant companion. Now equally are visions/version of destroying the life of those who like mother caused me pain.

Writing is the only activity I've found, when in isolation, my preferred state, or estate, wherein I find peace, joy, or a reason to breathe again. To arise from sleep drawn and quartered between Heaven and Hell. 

I began keeping a personal journal around 1977, or 1978, after my son's death December 10th 1997 at or around 20:00. Or for those of you, presumptuous/pretentious of me to so say, time illiterate 8:00pm.

With various permutations, convulsions and convolutions; nearly all before now destroyed or abandoned -- as I was by my parents from beginning to end; their's not mine. 

Since in my judgement -- then and now -- retrospectively: all the products of my life, my love, my meaning have been taken from me . . . my macabre sense of humor informs me that I could delete these words and walk away indifferent as my parents were to myself. 

Or. 

Merely as will be my death, here-and-now. 

Sooner-or-later. 

All the furnishings of my life randomly hurled into a dumpster and buried in a landfill or burned. 

I have yet to successfully expunge or delete my life. That which I destroyed was a record of my life until the time of disappearance. Filled with rage against or for life itself. My continual poverty has better informed me -- being an empty cup -- filled again and again -- I've grown more so to not waste the filling. 

Upon close examination. . .  I am after all a sophist who since birth have attempted to not be killed by my mother . . . to not make love to or with her . . . but to argue the case for her loving herself as I do and did . . . in mercy forgiven. . . .In time I've come to see that there are others like me who really don't want to live: not one second more. And by word or deed inform them of my empathy and so to persuade them that it really isn't all that bad. . . .This life we need to leave.

If I could do so my life with all it's pain and joy might have some meaning to me. Lending me a moments respite against the starry night twirling above me meaninglessly. . . .my gnat's life in eternity. Pardon me while I disappear 

. . . and oh yes! Be well

PS after a lifetime being told I was 'too stupid to get in out of the rain;' I asked my mother if she thought I should or could 'write?' . . . after a lengthy silence she replied; "you don't need my permission . ."

. . . and for me being a Woman is more nearly to be God

PPS at times i become nothing but bifurcated perception: heat and/or threat This emptiness is filled with something I cannot now talk about. It is not time and i am unworthy both the sense and lack the ability to share it with you. Not in distress. Hovering between life and death. Alive or dead meat. You. Or. Me. I/Thou. . . .i neglected to mention i asked a question long ago . . . please dear god be real to me

PPPS I am certifiably mentally ill, having had two brief spans of voluntary incarceration, essentially  for drug reaction or the lack of medication. The history of those events I have an sober and accurate memory. And the consequence of which is obvious. Those I foolishly attack, mostly politicians and their providers, have zero knowledge of what "mental illness" is; therefore easily discredit my conclusions. My conviction, in the company of woman far better versed in the Bible, like M, lead me to conclude that the attention of those whom I attack, irking the ire of, are unworthy of my attention. I close my case. Ending any further mention of my half-brother or father; their theft of my life and emotional/monetary inheritance. Instead I will mine the values learned. Simply stated: I have enough and in that know a wealth they cannot, could not conceive of or pay for. A for such value I will live or die for. To be a complete person one must integrate and become tolerant of all thoughts and ideation's so balanced that all behaviors or deeds manifest what you/i/we want the world to be for our children. Thus did die Gandhi when assassinated express gratitude and blessed his assassin. Sometimes we do what we should Not. At others do what we Should. Only God will judge the truth of me and no other of woman born.

The only reason I am still alive, for now, is that God does not allow me to die yet. And, to me, God is neither man nor woman but possibly both equal. Asexual?

M & L know but won't tell me.

However Ignatius and St. Joan of Ark knew their own truth impossible in their epoch.

PPPPS I would if I could heal those who in rage and grief ignored by We The People and/or the perpetrator(s) randomly acting out in public fatal consequences leaving many wounded or maimed for their lifetime. They too would I heal if I could?!

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