love is . . .

. . . empathy for assassins and thieves. Meaning merely that I am equally capable and know that emphatically. Yet choose differently. It seems now, given my dreams, that I have sought to define the reality of God but I would spell “God” differently as Love or merely that which is good for my beloved higher than that which I desire for myself.

I have failed this ideal and will fall again, not so much in love, because I cannot love God or Love more, at least not at the moment is it possible to define such a thing as true.

What I have sought for a lifetime is found and in finding it see no limits and no fear. As formerly I knew myself well, as in good mental health, balanced between the potential of mayhem and grace. I came to know nothing is for naught or nothing is for nothing. My greatest wealth is suffering and from those who have much, much is required.

Ya But! . . . But nothing: give and in giving, the way (a way actually) personal/sincere, the journey being the goal not the arrival . . . what might seem loss is expansion not contraction. And if my intention is to lend you my peace I would ask that you examine your fears.

But at that, this is an old man speaking upon the cusp of the grave, having suffered and found in the pain answers bought at the cost of entering my fears.

Arisen from a dream in which I was asked by who or what? Myself or “God” to measure my will to give to another that which is only potential to truth. And like Jesus, if unwelcome move along. I now sense resolution to an issue plaguing me since conception, unconscious then, but now writ large and obvious. The odd conjunction or collision between those I have loved and left came forth full and center. Not as judgment of either they or myself as good or ill but merely that I could no longer be of benefit to them aside from being a prop in their theater.

The what happens after realization: “Is this all there is?”

The urge to merge, possibly to procreate or announce ourselves as worthy of attention and touch, slowly evolves as old age becomes the present; unimaginable in youth. The frantic lust born from attraction becomes reality in companionship; ideally as friends between whom love making is but one facet of all the keys on the organ of life. Pulling out all the stops. Here I’m thinking of J S Bach and or Jimmy Smith.

Being human nothing human surprises me; save that I am curious of my addictions and hypocrisy. Instead I attempt to live by conscious choice doing no harm. Yet even this is hypocrisy since I still smoke cigarettes and breakfast on coffee until my stomach rebells. Adhering to no one religious or political construct and I know of and about many well. I live by my sense of justice for all not merely for myself.

That said I will share with you that my dream was magnificent and myself unworthy of dreaming it except that in the course of my methodical pursuit of quotes I discovered: "My dreams were at once more fantastic and agreeable than my writings." - Mary Shelley 
http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Mary_Shelley

Where and when I should grovel laying prostrate in thanksgiving, given the synchronicity of such a discovery, I habitually, now, attempt to integrate both the dream, discovery and information into the whole or all of the above. My sole ambition is now to share the process of self creation not for fame, acclaim or fortune since I have all that I need in solitude . . . alone save for that which or who informs me to go further and leap beyond death . . . of myself or this planet soon to die; at least insofar as we knew it.

Most curious is my dyslexic perception of things drawn forward from first impressions and tried against current inquisition. A self auto-da-fé  follows from which I resurrect with possibly a gleaning of what is implied by Jesus coming again. So my habit is more a Bond Fire of Vanities than seeking something to write about. (Laughter!) Humility being more an extrusion eliminating the impurities of desire for anything save the next breathe, or heart beat. What keeps me keeping on for what else is there to live for but love. Not for God, or self alone, but for all of it.

Be neither a lender or borrower, the images or wealth of others, or one another; but of self be true. Then you need not beg the love of another, as I did, to be real. Your love given will be true freely given without desire or expectation of reply. And the self who gives genuine. To give material things is needed but more so the gift of self, simple as sincere attention and more, is enough. Seek no applause; for in giving we create our self.

“ 10:38

Wandering around, contemplating borrowing Frankenstein from the Public Library, I fell to wondering why not after so long open and use my brand new i Pad instead? I purchased it months ago anticipating finishing out my days volunteering at hospice. Yet, it seems, fate had other intentions for me. I left over a dispute regarding ownership of my photography . . . well, actually there was more conflict than I care or will list. My time and talents I freely give but steal them from me and I will not retaliate but simply leave and seek other activities for these precious moments I sought to endow with my attention between being required or not during my voluntary hours.

Our fearless scatocephalic leaders have stolen all our social security and so I pay and pay for their folly. Chuckling as I read Montaigne’s remarks about their excreting the same as I, not daffodils but that which reeks; mere waste. Life would have no meaning without death and it is not morbid to think of them as I do of myself. Add. I never say of another, any other, what I’ve not said of myself. I can find no answers for us, but for myself I persist seeking a reasion to live another day. And wonder not that there is public mayhem occasionally remembering that law is remedial while love is preemptive. They who lead seem to know the price of bread while flesh and blood is spilled endlessly and at times I think of  Al-Qaeda in Congress wrapped in the American Flag brandishing the Cross of Christ. No less fanatic/zealous in their terrorism than our purported foe.

It follows that at times I’ve seen myself as monstrous. Yet when facing my foes I have learned from them that what is grotesque can teach me humility. It is easy to sneer but difficult to find solutions; the effort is worth everything we hold of value in life. . . . or given our current condition nearing the end of everything: a habitable earth and consciousness as so known while living this life I take pleasure, no, actually joy in the fight.

There is no evil but choice to waste others for one’s self aggrandizement. Beware of old men wearing tuxedos preaching greed.  No one and nothing is merely “this or that.” What we judge in lieu of our fear is the full measure of being judged ourselves.

The “history of the world” is written by self-congratulatory overweight old men filled with self-importance; and being legends in their own minds.

130118 06:14 Love is
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

Post Cards from Creation

Change is inevitable. In my experience not dramatic, something like awakening as a cock roach. Rather it began somewhere/someplace backwards in time.

Just your ordinary little dust devil dancing alone in the night. From dust to dust; but what dust! We, all life, are the dust of creation attempting consciousness of purpose, from/to, what and why.

I am reconfiguring my sense of writing. No longer a personal journal, as such, attempting to gain sanity. A pretense and pose, attempted and achieved, somewhat, in adaption to my life as begun and near the end.

I think in terms of voyage or journey but neither term applies. Curiosity, perhaps a disease I was born with, is better. A seeking/seeing truth regardless of cost or what is revealed. Initially furtive and covert for fear of being proved the village idiot. And those who knew or know and love me nonetheless have paid the price of caring for an abducted child who in reality merely wandered off.

Possibly leaving behind a trail of bread crumbs or sending back post cards from within eternity.

130109 06:54 Post Cards

All of life is individual, stars within the darkness. Matches once struck, flaring, then extinguished.
Recycled?
The matter yes.
The consciousness?

Quislings govern us for the profit of a few. Who in their turn own us, en mass, a herd: slaves one-and-all. Thinking it bad for me I become conscious it is worse for women.

Something akin to “I wept because I had no shoes until I met a person with no feet.” . . . here it is well to remind you that we are persons, whether women or men, child or adult. Add that “man” is generic for human and not sexist in my perception. But ever aware of the enslavement of women I attempt to alter and alert all to the simple fact that the soul/self is genderless.

It may well be that I am ‘divinely’ inspired yet I claim no divinity to myself nor am I worthy of it. But at that, given five or so hours of sleep I awoke with the word “quisling “ on my lips. Culmination of various and sundry thoughts in the past twenty-four hours. Possibly longer duration. Since a friend described the death of a man slightly junior to the listening audience all beyond retirement age.

Apparently the man was a lumber jack, one who topped trees; those trees whose height is too great to fell from the base. It is dangerous work. He was topping a tree at home and kicked off his perch falling upon his head beneath and dying in his wife’s arms.

To which I responded; “What a wonderful way to die,” having witnessed the deaths of many from attrition, starvation, inability to swallow fluids. The ways of death are many and for myself I would rather be burned alive than most.

I am in no rush towards my own death, yet knowing and being mindful as I am, I sense life is a far greater value than those who steal it from us. Quislings, those who practice cupidity and avarice, those who hoard and those who abet the bankruptcy of the world . . . well what can I say? The world and it’s ways will change. Gazing into the abyss of greed lends me the sense we must change or perish all together. Yet must not change via the covert violence done to us least we become addicted to power and greed ourselves.

130111 00:48 life as prayer

These past silent days have been spent in reverent awe for discovery of actions and choices, in current time, humiliating to me.

How else can one become conscious other than to be become aware of attitudes, perspectives and hypocrisy that are doomed to fail, or at the very least cause the soul to die?

Save what we can, accept what we must, submitting to the flow of our reality, leaving the rest to it’s own resolution. I do still bridle at injustice and sense seeking the cause. That it is not my fight. Not my battle but the war in general that pervades all life throughout history. I change nothing but my self the only variable available to me. Leaving behind notes of encouragement to those who seek the why and how we are we, the family of humans, imperfect. Seeking happiness become joy in peace.

There seems no one author, other than the Author of Life itself, who makes available a construct of coping consumable at one bite. A magic bullet or pill remedying fit for all sorts and conditions. But then I speak of my failings not successes being at times a rock and others a fish in my small portion of time alloted to me.

My process goes on collecting quotes from which I derive a greater overview, a cross section if you will or must, of all thoughts available worthy of remembering in times such as these we live. Remove from them all the obvious progress and the experience remains essentially the same.

I sense myself changing in tectonic ways. Nothing shattering but slowly evolving into someone I don’t know yet. But the process, or journey, is worth it all, since to own one’s self is wealth without measure. Even if that self is discordant with all that passes for reality.

It now seems resolute that for me to write is the best I can make of a life once dedicated to images and music. I sense it was impossible before but now impossible to avoid or deny.

130114 05:20
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

Credit my dreams as I do. At times takes longer than most. Yet this one from which I arose is plain to see memorable. The landscape was similar to one I knew in childhood, traversed on foot and extensively explored: Laddin’s Rock, Old Greenwich, Connecticut. The scenario frequently reprised is expansive fascinating and at times contracts to the memory of being there in snow wearing canvas sneakers. . . .and punctuated by the destruction of a fabulous large cast iron skillet used to cook lunch. Not by me but the negligence of a fellow traveler in the snow. He laughed, his responsibility and crime. Inwardly I cringed and wept, lamenting the folly of what the skillet represented to me. Reaching back beyond my maternal grandmothers time.

What was wild and uninhabited during my experience of it is now residential mostly. Bewildered I arose thinking it was indicative of something else developed for something other than W.A.S.P.s . . . or pretenders to what formed this country initially. Our collective rape and theft of it from the natives who lacked any sense of ownership beyond the providence it provided.

At lunch during the previous period of light, with M, I confessed again my love for her. The proclamation was preceded by an interesting event. In the corner of the restaurant was a family: father, a young son, a slightly older daughter. Their costume palate of color subtle, punctuated by red poinsettias wrapped in red gilt.

M replied to me; “I noticed. Being trained in observation--in depth.” Leading later to our conversation about the origins of such vision and my thesis that we who were abused in childhood (or even in recent events experienced by those who return from war or rape--surviver’s guilt?) . . . or merely endless mourning; the events tearing our sense of normal to shreds.

We, M & I, seem to have a remarkable similitude in childhood and differ widely in adaption. She sought a formal education in psychology. While I, thinking myself too stupid to live, labored on using my own devices. The topic of Hypervigilance came into play. My thoughts tending towards a motivation for paranoia. To which she elaborated alternatives.

An aside: I sense that given the trauma of abnormal events, regardless of societal regard: definition or shoulds and oughts. Hypervigilance can tend towards chaos and explains much of my previous behavior and choices. Through extrapolation and/or intuition I sense that most of the violence demonstrated against the public is an outward manifestation of internal chaos; an attempt to illustrate that which is unacceptable to the aggressor. As animals we go to ridiculous extremes. Remaining for the most part asleep in normalcy; wage slaves or anarchist. Unconscious that life is to be lived not survived. Most education is given in order that we conform to expectations set by those who profit from our obedience.

Neither God nor love is a noun but a verb.

Returning to my dream. There was a woman, virtually unseen, within, who influenced me to make of the overt chaos, a place like Laddin’s Rock during my childhood, into a place of peace, a park for transient visitation not the privileged habitation of a few.

"A friend is one who knows you and loves you just the same." -Elbert Hubbard 

At one time I loved her because of gratitude. Now I love her as friend; for herself. Leading me to realize, that like Jesus or Buddha, M is for me the source of becoming and not what I sought in having someone captive as a resource immutable. Conditional verses unconditional love. It seems wise to chose a mate with whom one can converse for a lifetime.

130108 03:37 Dreams remembered
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

Marilyn & dawn

Dawn’s promise become pronounced since three in the morning’s night watch. Charlotte Jean trimmed and snoring through a calm sea. Free of the helm I stood upon the bowsprit flying through eternity.

I weep for not that which is lost but found in now. Those who follow will have none of it, the glory and the horror. For it will be, I fear, all of the former. Seamless without relief.

Dreaming of Marilyn Monroe, knowing her only through a peer, who’s dad had been a producer for “The Misfits.”

When do boys become men and predecease one another remembering priorities of one piece of quality, versus a flock of schlock, furnishing our lives ahead; now dwindling. He dead while I tarry upon the cusp of my demise remembering when and why.

I live now by succor of words, symbols of what might become of the all of us as surf breaking upon a distant, unseen, desert beach beyond our keen.

The All before, still, afterwards--always--Be Here Now.

. . . royalty resides in all of us.

130107 05:47 dawn & Marilyn
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

epiphanies & love

Lovers and epiphanies come and go. Leaving behind bits and peaces of experience, some to suffer, others celebrated and life goes on; with or without us--our witness. Short or long each of us, actually all life, has sufficient suffering regardless of role: predator or prey.

Pain passes and suffering lingers, the joys forgotten but then joy begins and spreads outwards towards both; their instruction in how life is lived and left.

This that writes, a mindfulness, conscious of being extruded from moment to moment moving still. Towards a goal unannounced, certainly not death. Touching, then inhabiting, eternity brings an panache to season every moment, fearlessly, with now joy versus sorrow. I do however discover myself, not suffering so much, as being with a deep concern for the course of life surrounding me. Towards which, were I so inclined, I might write fiction. To me a candy coated finger pointing, essentially, to dysfunction. My pains are forgiven and forgotten save for illustration or narrative . . . I write to save another tossed in the storms surrounding us -- swimming -- not waking on water.

Love is preemptive, law is remedial. Neither God nor nature can heal the past. More laws make more criminals; love removes both.

130106 13:00 writing - why

Ebullient when writing goes well, aggravated when not, but then can I call what do “writing”?

My reverence and joy, hymns of antiquity, today’s songs of praise I read, and heard from voices echoing on the winds. Reminds me, in view of what occurred betwixt the previous post and now -- proof positive -- of serendipity and synchronicity at work. An essential truth. My effort goes on. Affirmations, in kind and scale, beyond my wildest prayers answered.

I think myself not unique, nor special, in anyway since what I receive is available to all who seek. Add, unsought, those moments when an epiphany occurs: too good to be true, listen to your muse. . . . and take the television/radio and throw it out the window.

It is well to remember the ages and stages that must be survived until we become curious about: “Is that all there is?” in life. At the same time I forget more often than not. The physical history of our planet renders civilization, roughly, and generous at that, seven thousand years. Like the very thin membrane of onion skin. By comparison my life and concerns are but the duration of a fruit fly.

I claim no divine right of Kings or Prophets. Astonished to be alive having never thought myself able to survive beyond forty-eight-years of age. I happily remember the gift of my political interest being thwarted by The Greenwich Connecticut School System and population et al.

I cannot now recall at any time my parent’s demonstration of reverence for anything they could not buy. And oft recall dad’s, despite being honored and loved . . . he was never a father to me but more like an older brother in the sometimes benign sense . . . telling me that the ideal life was to live by the sweat of other peoples brows. Shortly thereafter I mentioned this in elementary school and the teacher, thank god, hauled me out into the hall and gave me holy hell. He had worked all his life as I did and do to gain an education.

As surely you must suspect by now, death will not end mine.

I did not cause nor can I fix the grief that happens. Save to remark that it is more typical than not and one is wise to expect more. The Muse, The All, suggest adapt, improvise and prevail . . .

- Talmud (attributed)
“Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world's grief. Do justly, now. Love mercy, now. Walk humbly, now. You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it.”

Be well and do the best you can
when you fail get up off your face and keep moving.

You can, you know, be the best you are.

130104 0923 affirmations

I discover myself as moving via empathy into situations way beyond my capacities. Consciously and unconsciously in thought and dreams.

Add to which I am processing massive, at least for me, amounts of information making up for feigned self indifference to education. I do crash and burn. And am dependent upon mentors. Or as I have learned, I remain an apprentice to the wisdom of those I love and trust.

I have come to trust the process of whatever it is that I undergo by experience, imagination and love. It is even for me difficult and demanding. At the same time humbling. Not humiliating . . . I lie. I take myself apart like a child's construction toy attempting to see and understand what and why I seek and the way I go.

I don’t take myself too seriously given that I am well aware of myself as an integrated system dependent upon continuance and the discontinuity of life, especially at my vintage. What I imply is an pastiche derived from desperate resources. Each in fugue. When I saw Jesus weep, he wept without grimace, eyes filling with tears.

And so it was not to long ago driving to water aerobics, the musical commentator said that J. S. Bach’s greatest fan was Mozart, something I never knew and impossible for me to imagine; then followed with a string quartet arranged by Mozart from one of Bach’s themes . . . wrecked on music. But no. I was able to control the automobile continuing on my way.

Thinking back to my first conscious mentor, a fellow journalist, who said of me that I was then, and remain now, “sullen to discipline.” In her presence I was able to laugh and cry without explanation.

I bolted from sleep conscious of a number of scenarios wherein I was witness to harm being done to others by peers. Assessing what I might do or say to forestall the incident; influence the outcome. I fear I failed the tests. It was not in distress that I awoke but in the realization that we fail because we are helpless not to. Implying that there are forces at play hugely beyond our influence; in some sense entering the victim and the predator’s state of mind. Empathy is astonishing that way.

I should know better having been utterly helpless to die instead of my son as his disease destroyed him. There was a certain grace within the experience since I am aware of parents whose children simply disappear and their fate remains forever unknowable. It is true of me that my consciousness if that of a parent informed. More profoundly so than the victim I was as a child. Add that I retain a sense of responsibility for life that I do not apply to myself making of me a fraud.

So it is that while reading Annie Dillard and Michel de Montaigne concurrently I am being cross pollinated by the sewer of violence world wide. On one hand euphoria, on the other, diving head long into a box of broken razor blades. Wafting though this is a sense, the genius of God, manifest in various prophets and saints who I sense faced the same issues personally.

I once read a contemporary Hindu’s sense of addiction as being the avoidance of God. This is a vantage point I glean from both Dillard and Montaigne sans conclusions; theirs or mine; learning to live with it. This life and time we live. . . .Ask, receive and find yourself the strength to adapt, improvise and prevail. Accepting the reality of being imperfect; failure inevitable yet it is worth the price to own yourself.

In the following sense. In failure we learn to get back up on our feet and keep on keeping on, our consciousness ever so slightly expanded and kinder to all.

In conclusion neither of my children were “mine” but their own life to live regardless short or long. Laws are remedial while love is preemptive; though dead they both live in something vaster than my mere memory.

“Forget injuries, never forget kindnesses.” - Confucius

130104 03:33 parenting
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

love is a virus with a nod to Eric Hoffer

Cyclonic disturbance, within the quiet scintillation of conventional conversation, banter actually, gives rise to events unfathomable. statistics well known but causes mysterious.

Spectral dances a potential of resolution.

“The sick in soul insist that it is humanity that is sick, and they are the surgeons to operate on it. They want to turn the world into a sickroom. And once they get humanity strapped to the operating table, they operate on it with an ax.” - Eric Hoffer, The Passionate State Of Mind, and Other Aphorisms (1955), Section 124

Is love really a choice given all the tears in our collective continuity? I think love is a virus afflicting, a contagion going viral, only to those who seek to know the good of all life not the one, immune, masked as indifferent. They who seek immunity do so by isolation, being unique in a celebratory way, and sequestered behind walls become stone. Fixed, immutable, and untouched by the flow of life; intolerable.

I sense we are born with the virus of love, some call cynically or skeptically: dependence. Life becomes adaption to chaos; for or against, this or that.

“The impulse of power is to turn every variable into a constant, and give to commands the inexorableness and relentlessness of laws of nature. Hence absolute power corrupts even when exercised for humane purposes. The benevolent despot who sees himself as a shepherd of the people still demands from others the submissiveness of sheep. The taint inherent in absolute power is not its inhumanity but its anti-humanity.” - Eric Hoffer,  The Ordeal of Change (1963), Ch. 15 : The Unnaturalness Of Human Nature

. . . 130104 05:14 . . . Winter Dance, in order to survive the season, for the most part, I silhouette the vinyl floor tiles beneath my bed and wait for it to be over. It very well be that I am a victim of Seasonal Effective Disorder? Too sensitive to the longest night yet very couscous of the now increasing light.

However, that stated, I remain bewildered by the chaos annotated by world wide news and feel victimized by it. In empathy I feel their pain, the victims, perpetrators and those who remain bereft. To survive I read the Bible, but not only the Bible but other resources as well. Finding as much balance to counterbalance my distress in Eric Hoffer, Annie Dillard and Michel de Montaigne.

Add that I continue to expand my garden of quotes and am able to rest in them randomly . . . the words, sentences, concepts copulating with reality; worthy of remembering. For now my distemper is ameliorated with the wisdom of those who have, in their time and way, encountered the same issues that never seem to go away. Pimps, whores, assassins and thieves who run the world, all seem to adore chaos in that it lends a smoke screen to their crimes against humanity. Yet they too are afflicted by the virus of love making exception not by indifference but addiction to power instead.

Be well.

130103 05:29 love as virus
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

I discover myself as moving via empathy into situations way beyond my capacities. Consciously and unconsciously in thought and dreams. 

Add to which I am processing massive, at least for me, amounts of information making up for feigned self indifference to education. I do crash and burn. And am dependent upon mentors. Or as I have learned, I remain an apprentice to the wisdom of those I love and trust. 

I have come to trust the process of whatever it is that I undergo by experience, imagination and love. It is even for me difficult and demanding. At the same time humbling. Not humiliating . . . I lie. I take myself apart like a child's construction toy attempting to see and understand what and why I seek and the way I go. 

I don’t take myself too seriously given that I am well aware of myself as an integrated system dependent upon continuance and the discontinuity of life, especially at my vintage. What I imply is an pastiche derived from desperate resources. Each in fugue. When I saw Jesus weep, he wept without grimace, eyes filling with tears.

And so it was not to long ago driving to water aerobics, the musical commentator said that J. S. Bach’s greatest fan was Mozart, something I never knew and impossible for me to imagine; then followed with a string quartet arranged by Mozart from one of Bach’s themes . . . wrecked on music. But no. I was able to control the automobile continuing on my way.

Thinking back to my first conscious mentor, a fellow journalist, who said of me that I was then, and remain now, “sullen to discipline.” In her presence I was able to laugh and cry without explanation.  

I bolted from sleep conscious of a number of scenarios wherein I was witness to harm being done to others by peers. Assessing what I might do or say to forestall the incident; influence the outcome. I fear I failed the tests. It was not in distress that I awoke but in the realization that we fail because we are helpless not to. Implying that there are forces at play hugely beyond our influence; in some sense entering the victim and the predator’s state of mind. Empathy is astonishing that way. 

I should know better having been utterly helpless to die instead of my son as his disease destroyed him. There was a certain grace within the experience since I am aware of parents whose children simply dissapear and their fate remains forever unknowable. It is true of me that my consciousness if that of a parent informed. More profoundly so than the victim I was as a child. Add that I retain a sense of responsibility for life that I do not apply to myself making of me a fraud. 

So it is that while reading Annie Dillard and Michel de Montaigne concurrently I am being cross pollinated by the sewer of violence world wide. On one hand euphoria, on the other, diving head long into a box of broken razor blades. Wafting though this is a sense, the genius of God, manifest in various prophets and saints who I sense faced the same issues personally. 

I once read a contemporary Hindu’s sense of addiction as being the avoidance of God. This is a vantage point I glean from both Dillard and Montaigne sans conclusions; theirs or mine; learning to live with it. This life and time we live. . . .Ask, receive and find yourself the strength to adapt, improvise and prevail. Accepting the reality of being imperfect; failure inevitable yet it is worth the price to own yourself.

In the following sense. In failure we learn to get back up on our feet and keep on keeping on, our consciousness ever so slightly expanded and kinder to all. 

In conclusion neither of my children were “mine” but their own life to live regardless short or long. Laws are remedial while love is preemptive; though dead they both live in something vaster than my mere memory. 

130104 03:33 parenting
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved