boldly dreaming

Dream boldly for the commonweal of all life. None master, or slave, but all equal and well. In health our greatest wealth. Day and night my dreams grow bolder. Expansive and generous with imagining at times humorous/inspired, then too ecstatic, benign for each of us. As a virus of change for the better no longer victims of anyone or thing.

. . . what else are the heavens for / the heaven within / in all born and unborn / for nothing is lost in eternity . . . with a child’s laughter wakeful or sleeping I see this life and earth a petri dish one of many yet to be known; consciousness and love evolving in time; new stars across the void of darkness. Like dear sweet utterly mad with passionate compassion Vincent’s Starry Starry Night punctuated with cypress and spire spiking the chaos of what would dominate and enslave us.

The dreams of this old man leap yet finding the core of infancy knowing what happens to for and against one happens for and in all.

Possible.

Concatenate body mind and spirit. Be free to create the world of love. Fearlessly deny the one/several/many/herd who claim absolute monarchy. Resistance/descent is powerful in love.

. . . 02:58 . . . it is an ongoing process this “writing” or annotation of becoming a person. Somewhat more than mere subsistence; an unexamined existence. The steps to freedom are many and various as snow flakes falling in midsummer’s night defining ignorance; my greatest enemy, my own.

Since my first writing was a photography column, a certain alloted space to be filled between brasserie, tire and turkey advertisements, all equally fantastic in their power to distract &/or bury my thoughts: some, if not all, were absolute conjecture and mirth (possibly my greatest gift is an ability to laugh at myself) beyond which there is a passionate compassion for life. The family of man. The species of us.

If I have a talent. Perhaps it is to find the genius of others, individually, or collectively: as in all of us. Inherent in life seeking the light growing. Loving indiscriminately and following not one prophet but all seeking what they sought.

Unable to change anything save myself knowing the secrets kept keeping me in bondage I seek to expose and explode them inhabiting such as remains of my life and beyond. It follow that what I share within these words is, in large measure, inspired by dreams and fantastic phenomenon of awakening then at some point finding what Gideon sought through placing lambs wool outside his tent . . . a dialog? of course it is at least to me. Yet fain to suggest since it is my way, not The Way. One clue: today is Steve Job’s birthday and the lead quote http://en.wikiquote.org:

"Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking. Don't settle. As with all matters of the heart, you'll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on. So keep looking. Don’t settle." - Steve Jobs 

. . . there are a host of others, from disparate sites, affirming my sense of dialog with a being vastly beyond my ability to otherwise describe. Hinted at in all the wisdom books/manuals for life.

I learn from my enemies; those who stand upon my feet glistening my forehead with their spittle - superciliousness . . . It may take long or short for me to find the gift within and forgiven their aggressive faux authority. . . .to kill one’s self or another is too easy; it takes greater courage to love and live.

. . . but then what did Jesus do!? And why?

Can I teach you nothing but to be real? That when the word man is used it implies all the species inclusive without boundary: race, creed, gender!

No. I will not bore nor lead you with my evidence since it would be filling this void with stuff; the column I wrote was roughly eighty lines; seldom  more or less. I was'nt’t paid by the word or pound but it was odd that I could drop my mind into that box . . . remembering now that this is noting but a collection of notes on a life in process: endless.

. . . 04:08
It is possible, not impossible, but difficult, and growing more so. To grow a soul, a self, mindful consciousness of a bedrock foundation upon which to be fully alive and love . . . but worthy of the effort. Read yourself. Abrasion is what makes suffering sharp, Jesus knew. The purpose is not death but growth. I’ve always wondered but now doubt not.

. . . be a good observant -- not Jew, Islam, Christian etc. -- but student of life finding a way to make love possible in our time. . . .& war no more.

130224 0134 boldly dreaming
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

careening

Ricocheting through the day, careening from event to post and  back again, I arrived ‘home’ to discover a note: “The Inspection has been canceled but we’ll come again on March 15th, sorry for the inconvenience.”

Given the anticipated specious and supercilious invasion of my privacy, and theft of my time, I bethought, ‘Why not give it up and call it even; once is enough!’

M had replied to my remark; “The trolls are upon me and I don’t know if I’ll have a home to return to.” To which she replied; “They’re used to herding sheep and not a wolf.” . . . I replied; “A werewolf at that!”

She knows me too well. But then indigenous people in her presence, so she seldom remarks, have called her, with awe, a White Witch. I know she witches water, long distance with a plumb bob over a map. So she is more to me than friend and confident and about, and within her presence, sometimes, my hackles rise.

Percolating since this morning’s departure: “Humility is a choice of response to humiliation and abuse inflicted.” To which I was clubbed senseless by discovery of St. Francis de Sales remarks on survival in this world we share, as noted in my previous post. I seems now, as then, we are governed by pre-chewed mystery meat neatly packaged in pink Spam parading as authority. So bored with their lives that the only life they know possible only by abusing the natives.

Despite his scintillating and slashing prose, reading Walter M. Miller’s “A CANTICLE FOR LEIBOWITZ,” an hour after supper I found myself nodding off and submerged for two hours before awakening with the usual vigor. Resulting from dreams populated by characters unseen, of great humor and wisdom, in dialog with me. Again, the only monsters I know are human and quite real to me in the ordinary of my life.

The management of this, otherwise halcyon residential complex, have made it a Gulag - a Nazi Death Camp. Making residency tenuous and tentative; experientially living in a jail; a Penal Colony exemplary of Elder Abuse in the extreme. For me the treat of eviction constant.

Resident here for six years, their occupation only recent, I had and continue to wish a peaceful death eventual. And having moved so many times before losing bits and pieces dear to me, e.g. I’m on my second or third Oxford English Dictionary in micro to mention only one item in a host of other reference materials impractical to move . . . Adapt, improvise and prevail!?

In closing, about M, who I upon occasion call The Sphinx, she does talk making autonomous suggestions welcome to myself. Given all my complaints she, at other times, more frequently, has asked; “Why don’t you move?“

Maybe, maybe not.

I have no options since the theft of my inheritance by Republicans, Stock and Bank speculators; so what else is new? Now a lesser trivial management scheme is stealing my life.

130308 22:17 careening
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

discovery inspriation

I am beset with nettlesome people who insist that I am criminal; the agency governing my HUD rental abode. Today is their arbitrary and capriciously anointed day to “INSPECT;” a monthly occurrence when by statute annual or at worst semi-annual would do.

By nature I am both nice and a Vandal capable of being both but the latter most often leaps out and threatens death but then I am equally a creative person who resents the theft of my time and attention by the likes of them. Yet I should express my gratitude for the following:

"Those who love to be feared fear to be loved, and they themselves are more afraid than anyone, for whereas other men fear only them, they fear everyone." - Quoted by Bishop Jean-Pierre Camus in The Spirit of Saint Francis de Sales, ch. 7, sct. 3 (1952)

"You will be often thrown among the children of this world, who, according to their custom will mock at all they see, or think to be in you, contrary to their own miserable ideas; do not waste time by disputing with them, nor show the slightest annoyance at their attacks; but good-temperedly laugh at their laughter, despise their contempt, smile at their remonstrances; and without paying any attention to it at all, go forward joyfully in the service of God ; and in your prayers, commend these poor souls to His mercy. They deserve our pity for not having a better purpose in their conversation than merely laughing at, and trifling with subjects worthy of their highest respect and reverence."

. . . discovered this date and time, a saving word or two, inspiring me to remember not to: IRK THE IRE OF THE IRRELEVANT AND UNIMAGINATIVE!

130308 06:54 discovery
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

nothing is ever lost

“Nothing is ever lost in the universe,” to quote myself, is a conclusion recent to me and not a palliative for the deaths of my children, family, friends and those about to die I consoled over the years.

I have what I believe to be an odd random access memory. And ability to replay the scene and feelings of the times of my life.

Acknowledging now, on a personal scale, stepping from the ‘known’ into the unknown, radically - involuntarily. Akin to what happened, explicitly to America, 9/11. Live broadcast of the second plane entering the World Trade Center implied: NOTHING WILL EVER BE THE SAME!

Nothing has been except the usual responses to change. As with myself, so with the general ambiance of America; lots of wishful thinking. Coupled with an undertow of burgeoning confiscation of privacy without recourse. To which I am now less willing to attribute spiritual answers in any wholesale sense. Since the birth of my first child I experienced a change from solo, then to, with wife to family.

In the succeeding four years a number of changes, that I intuited implied death of the first born and of the second. About which I said nothing given that I had survived my childhood by silence. Internally assuming it was my fault, a conceit that haunted me until recent years.

. . . 130308 05:20
Ask and you will receive, knock and it will be opened . . . not exclusive to the Bible, but I sense present in all consciousness I come across worthy of memory. And who or what shall answer? A nameless friend who’s response is worth more than anything otherwise knowable.

At least it is to me. Sad that I still contest the authority of trivial and unimaginative people who otherwise it seems eat me for lunch; merely because they can.

Is it arrogance to imply I parse and triage my time? And in general will give my attention to anyone who asks but those who steal it beware. . . .But at that I seem, for the moment, oblivious to the random good even my enemies deliver.

The above was initiated by a dream to which another was added this date in amplification. I bore myself with all previous attempts at justification, explanation or reconciliation between source and inspiration save no minor intent to offer to others an opportunity to learn more than can be taught.

In many ways I sense myself a plodding pragmatist searching for the manifestations of what has lead me throughout my life. That which I, in times of celebratory ecstasy would otherwise photograph, or attempt poetry or possibly to incarnate in fiction intended to distill: “Be a victim to no one or anything.”

Or. In the case of those I most admire, and seek what they sought, in their last words, when assassinated, forgave their executioners. Seemingly it takes far more effort to love instead of kill; to live instead of die. And for the realization that my ‘sacrifice’ of celibacy is rewarded beyond any measure.

If nothing is lost in creation then it follows that all life is equal in importance. None more so than another yet there’s the rub, the conflict of those unimaginative who abuse and abrade to gain some entertainment at the expense of others. Some what akin to mother’s posture, seldom explicit, if you cry I’ll give you something to really cry about; my intuition that she’d kill me if I protested her discipline cum abuse.

For which I am now grateful, since she taught me to think. Better. To seek what I’ve sought and finding it, share.

130307 07:00 nothing lost
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

reverence

To weep is no shame, anymore than to be a child of our time as born. But in the ark of a lifetime it is to become aware that one must speak or otherwise drown in tears. And within discover the gift of reverence and awe. The dialog between creation and man. By which, again and obviously, I mean all life, both genders; equality.

Suck it up, get over it, this apparent warfare between what is and what, seemingly, is impossible. In some curious sense to revert to being as a child born then corrupted in time to survive life in our era.

To love and prize one above all others is to sink the world. Instead seek to build an ark capable of lofting all above the flood of indifference. Not my or your but our way. Collaborative, co-creating life and love as possible. Impossibly and/both versus and/or. No one and nothing is merely this or that as defined as we would have it or them. But more - vastly so.

As much in art, religion and science definitions change. Seen from random association and inclined to see things in obverse; a form of play, myths seen differently speaking truths redefined or applied as better but bitter truth crossing boundaries between subject and object. Indicate to me not this or that but inclusive and available to all consciousness; a river of mindfulness become a flood tide.

. . . 05:18 At times I consider myself, variously as: a scold, wannabe preacher, teacher, a fool and specious - pretentious and simply wrong. But then considering the facts I realize now that I still seek and excuse to keep living instead of merely eating a train. Humiliated since birth, I sense now the value of humility, recognizing the origin of power and force as manifestations of fear. To which some have, in their last words, forgiven instead of decried revenge. Leaving life as they define the value and meaning of love; or better yet, what it is to be a friend, universal. . . . teaching with their last breath.

In recognition that I misspoke, referring to my time at hospice was ‘The Work,’ I now define it as part of my life’s tutelage swept upward, downward and broader; the knowledge that everything changes and death has less to fear than I previously supposed or assumed.

Yesterday I took a friend to the El Paso VA Clinic, at his request, since he hates to drive having been once a long distance hauler back and forth across the continent alone. I love people of all kinds yet despise herds or crowds as some would have it. Yet, though equipped with a book, a computer, etc. I found myself, yet again, wandering about asking people who they are and why.

Not exactly conscious from a lifetime of travel I found, here and there random friends who are better than lovers since it, the relationship holds no boundaries defined by convention. Not so much grist for my mill of writing anything defined as ‘art’ since life itself is its own reward. Recognizing that from infancy to the end game I remain curious about others their life and times defined as they will or need, even those who have stolen all my resources save that curiosity about how and why.

Now, if I be a fool who laughs and cries, I am more fond of that then anything else about myself. Or anything I’ve ever done in life.

“I look forward to growing old and wise and audacious.” - Glenda Jackson
"Love demands infinitely less than friendship." - George Jean Nathan

130306 03:34 reverence
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

The Work

She was, is, I don’t know - leaving - her hours ago with her son, one of several; dying. She, not him.

The purpose of my visit was to say goodbye to a friend.

More than a friend - it is complicated; us:

Once a patient, instant friend in the sense of a fellow traveler acknowledging each others secrets unspoken. A crossing of paths across eternity. Not at, or in, a night sea: ships passing distant. But a brief / close / intimate / touch. Unannounced. Not articulated.

Then at each visit, amplification, renewal, expansion: a touch, a word, a gift . . . she gave me her travel Bible and Concordance.

We two became a pair, a couple inseparable by anything not even now, not death; never.

A One.

She’d have a room full of visitors, women mostly. I learned in time they prayed together; then even for me, even now that I am long absent. And she in her way ordained me bereft of liturgy or celebration.

In parting this evening said in closing, silently, with one thumb up, her eyes smiling not otherwise, whispering; “keep the faith” . . . the door quietly closing behind me . . . .

Endless we who do the work -- The Work -- service to those without; the poorest of the poor. We know one another by deed and behavior. Not by word so much. Talk being cheap but actions speak louder and are lasting . . . and I will carry on until it is my turn to lay dying smiling giving a facsimile of what she has given me like M consecrated in love.

Now I know the good, the better, the best, the sense of God blest; a light passed from one to another; glowing a star in the darkness . . . .

we are but a tear, she and me, in a sea of endless darkness, for now, but we give what we have that others know love and peace always

"All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well."
"Between God and the soul there is no between." - Julian of Norwich

. . . be well, one and all, know your soul, your greatest wealth
shared, going home, never really alone

130305 0058 The Work
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

dreams having me

Dreams now seem like symphonies, plays, cinema, worship; something entered in within to be churned like a Snow Globe . . . now wondering who does the shaking? Making the dance within!

Last evening I viewed “CABARET,” inspired by a Teri Gross interview with Joel Grey. A consummate entertainer something like Sammie Davis, Jr. but different in intent; seemingly motivated by the same desire. Then too I love dance and had been oblivious that Bob Fosse choreographed the film; although I have viewed, now, the film, four or five times.

My dreams, as remembered, have no monsters but people acting in cruel ways. At times doing despicable things to me, sometimes others. Emergent in the dream that followed held a sense of how and why I had made myself inert. So too the people I lived with. Acting as if being ‘the living dead’ then suddenly going randomly berserk. Retrospectively, demonstrating my life as it was and no longer remains.

Why do I and human life surrounding me do the things we do . . . or don’t do? An abiding concern and focus moving me with greater velocity daily, impelling me to better understand the meanings and values of behaviors; mine especially.

Between awakening and arising there is a period of analysis. Long or short it seems to variously defuse, pollute or emphasize the characters and actions invoking memories and behaviors redefined.

At the moment I am thinking of Last Words and forgiveness. Compassion for assassins; those who remain mired in “is this all there is?”

There is a society available in books manifesting ideas across the boundaries of science, metaphysics and entertainment apparent and apprehensible at least to me.

To me there are no boundaries . . . This becomes increasingly conclusive as I weave back and forth across the loom of my day; a shuttle between what I write and read, across the treads and hyper-links. With the surprising, always, preface of dreams!? Then too I sense a community, if not actual family, a body of friends to and with whom I could and would be free to confess all my sorrow and ecstasy while remaining accepted and understood.

Heaven?

No. Not a place, or goal, but what is resident within; something not transient but permanent - a place wherein we are not tenant but co-creators and owners of our infinitesimal footprint in the universe.

But not always. Sometimes there are thoughts and ideas/ideals that have been nascent for years and decades emergent again; insisting upon my attention now. I wonder if I am merely being a scold; preaching confession, consciousness, full and transparent revelation. If we are unable to fully know ourselves change, growth and evolution are impossible.

The “ah-ha!” moments strike unexpectedly. Changing me in wonderful ways; and then its good to be alive: finally!

130304 03:23 dreams having me
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved