be such

true to my nature: greedy for -- love, loveliness, woman -- she sat before me in a sleeveless blouse and I undressing her with my eyes. Licking her humid armpits and wandering about in imaginary lubricity. Beautiful? No! But a nubile young woman at the apogee of her reproductive potential. And I a lecher wondered what our children might be. Laughing now at my imaginary mating; as like that of mice, not exactly recreational.

An astrologist whose service stipulated by my gay, nudist, Episcopal Priest, friend and therapist - did I mention he was? Is? A Jungian? Giving Communion on “Clothing Optional Beaches”?! In retrospect I imagine it was only in summer; for in Rhode Island, starting in November, the leaden skies seemed predominate and chilly at that ending the Hurricane Season.

Somewhere amongst my tumid lust she remarked I might be a poet and i, at that time, was standing upon the platform, one foot upon the departing train, the other firmly rooted. implying or inferred, that change was inevitable. Apparently she was well regarded. Living in Rhode Island commuting to Washington, The District of Columbia to beguile and advise our fearless leaders.

The oddest part about now compared to then: I have no identity. My name is meaningless, my history absurd, yet daily, if not hourly, I am subject to expansion becoming more transparent with each moment experienced . . . leaping light years, passing through mountains of stone, sober I become more so.

To me then and even now poetry was something out there beyond the beyond; an inconceivable icon, glorious like God unknowable and dense beyond steel . . . thinking ‘oh dear God, do I have to eat the whole thing?’

More laughter, I loved my mother so, she baked an Easter Cake in the shape of an Lamb; in a borrowed mold. The exterior was burnt to a crisp and ate the whole thing since it seemed to assuage her tears as she baked another.

Jesus! Or the idea/ideal of Him is the root of my being. And oddly seems, to not despise my rude and salacious self. The tree that I have become has many prophets of other definitions of God or the idea/ideal of “God” hopping randomly, flittering about, from limb to branch. Flapping off to far distant places returning with new definitions of what “God” is or is not: like or about.

If, as I have said of myself, I am too stupid to live, as ignorant as a stone. You might more readily identify with my sense of hopelessness. Despondent when confronted with what passed then, in my time, as an education . . . if you required me to diagram a simple sentence, you might as well have said; “I’m going to draw and quarter you between these four elephants and then eat whats left alive. When I speak of our fearless, lemming like, leaders chasing the illusion of wealth and/or wisdom I know the term “scatocephalic” by experience not conjecture. My vision/version is they are going in circles like greyhounds. And “Civilization” being a transparent veneer upon savage predation. As it was in the beginning it remains. . . “An eye for an eye,” and no mercy, compassion or empathy possible.

Oh well
. . . so what else is new?

My point being that poetry is impossible when I’m not in the mood. Yet I know the Why of it and requisite vision to incarnate it. Regarding Astrology, I have no faith in it. Add that M said; “You can put in a change request/order!” Accepted as Gospel I have begun to wonder what the nubile young very f. . . .able meant? I remember, only opposition, in the chart, now laying within the tomb of an landfill . . .

My thesis is that nothing, virtually, is ever lost in eternity. Regardless the idle pleasure of those who know nothing of war, save profit, who in the anticipation of glee and larger bank accounts, sacrifice other people’s children profligately.

I sense last things, end game, the leaves turning, then falling. Myself soon to be barren, dead falling into dust. What and why I write is merely to speak to others like myself who are intransigent; ignorant of their actual value to Creation . . . Reverting to my sense, dyslexic, that we are applauded by one hand clapping. Yet to me, the universe speaks and I know not why? But then this seems more true of poets than I.

Add, at best, I don’t want to be here in future time, short as it may be, given my lifelong seeking for an excuse to live another day. The force and power is in the hands of those incapable of empathy, making everything material for their greed. . . . I know what good is and it is seldom found; remaining as it was in the beginning will long last my departure and silence.

- Eric Idle
"If anything can survive the probe of humour it is clearly of value, and conversely all groups who claim immunity from laughter are claiming special privileges which should not be granted." 

130329 03:41 be such
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

Remember

i seek not to be remembered 
but remind your once and only 
precious self . . . sufficient being 
this you inhabit 
what was or will be 
irrelevant unknowable
be here now 
attend closely the magnificence 
within gratefully doing no harm 
all exit stage left eventually

130328 04:19 Remember
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

enriched besotted not bewildered

Arisen from a death like sleep, wherein my initial dream was of incompetence, punctuated with astonishing insights. Not about myself but those I observed, two young boys in a track event in close competition. Their defiance of one another and potentially their demise in consequence. . . . It was then that I awoke remembering the otherwise drudgery of professional photography as I had practiced it.

Then too I visualized the sure homage I owe to those who chose, in their time, to write. Like refracting crystals the light dancing through them arrhythmical an exquisite dance. The light always transcendent.

Of and/or about myself, now, it could be said that I love, Love, knowing nothing of the end of it; the longest novel/poem in four letters infinite. And then it seems this must be the way all life is loved by the origin of everything.

I am thinking of M, my beloved hour glass, we passing through each other; endings and beginnings that is all. Gifting one another!? 

Belief or none, seems irrelevant since the creator has us either way, regardless of insular/parochial definitions of who, what, why, when, wherefore . . . is not faith indefinable but best known by experience not war. Could it be that before we render ourselves extinct we will agree we had it all and destroyed it?

At lunch, yesterday, in jest I offered to pay with my library card. To which it was suggested that I could wash dishes instead. Whereupon I said; “I’ve been washing dishes, professionally, since the age of thirteen; M chimed in stating she’d been at since four upon a stool. 

Brother Lawrence and Durer where are you when we need define creativity by the humble us all? Meek not proud. . . . that filmy sheen of perspiration making we glow! Inner light manifest.

. . . "To argue over who is the more noble is nothing more than to dispute whether dirt is better for making bricks or for making mortar." - Saint Teresa of Avila . . . Happy your birthday what you were and remain.

Mother once asked of me, close to the end of our relationship, why I, at two and one half years of age had touched her cheek and cried uncontrollably? As if I could then, at the time of act or fact stated, know. I offer, this being curious about curiosity, from slumber transiting this nation from infancy until now, I would awaken in odd conjunction with objects and thoughts. And now still wonder is it call and response, my vision/version of the occurrence?

The concept of conspiracy better said as conspire or co-creation or collaboration with that which we cannot control: Life. Creation. The time of birth, length of life, moment of death

Yes

She is, experientially, an hour glass. We the grains passing through, at some point in time still yet passed on to others that they may love as we do. I do reverence who turns us tumbling now.

“We never live, but we hope to live; and as we are always arranging to be happy, it must be that we never are so.” - Blaise Pascal

“We never live; we are always in the expectation of living.” - Voltaire

130328 01:25 enriched

© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

Friends

Men seldom openly weep, but drown internally holding the flood in.

Yet I, a man, have wept gallons over the difference between marriage and friendship, now closeted in my solitary life. It is my dreams that better inform me of the conflict -- ASTONISHING!

Irrelevant, the details and story that hurled me from rest two or so hours ago. Which led me to remember the difference between our ages and intentions. No story teller am I but an observer of the river of time; inconsequential by height, width, breadth or length, but merely that it is at all moving. It hurt nothing that she, being younger than me, inspired lust filled thoughts, but then being a nurse I came to understand her better as a person than a receptacle of my salaciousness.

Embodying those things I’d never known, joy for example, trust for another, but oh God! forgive me for admiring her posterior when she knelt to a patients eye level. And now, two thousand miles apart, remembering my involuntary ejaculation; “Take me with you!” We still communicate and I think more than often of her - there - while I remain here and she growing the requisite roots to sustain and flourish her life. Suffice to say that it is well. I care more for her than my gratification. I am odd that way. And wonder now that, when mother castrated me with her inarticulate accusation of incest, that she didn't do me an enormous favor.

Celibacy having been a long inconceivable dedication . . . even now the ability wanes while the desire remains.

Lust is just another addiction, compelling, scratching and itch: pleasure but no lasting joy. And I, no idle boast, care more for the soul than the body to so use another for my convenience. Yet even now, betimes, take pleasure in the thought. Naughty boy that I was, am and remain for all time . . . poor Ava Gardner naked upon my threshold spanked with a keyboard; “NOT NOW!”

Laughter! My greatest gift!

Not odd, the many men of my generation who leer when I mention her name. Yet I, for one, am more taken by her charisma, the laughing soul within, playful beyond the gratification. But as I, so with them, the men of my time; do not leer so much as grin; our ability waning.

Finally and fatefully drown, I know the consequence beyond orgasm; a greater wealth than I can tell . . . at least for now.

. . . yes, splayed, stapled, twitching upon the dissecting board; vivisection of my Self.

. . . a boy named Ruth, not ruthless

“There is no fire like lust;

 there is no grip like hatred;

 there is no net like delusion;

 there is no river like craving.”

—  Dhammapada

130327 04:42 Friends

© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

sufficient

silence / sufficient / kudos / 

the audience of alone / 

dialogs answered

Happy Birthday 

Joseph Campbell

unhappy death day

Mansur Al-Hallaj (mystic Sufi poet)

observations rapscallion associations freely given grats to:

http://www.en.wikiquote.org/

the fleece i touch each new awakening so see what’s left there

oddly affirmation of thoughts, intentions and prayers

ala Gideon who asked and received

why me?

why not!

what is it for!?!?

For now I have a feeling. An experience of closure. Doors shut. New vistas opening; bereft of desire. 

Sans need.

Naked

alone

The process continues having its own impetus

laughing -- outrageously -- having heard that Rainer Maria Rilke, in reply to Sigmund Freud’s offer of therapy said; (lose translation and improvisation) “Thanks. But no Thanks . . .  I’ll keep my devils and angels . . . . “

I love insanely and lust more

the latter apparently simmering now near room temperature 

cockled 

diminishing

less specific

now defuse

expansive instead of contractual

. . . another grats for Wikipedia

tanks for the hyper-links!

rapturous

130326 0231 sufficient

© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

dialog dreamt remnant

Awakened from a dreamt dialog with my long ago divorced first wife, she having become the priest I longed to be, the topic was not theology but pastoral. We, of course, are both in the same biz. She in uniform and I in permanent mufti. I left in a crude manor, irrevocable, humiliating her for which I still seek absolution . . . she claims to have forgiven me yet I cannot. At least not to my satisfaction.

Not all my dreams, obviously, are “out there” ‘sky pilot’ stuff: ecstatic or intellectual. But inconvenient, cutting cross grain with a rusty saw, the once living trunk of my expectations, longings and what I then thought to be love; taking not giving.

A love once said of me that I was; “sullen to discipline.” Too true by half, for I loathe authority and all its trappings, yet guilty for that.

Angst.

My maternal grandfather had been, before death, a wound to the groin with a shotgun, by choice or chance, a circuit riding Methodist Lay Minister. With four churches served in a Northern Kentucky hard scrabble area. C. G. Jung suggests that grandparents are The Great Mother/Father to this child who still morns for the unknown male lost when my mother was four.

Of my mother, her mother, myself, none of us knew much of the absent father . . . they, my maternal grandparents, married, she at thirteen and he at twenty-three, or there abouts. She was pregnant and delivered my aunt some nine years senior to my mother.

The point of the longish preamble: is that in the dreamt dialog between us, wife and now long experienced with death self, I witnessed the first in memory of her anguish, using a term I did not understand, requesting clarification I awoke and said oh!

In all the turnings, seven years after the death of our last, of two, biological children. The prospect of her ordination, experientially and by expectation, meant to me the farther loss of someone inscrutable to me enshrouded in dog collar and robes . . . receding in bells and smells and smoke.

Gagging, desperate, self-loathing, I sought love where I could find none in myself to trust. Some one to love me at last, constant and true. But that was not to be until M. A long, very long time, for I was then something like sixty-seven or eight when we first met . . . excluding all the intervening times of incredulity until quite recently. Convicted. Think of Sisyphus, yet in my case, not up a hill of sand but ball bearings spinning. Thrice the effort and endless crushings, the stony issue rolling over me down hill. . . .

Add: attempting to seduce a priest, a nun, a Sphinx: impossible . . . Though near the last of my sexual prowess at seventy-two, without apology I annotate that love is not sexual in nature but something given without desire or expectation of recompense. Yet bottled within the sealed solitary bottle of me has become enormous, but then, so has my reverence for others exclusive of creed, gender, age or culture. The exception is now that I no longer desire to be lead anywhere for I am there.

Back to the beginning everything explained and free to live and love at last . . . especially the author of my dreams. And the random rogue thoughts flickering across my attention day and night night and day.

Remember, please, this is teleology not theology. Random notes from a life in process . . . may as well be hung for a pound as a penny . . . full measure, well tamped, all grains being equal. The greatest joy I have ever known is now expanding not contracting.

About M. She is a psychologist of extraordinary ability and experience. Yet more! An alchemist making from dung gold. And should I do nothing else, no recompense required, I would do well to do, or attempt to do for others, what she has done for me.

For some, life is merely something endured, a job. For others it is a commission, joy.

Happily I know the difference in myself.

130325 23:23 dialog dreamt remnant
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

pour vous confidence

I am an archaeologist of the Self; using my life as a lab rat . . . Me, the rat, pink nose, red eyes above white whiskers twitching, and I, the self who writes . . . are good friends and tend to play/debate all the time. However it was in childhood that I asked, in prayer, “that “God” be real to me and ‘god’ IS!

My vast and unremitting ignorance surrenders nibble by nibble. And I, curious, am not limited to, or by, any definition of, or about, Who/What lends me attention; both in my sleep and conscious ordinary life. By, or for, which I do not arrogate anything save within the precincts of my self. We are all capable of so much more than we are lead to believe or have faith in. Thinking in animal metaphors is fun; reminding me that we should never/ever anthropomorphize since to do so is false idolatry -- at least ‘false’ to my experience and thinking. . . .

I’ve done it again! Run right off the plane of everything I’ve sought to gain freedom from. Falling naked, no feathers, flapping my yap, yet caught. Not crushed like a fruit fly but embraced.

I am incapable of doing “party tricks” walking on water, resurrecting the dead or healing anything or one other than myself . . . and nominally at that. . . . You should know that Jesus did the miracles and no one noticed, their pain healed, they went about the ordinary of their life.

Yet when He began to speak in parables folks listened. But being my root, in this life, for now, Jesus is not the only one I adore and listen to . . . for out of the mouths of babes (not Eva Gardner but real infants) comes astonishing truths: laughter and tears. I follow where lead by this process and cannot imagine an end or goal . . . having been both subject and object of extreme prejudice I cannot do so to another and question if what I say of myself and experience is not to be welcomed, shunned or annihilated. I do so for the joy of it which cannot be taken away by torment, torture or death. Or at least I pray so since those who do so would be challenged to do more simply to hear me cry out of boredom. And/or their shattered idolatry.

. . . nothing definitive, just taking myself apart like a cheap, made from soup cans, alarm clock, attempting to see what makes it and me tick.

Looming, present and obvious, before me in real time - REALITY - are two mentors who, when queried, claim no allegiance to anything save life itself.

And Love.

. . . and by them, and through the experience of life, otherwise, common to all of us, I know joy.

And/both not either/or.

Ask and you will receive . . .
eventually.

And not what you imagined; but what is, and or can be truth, dependable and intimate.

http://chasingtailfeathers.tumblr.com/post/46216079873
http://chasingtailfeathers.tumblr.com/post/46181255612

130325 02:10 Confidence (pour vous confidence)
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved