Jack Spratt

Wounded in life, I seek to staunch the wounds of others . . . . --xoj

Thursday, May 2, 2013

consequential

Consequential, implied, inferred, but not an icepick in the eye. Real. Like death, of which I fear not, but dying a lingering terror; knowing the many ways I could for years and years lay helpless, dependent upon everything and everyone to live.

Curious, and mindful, of turning points, rites of passage/transition, being in somebody's movie, joyous or grievous. I wonder when, how or why did I change? Surrendering. Submitting to the winds, a dust mode upon them, inconsequential, at peace. Helpless again.

Did Gideon toss and turn, finding no peace, in his tent awaiting the verdict; his lambs wool moist or dry? As I did moments ago forgetting I'd slept like the dead, dreamless, for most the past afternoon. Surfacing slowly, with reluctance unknowing and my eyes as if in a sandbox. As the hours slithered past, knowing it best to rest, I could not until I began the therapy of writing. Wringing out thoughts yearning for birth. Relief tendered. I sought one last view for anything Had She Said Yes might send. (in retrospect and rewrite she will hence forth be known as PD or variously P as in like M, P, me)

Oh may!

5 by 5, loud and clear, she might as well have been holding my head to her breast; hand cradling the back of my head. Rarely do I write within email software or comment boxes. Unable to discern punctuation, etc. Preferring to exorcize myself on the big screen in Libre, with dictionary ninth month pregnant with arcana spelled correctly.

Write I did. Without the above aids; in reply to her “smell, touch, taste, embrace.” I used the forum provided by Opera; sending it into ether and quintessential night. Turning to rest tossing where I expected rest and so here I am again. I had been unable to find the quote I wanted to express my simple conclusion: I wish for her the very best of everything exclusive of me, if need be. The following catapulted me from horizontal to vertical: 'I don't love you because I need you, but love you as and because you are you.'

Where M keeps me, more-or-less, at arm's length physically, P (“Had She Said Yes”) said yes . . . oddly merged with me in those words. Words either tell or do. I sense myself cooked through and through, a Christmas Goose plucked biased and on the platter steaming.

In Sex Anonymous, at least one hundred “dates” are suggested/required before folly or fooling around. Ain't misbehaving yet. But with both women, equally beloved--a hairsbreadth less than myself or God—I've equivalency. Times: sad, glad, mad, lunatic, weeping or laughing. Both at the same time.

Central and critical, is the element of trust. Which I now have in all the named characters at play. Could it be The Playwright directing the narrative?

Me thinks I see the Shepard’s Crook, hovering in the curtains shadows, about to jerk me off the/this stage.

To another?

130502 01:05 MDT consequential

Wednesday, May 1, 2013

and all shall be well thrumming

Thrumming beneath my bare feet upon the bowsprit, Charlotte Jean hummed resonant with function, well trimmed, sailing herself while I euphoric stood in awe.

A moment recalled. Sensing there is some new change happening within me now. Tectonic, ineluctable, yet silent; moving beneath consciousness. Under the din and otherwise chaos of ordinary time.

Had I fallen into the bow wake, Bruce, the captain sleeping, I crew, would never have known as she sailed on. Me unconscious then drown in her wake, would have been fine with she, he and I.

And all will be well.

Be silent and listen as I must, both to myself and her, time will reveal what time wants of us.

Peace sonorous to Charlotte Jean's snoring through the Atlantic pervades and what peace I am now prevails.

And all will be well.

For both of them, those two women I love, deeply. No longer insanely greedy for love. The love I have is all any life can ask; The Master of The Dance is in charge.

Wind hums the mainsail

Peace beyond all understanding or telling

scintillating cross the sleeping sea's respiration

and all manner of things shall be well.

130501 20:39 MDT thrumming

lust on a leash

Granted I am older now, but my lust, tho attended by one testicle and concerns--dad's last known erection at my age, remains intense. However I lust more for the soul of a woman than her body. Impossible before Had She Said Yes expressed, differently, her former longing to articulate love with another sexually.

Remarkably I had recently expressed a desire to make love with a woman once again before I die. Avid reader of The (Beloved) Sphinx, she seemed affirmative, tho throughout our few dialogs regarding conjugal affairs she defined them as aggression.

Prehended now, revealed transparently, my angst, attempting to express and affirm love for any woman beginning with mom. Healing seldom is achieved via full frontal attack. Instead it seems, now. sidereal and subtle.

One point advantage to Jack; who once thought Anais Nin, Henry Miller and Casanova immoral characters in pornography, has learned differently reading their writing and has begun to understand the moral and ethical concerns surrounding the double-backed (sometimes!) dance inherent. Consequent.

She is/was, once and forever, a hospice nurse with whom, given the circumstance (of those about to die and their care givers) intimacy of this kind was near if not blatant. Apparently had I made love a thousand times one thousand more, I could never have know the joy of our intercourse, chaste as yet.

Pleasure, happiness, happy endings, all seem now less, and fleeting, by compare the larger openness I know with women; all joy. The angst, tears, despair, depression, despondency, reconciled and balanced with purpose, I can be whatever man I want. Free at last. Oh Lord God Almighty, FREE AT LAST!

Remarkably for a man, knowing men well, I was tremulous for the trip-wire of distrust. Not just in the 'act' but surrounding all ordinary life . . . my darkened room with the floor covered in marbles traveled. What they claimed as “stepping on eggs” with me.

If I laugh at myself now it is merely for the joy of having that root synapse welded whole. Free to write fleshy, lubricious, sweaty, anything; but most of all erotica poetic. Each of us, regardless of how evil we seem to others, including ourselves, is a gem refracting light uniquely as snowflakes, all different. To heal we must be transparently ourselves. If I speak of M and/or Had She Said Yes, I rarely mention the interlocutor who, tho overtly silent, is always present. An audience of one. One who speaks with many voices. Remaining the Author of All Things. Spoken of as by many names.

Do you think me making this up? I am not near so cleaver, wise, learned; mantled with no authority save the principality of myself. I suggest nothing but what I sense possible and inherent in all life.

"Therapy isn't curing somebody of something; it is a means of helping a person explore himself, his life, his consciousness. My purpose as a therapist is to find out what it means to be human. Every human being must have a point at which he stands against the culture, where he says, "This is me and the world be damned!" Leaders have always been the ones to stand against the society — Socrates, Christ, Freud, all the way down the line." - Rollo May

For these gifts, apprehended from the three personalities above, excluding May, I will move forward into what I don't know. But sure to make up something more that will make me laugh raucously. Silent. Listening. When face-to-face with thou/Thou. Never and no one an it.

Choice, you do have one. If you don't, life will make one or all of them up for you.

Celebrating what you make of your once, only once? precious life.

Were I never to lie with another, through the night, this embrace, I experience, is enough. Each breathe being forever respired.

“Tomorrow! - Why, tomorrow I may be Myself with yesterday's sev'n thousand years.” - Omar Khayyam

130501 03:40 MDT lust on a leash

must be gonna get shot at dawn or sooner

. . . or maybe later on. Why the urgency? Me or they: the Thought Police. Google for that matter. Proto-Crypto-KGB. What me worry? Socialism for The Wealthy and Communism for us poor folk. Wall-to-wall serfs; sans home, future, whose for sleeping under bridges until Wall Street takes us away making pet food of us?

All dressed up, spit shinned Buster Brown Shoes with Tag, my alter-ego and Annie turned loose from our cage making all kinds of alien vocalizations. Who is to blame? M of course and Had She Said Yes!

Better and better with each breathe.

The Funky Chicken with authors human and divine. Who knew? I was too stupid to live! And now with the Internet a writer can't hide, safely nestled in the flesh of dead trees, snoring until read. Albeit, that said, I still celebrate these days of freedom's blessed quality if not quantity.

My pantheon of all-time-favorites grows slowly, yet substantially, one-by-one. With sincere gratitude I acknowledge Tyndale and William Shakespeare; first as verbally expressed then read.

Remember Bonny and Clyde? The movie version's closed lives. Alliteration by mechanical punctuation canceled for all time. Let us hear it for THE NRA! Stitching one another for looking cross eyed, preemptive settlement of every dispute. Shoot first and forgedabout the later questions. About which I know from experience having been a photojournalist running, like the wind, away.

An obstinate man does not hold opinions, but they hold him. - Alexander Pope

Coercive power is the curse of the universe; coactive power, the enrichment and advancement of every human soul. - Mary Parker Follett

Friendships aren't perfect, and yet they are very precious. For me, not expecting perfection all in one place was a great release.

- Letty Cottin Pogrebin

130501 01:58 MDT

I am made up by the many facets of reverence, awe, will to love, within all religions, and awoke celebrator of Israel this morn. None exclusive of course since the light caroms refracted from facet to facet across the whole peace I know.

Prehensile this gentle mistress god I know pouring sips of new with in the hollowness of my skull. Least I drown suddenly with inflow. Displacing everything before and I unrecognizable to myself. Utterly expunged.

The three quotes closing yesterday, above: thoughts concatenated in anticipation of Had She Said Yes who I later called in distress. I'd not heard a word from her. Previously she'd remarked that we might heal each other of our terror of what we are: male/female--separate but oddly making a whole dysfunction. Heroically as we, she and I, learn to trust one another to no other intention than peace as we are.

There is a mocking bird rehearsing last years disturbance now.

I had begun this post to acknowledge where my lover, friend, interlocutor, muse, goddess, leader masculine had led me across the void. Welding synapses uncommon, unbelievable, all impermissible before; self censuring. Our collective author, or God, as you may have it, is gentle beyond all the wrath and furry of creation or random acts attributable to cyclones of fire which M brought to my attention yesterday: “Acts of God!”

Really?

I cringe at the making an idol of God in any form, especially our own likeness. Knowing divinity genderless or at most both. More angelic than hermaphrodite.

I think my opinion is better stated in defining myself as at war with all that is within me; no more. Sun Tzu said it differently, too lazy to look it up, I will attempt to share my sense: we must never slay our adversary but learn before during and after the dispute.

Eyes brimming I remember the closing of worship, “Go forth in (or was it: incarnating?) the peace surpassing all understanding.” At the least that is what I heard then and now. Could I say the same when having my head sawed-off with a nicked rusty butcher knife? Not certain. I'll wait to see what I feel at the moment of my death. Last words seem more significant that all that preceded them.

Integration seems traversing a new city having lived a lifetime as a dead-end.

130430 10:31 MDT must be gonna get shot a dawn or sooner

Tuesday, April 30, 2013

to dream dying resurrected

I love America the vast fetid lubricious fecundity of it. Not apple pie, Gee Wiz Washington, the Flag. But the all of it. Hip Hop Rock n Roll Aaron Copland of it.

Love Boat being not a ship phantasmagorical lustful, or lost souls seeking sanctuary a la escaping Nazi Germany denied but a swan shaped floating conveyance meandering through a carnival darkness with James Michener groping his princess/Empress/Goddess who groped back giggling splashing her rucked clothes.

I love the hurdy gurdy suck and draw harmonica knee smashing cymbal/symbols doing the step and fetch it of it all: Camptown Races do da do da all the day long.

God Damn America the politicians, preachers, priests, teachers, Popes, the Presidents one and all of them save Abe. Good Golly Miss Molly I'm an Goddamned American too.

I am an emigrant tenant non resident fallen into the mud puddle muddle of it all and my soul ain't no white bread Wonder or Silver Cup crap slathered with fluffernutter. Tentative no longer wild child river rat from Ripley Ohio whose soul ran away with the traveling tent carnival circus sailing full and by down the Ohio down the Mississippi out onto the Gulf of Mexico and thence infinity all growed up. Going home. Read my lips, lick my library card, grab your ass with both hands and kiss it goodbye conformity of it.

On and on i could go but the subtext is: please dear God never ask me to read aloud 1 CORINTHIANS 13 ever again . . . next time I'll fall down and dissolve up in a puff evaporated nothing left but a wisp.

amen

130430 08:12 MDT to dream dying resurrected

could be discovery

could be maybe me a

collage pasted upon the night

floating in a boat nothing grander

than that mucking about stars

decoupage toe taged return to

sender breathless for the girl

to get the boy? why not they

get themselves first and last

magnificent together?

"Follow your inner moonlight; don't hide the madness."

- Allen Ginsberg

"That was a memorable day to me, for it made great changes in me. But, it is the same with any life. Imagine one selected day struck out of it, and think how different its course would have been."

- Charles Dickens

discovered 130430 in order

http://www.dailyliteraryquote.com/daily-literary-quote-share.htm

http://www.thefreedictionary.com/

lallapalooza avid rabid

It was a lallapalooza of a dream, kinky, symbolic, a keeper. In the sense of no need to annotate: GREAT! Memorable. A cerebral terminal arrival (British euphemism for orgasm--'arrival' that is) unimaginable; a near death experience.

Muttering to myself, 'I simply cannot talk about this' as the coffee dripped, it became clear the fetters are coming off; regulators discovered then abandoned.

All systems go--LIFT OFF!

Poetry is best when attempting the impossible with words.

To/For 'Had She Said Yes'

thought myself too obvious

following you through hospice

caressing your posterior with my avid eyes

now I am simply rabid

. . . could it be that I seduce myself with my fabulously frantically imaginative mind? Yes. Of course I can, and this is an improbable affair, she being twenty five hundred miles distant, and me near penniless; thanks Wall Street Thieves! Worse it was revealed to me I am terrified of women; of being hurt yet again and again:

Never say never--ever.

(afterthought: Never ever give upon on yourself)

Incongruous, oxymoronic, I discovered in my travels across the universe of words that Jesus saying, “Suffer the little children to come to me” implies: Least you see with the eyes of a child the wonder and potential of everything.

The issue for me is validation. Then collision with my personal bigotry, we are terrified of contra-genders, she and I. We talk about it openly salted with words like 'woo; and 'seduce/seduction'.

Again, improbable: she self-excised from a long standing dysfunctional relationship and I hopping on tippytoes, feet on fire, like a bear being trained to dance.

What was it the foxy astrologer said? “You push and push until she pushes back." Oh sweet Jesus on a hang glider burning I'm in trouble. Credible or prophetic?

Time heals everything. WAIT!

Clinically: Is this another invitation to dance?

The Big Show, the dance of life.

Floating through the flow, is a time bomb—a spiky mine twirling submerged. Realizing that as a writer, one must conduct the narrative, or drown. Disastrously or felicitously. Then, instantly thinking with a camera between us, it is the choice of the revealing moment that tells the entire story in one image. The nuns who taught me asked, on several occasions, is the camera a shield?

No.

Not really.

For me it has been a crowbar. Prizing apart God and Life. Investigating.

The saving grace, I think I have, is being a comedian; able to laugh at myself.

TRUE! It is not a win, lose or draw; for it is only in loss that we appreciate what was.

“Anything you don't understand is dangerous until you do understand it.” - Larry Niven . . . first up on

http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Wikiquote:Quote_of_the_day/April#30

Be well be good to yourself: LIVE!

. . . it ain't over until its over.

Sometimes I conclude thinking is a cancer and writing a compulsion. Knowing that nothing is merely 'this or that', defined definitively by me, god or anyone else. With laughter I can live with that; dancing in the moon light head back. Crying, sighing, singing.

I will close here, concerned that my abuse of your attention, is at an end. Adding my sense: where I seduced myself, I was entertaining to women who were bored, but beautiful, or had pity upon me--taking me on as a project of transformation into their ideal man who could never fulfill their desire.

Yet I do, ever so much, appreciate a well turned sentence, phrase, poem. Equal to a that twitching posterior I followed, following still. . . .just an eejit boy for insertions. A clue.

130430 02:22 lallapalooza avid rabid