reply 2 Saint Julian

"It behoved that there should be sin — but all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well." ~ Julian of Norwich (her famous visions occurred on 13 May 1373)

http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Julian_of_Norwich

In reply: Are not all loves, by quality — not Quantity, great creating more love possible?

. . . did I fail to mention that He (in previous posts) is to me equally She And/or something else altogether beyond gender like angels only better!

Jus’ noodl’n around, scribbling upon walls, ad lib, making it up as it goes, flowing like word jazz

. . . maybe all time in creation the whole magilla planting clues like seeds words that might grown into trees of life recycling the pollution of pretense delusion that anything is merely what we say it is vanity.

The above, quote in full, so far as I know, or can discern . . . coupled with several women of recent acquaintanceship become friends . . . has evacuated my distress principally . . . meaning I no longer feel compelled to shout about injustice but to covertly tunnel beneath it growing a new generation of equality . . . means and measures to be made up as we go forward but definitively different.

Devilish is my dyslexic heavenward sense what I read backward and forward \ between the lines. Aware that had I ten trillions of lives to live I’d exhaust each reading the brands of you and those who talk about walking the talk.

We, all life, riding the crest of a wave changing everything. Well, think about it, true of all recorded time. Having the means measures motives to either give health or destroy this pretty nest we inhabit. In a way, or sense, true of me, I love both those who profit and all prophets of any kind who seem upon close meditated contemplation seem inspirited by the same source. Yet I wonder as I wander towards my tomb about those who profit, do they really care about nothing else? And conclude we both plus the all of us will account eventually to the interlocutor.

Who? Hurls these darts of thoughts dreams and similes

laughter

always a clown for good god besotted . . . open quotes “ close quotes “ with an &/!\? in between

130521 MDT 09:08 Saint Julian in reply 2

© 2013 by Jack Spratt—All Rights Reserved

misappropriate

i have always been between — Have and Have Not — Doubt that i would/could/should know Truth. And now fear more We collectively — the All of Us as FAMILY — misappropriate “god” as an idol making what is beyond definition: mean cruel small false.

Departure, death and then? or a new life! I measure the treasure of my identity. In other words: were this shelter on fire what would I grab exiting the door. Annie, of course, for she is my cat companion responding/corresponding in mutual language / asleep or awake / things going bump in the night or sighs/laughter in light. Save for her what else do I carry forward? That which I have squirreled away forging a life for myself and she alone the two of us? Moving towards Pamela Joyce

Or M.

We've said our goodbyes/hellos across whatever separates us. As I will always swim in the emerald green infinity of her eyes/love/kindness/generosity

Like Wile E. Coyote http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VEFmFMeXV3E flung/hurled from the precipice I bounce back attempting flight yet again . . . up from the abyss marginally higher the next mesa. Less dusty but more sandy/salty.

130521 MDT 09:13 misappropriate

© 2013 by Jack Spratt—All Rights Reserved

sing your continuum

Experientially I recognize myself within a continuum of surprise. About which I could parse and triage it many ways, as is my proclivity. Simply stated before the time, long or short, a few weeks ago was demarcated with material poverty — rich in and of myself but alone. (afterthought) Unaware of my primal terror: never having a woman like me, in and through whom to grow.

130521 01:01

There was a nearness overwhelming, impelling me awake. No vision, omen or portent, merely a presence, overwhelming. Awoke confident, what was expected, finding nothing else, save sense abiding I’d held the long previous period of time: We are woven into a fabric—a community of empathy—for others not obvious. Care givers not takers.

Lingering is a sense of loathing, being a man, for men are more often cruel to life than women. Of whom I have an untoward reverence. Knowing kindness and empathy more common amongst them expressed/incarnate. Add. I had fallen asleep aware that there might or will be an end to all that preceded this moment.

Joy/Confidence/Serendipity redefined/lost!?

Wondering what am I to do with this oddly overwhelming awakening? If nothing else—or less—it too important to acknowledge it, the who, the presence, so close in time.

Sensing a scenario wherein I as a little girl gone to school, cut down in half, life asunder, mutilated or taken by machine gun fire then resurrect/reincarnated/reborn. More awesome than that. A drive-by by God? Something—or part of—or about me irrevocably changed all behind me no longer accessible just jimdandy.

And I am concerned for Pamela Joyce. Since last we spoke I touched upon my reverent gratitude we’d found one another similar yet clothed differently . . . she in jammies and I scarcely covered . . . laughing at my desire for her and she too aware being a woman alone. This girl boy difference of little concern, for even that will pass, what remains will be those words spoken in the dark last converse.

I wish this were fiction then I could make up a different truth, ending or beginning something else. But this is my truth, scribbled not dictated. A fine, celebratory madness this, who would ask—or could long for—anything more? Wealthy before but now rich beyond that. Near an hour has passed between awakening and this moment; perhaps I should simply return to rest and dream some more?!

The relationship I am thinking of is: Always say yes or no to, no ambivalence nor equivocation allowed in congress. Consequent nothing obvious. Just a dance between one party and another: personal. Nothing to hold on to, just a sense of being touched or bumped in the night, dark, no more or less than any other time; before or afterward. Imperfection a constant until we meet the interlocutor face-to-face.

A scrivener I am and will become a writer, perhaps, better knowing the works of others. None so admired on a Good / Better / Best Scale. But by the spirit flowing through them. Then discovering: "Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed." - Alexander Pope (poet)

06:04

. . . another way of addressing this same sensibility—empathy—sensed through my dominate: intuition/instinct.

I feel the suffering within those I meet and respond. And to those who, as mine, their suffering become peace, love, kindness, generosity—I bond/wed/welded. Passing forward what is not altered by greed—eternal—infinite.

Inverted bell i am clangor with quotes clapper

. . . I seek, finding, nor scribe, any new Gospel. No tablets of stone graven with wisdom. But write in sole the words only of my scars upon the root of me. This, that you read, is merely annotation of an unfolding—ongoing. My reverence is for your silence and the seed within growing only if you attend it. Magnificent as you are I see the luster within greater. Pamela Joyce only? No. In one and all.

. . . and this is only that i write

Otherwise I would be silent/inconsequential/superfluous leaving you as found as in all of it.

“Life has ... taught me not to expect success to be the inevitable result of my endeavors. She taught me to seek sustenance from the endeavor itself, but to leave the result to God.” - Alan Paton

Life is a stern mother, mistress, muse. First for me perceived and experienced, initially, as an adversary. Only now as a teacher from my first breath to that breathing me now. Forgiven and loved.

This day, as any other, long before my vision of it, and afterward—has a frisson of urgency impelling me forward. I am soon to Audition for a lover and woman who, unlike my mother, will allow me access to all of her; yielding what was intransigent immutable impermissible. Previously negotiated, conversed about, detailed, accepted.

For the moment, conscious, there are many spills between cup and lip. Should I die for whatever reason between then and now I am fulfilled nonetheless. My sense a new epoch is arising ineluctable as the dawn. And with the light a new born peace between women and men; slavery impossible.

Consummated here is her affirmation of what I write specific. In reply, I write differently now. Free at last of my terror: never being loved or affirmed. About all of it—from beginning to unending—whatever will be will be. Yet there is a sense of gratitude/ineffable/inarticulate. Envisioning being sewn together two clothes made a new garment grown from the ground of our meeting first til last. Playing every note within the symphonic score invisible or visible only to us.

130520 MDT 15:36 continuum

© 2013 by Jack Spratt—All Rights Reserved

stone soup

Tripod slung ambiguous vessel filled with hot stones and plain water simmering.
That is all.
Into which each passerby, hungry, adds a bit of this, another that, expectant stand we, together faces mirrored the stew nourishing us about to be consumed reflected.

be well
Be filled Full

130520 MDT 06:16 stone soup
© 2013 by Jack Spratt—All Rights Reserved

dialog

I am able only, to contribute a single voice, one of growing billions to the dialog between temporal and eternal. Finally there is a growing peace, not indifferent, but quiescent equanimity. My longing slaked and we have yet to kiss, the one for me the other for all of us. I thought myself fearless, but that was of death, for life takes / actually – really / greater courage. To be real in real time. . . .and true to the loves I know.

By what dipstick/ruler can I measure this, here alone in this dark loveliness? Experience. And my voice refined a bit sharper, yet not singular, but one of a chorus across all time recorded. Counted as one of fewer number than billions who long simply to live their time as they, think, intuit, feel and sense it; our collective will to love and live.

And this cup I will drink to the dregs / refilled again.

Drunk, and a fool for love. Love of the One and All.

Love, of course, is astonishing. It is as if I’d lived in a fog presuming my sight infinite. The fog lifted and I see clearly I was wrong.

For now peering into the dark mirror I see clearly it is more a crystal than silvered glass in which I see The All, as we the many facets making up the face of my beloved. Light passing back and forth from one to the other and back.

Organic growing not complete or perfect yet.

I’ll quote you no quotes, feeling impelled to distill their spirit into vernacular, accessible similar yet ‘original’ if such be possible amongst us. Aware of a profound – deeply so – gratitude for being read; an “I SEE YOU” acknowledge and replied.

All will be well / this glow worm blinking in the night / is happy.

130520 MDT 04:18 dialog

© 2013 by Jack Spratt—All Rights Reserved

live free or die

Difficult to see the tree(s) for the forest we’ve become.

Coupled with the systematic rape of our privacy by ‘authority’ of what? Government, Religion, Medicine, Science, etc. The savage sociopath of being safe; rendering everything subject to a junk yard dog’s guardian mentality. Fanatics costumed as patriots. To my sensibilities equivalent to the ‘foe’. Thus we implode beneath their terrorizing us: defenders becoming oppressors. In essence finishing the job for al-Qa'ida.

Love is preemptive in the sense it creates and enhances life. Law is remedial, after the event, absent compromise, it becomes oppressive by the numbers. Worse: it is terror by which we choose our elected officials and by terror that they amplify their desirability. Cataclysmic: is the factory farming of our psyche, for profit, enslaved to the 1% who enslave us more and more.

Artist, irregardless of media, attempt to manifest that which is inherent, the dignity and majesty of life as we live contemporaneously—in real time. Love is subtle and creative while laws make criminals of us all. Merely my conjecture, opinion, vote. Arrayed against individual liberty, freedom and privacy are hosts of business concerns acting against We The People. Corporations have the rights of individual free speech, yet act collectively, representing profit not prophecy.

Life is either creative or subsistence, vital or a living death and slavery.

By law, if you can be seen from the street and the image is not used for profit, you are free game. Photography as poetry: simple, direct, succinct. We have the means to render ourselves extinct, collectively, all of us, in one instant. And the measures are in the hands of those, though elected, I wouldn’t trust to take my shoes to the cobbler. Being liberal I tend towards the current administration but . . . but . . . I do protest.

Add my allegiance is to the will of love not law. If you must protest act against the covert injustice not the creative act interpreting the consequence. i.e. As many are murdered by cellular telephones as guns, hammers, knives or corporations like Exxon. Add, please, in a sense they, the covert, are killing the planet . . . not the weapon but the motive sociopaths.

Artist are advocates for the freedoms of life, while all others are for the control of it. Celebration versus degradation.

130519 09:45 http://arnesvenson.com/

© 2013 by Jack Spratt—All Rights Reserved

loving now

Despairing / resigned / to solitude / bereft of love of/by real / another

I find my life flung skyward

waxed wing of my gyre / grown stronger day-by-minute – Requited

Love’s no prison / her love is my loving her / as and where she is

me thinks for now she loves my vision of her / in myself arisen from stupefaction

impossible yet real / potent / fecund / although of certain years fertile of new life together

I dream, beloved reader, you know already that, yet in my awakenings I am repeatedly plucked of liver

by happenstance not an eagle perhaps but merely affirmations in spades

I had quoted St. Teresa of Avila last we spoke Pamela and i then first up there She was:

“It is love alone that gives worth to all things.” ~ St. Teresa of Avila (Teresa de Jesús)

. . . Wikiquotes become a massive St. Valentine missive

works for me howaboutyou what works?

Beloved

your are you know

don’t you?

Fear is potent—potential in all life given up — this has happened primal

to enter a new life for me is a process of moving towards the unknown/unknowable — risk of chance

faithful to guidance obscure/covert/subtle — yet this is real / happening tears laughter joy

no matter what

It is obvious that love is not original to me, nor are the words, obviously said many times across this globe’s history, our home, by others. Love being a verb — doing not saying — but talking about the walk is all I can actually share with you for now.

We are never absolutely lost/alone — the interlocutor — is there as when, He Jesus, asked this cup be passed — resurrect in part in me and I so love the process / trackless paths walked until now.

Without apology,

no rationalization,

or excuse,

we are divinity regardless of gender for Divinity is something not exclusive to either.

Inherent

I cannot heal the longings of your heart, merely suggest that you listen to that small quiet voice going bump humming/burbling in the night: the blight of sorrow and grief within / do not avoid it . . . trust,

be safe,

abandon fear,

be well

listening to yourself / that once and only /

you true to truth

Belief is someones idea. But faith is the robe worn by your experience, defined as process, not persecution ideal. Define yourself.

05:37

I fear that I may fail this I do, my greatest joy, write. Whatever it is doggerel or divine, happiness and growth for me. Yet I find in the concern redefining fear as a positive not a negative in that it draws me towards what community and communion is. Sex. Yes. But more than that. Sex in time is the lesser part of any relationship. What is overwhelming in youth — becomes celebration at a later time.

Each person in relationship is, to me equal, if not, equally enslaved.

Between us, we a common — nothing to look at couple — nothing to see overt / there is transparency: no lies. But a peculiar bias for one another / the best we can be together or apart. My ‘problem’ is to retain the sacrosanct of these hours alone to write . . . initially/merely annotation of dreams, visions, metaphors, etc. Become something else. What relationship is — as defined between two people — is virtually the same between myself and writing.

In love, I think, intuit, feel, sense an instinct: We seek a state of being; not subject to theft or decay — symbiotic. When reviewed with a dispassionate eye, I have seen couples who in their love, obvious, to me are magnificent. Yet emerging from poverty, my self loathing, I tended, formerly, to annotate only those whose accomplishments would otherwise be impossible; one without the other.

My liberal awareness of all wisdom traditions, in so far as I am able to comprehend, there seems, inherent and by practice, two separate ways: alone or together . . . how bereft would we be had not the Huxley family been? Or the James! Add. I adore Emily Dickinson, a celibate, as much as any other celibate; irregardless of institutional reference.

Tempted here, to quote what it is said that Jesus said, immediately drawn to Rumi. Laughing at myself for not my folly but joy. Those I love and admire, by list, endless. Then, obvious to me, is the interlocutor, who by any other name is lover, friend, companion and I am so blessed as we all are or can be should only we say yes to the feast of love.

Flashing across my mind, myself and Pam, hand-in-hand, beneath the shower head expelling lethal gas. We who cannot create, or love, destroy.

The greatest wealth is love not addiction, active in the eternal now, growing beyond death. The before and afterward of all.

Ignore me please attend yourself.

That which is within you to be best doing no harm.

07:02

Allaying fears — I called her in reply to a discovered email — I check every three and one quarter minutes— when it feasible.

In summary. I conclude my eccentricities, neither clever nor cute. Rather obnoxious of me and objectionable. A reasonable clause/cause for rejection, abandonment and all the terrors I’ve suffered since childhood. Yet in honesty and candor / between us / arises a new meter, language / potential of something never before

hopefully, prayerfully available to each and every conscious life together or apart — a bridge to infinity.

. . . and yes, love, actually

There is an organic velocity between us, from which we have grown together, rooted in hospice service. A place where there is departure and rebirth implied/inferred should only we collectively love one another.

There are many ways, methodologies, paths, imagined goals, but one interlocutor, who whispers in the deepest despair that we are loved

safe

07:46

Burbling in the background:

Love is what can be said yes or no to.

Addiction on the other hand is: that which can not be denied nonnegotiable.

For now, these moments luminous, incandescent with joy absent all sentiment, expectation, unconditional: yes

130519 MDT 03:55 loving now

© 2013 by Jack Spratt—All Rights Reserved