091221 04:11
I awoke with a consciousness of Vincent Van Gogh's, "Starry, Starry Night" which I experienced long ago at, or near, the age of twelve.
I love the artist, all his work, for what I then came to love, was a massive retrospective. But "Starry" especially now. And well I remember witness of it, and my childhood self, as I was then dressed in my "Sunday go to meeting--get buried in clothes." The discomfort of that uniform and the day--lingers, therefore.
As stunning as the dream/vision/remembrance is. I would rather move-right-along into what I now realize is the fantastic elasticity of my mind. For which I am willing to accept responsibility . . . and that God, doth allow, and pull me further.
It is, at times--staggering.
To find myself involuntarily, at one point, versus another, in the continuum of potential consciousness is a delight. I am easily capable of savage nihilism, coupled with the wrath to destroy everything in the sight of my consciousness; including myself in the process. Yet I do, more often now, find myself filled with ecstasy--though I am aware of, and have not tried, the drug so named. I define the kind, degree, nature/nurture of ecstasy, in the presence of God.
To Love Jesus, God, Mary & The Holy Spirit to the extent that, I am now aware this consciousness so informed, has moved the center of my gravity, or insanity, towards the positive--slowly. . . .am i merely, insanely, in love with God . . . yes, of course!
To "lift the crown" from those adored heads of my heroes, both female and male, is to accept their consciousness of all personhood by extrapolation. And in accepting that gift, know myself willing to live, or die, for all the prehistory--and now--of our long, bewildered, march to Truth.
In all my internal/external travels I have never fully conceded to solemnity; in fact I am quite the opposite: irreverent, ribald and salacious . . . do I experience "the laughter of God"?
Of course I do. . . .for what is love without laughter?
No Joy!
The star announcing the birth of Jesus burns bright, a blaze, not twinkling, or winking, since it burned through the haze of time, the heat and cold of the then weather . . . and yes my beloved friends, Santa Clause, is real. Not, however, in the depictions of him as a mercantile advertisement. He was so named Saint Nicholas, the original, more nearly like God in balance towards crime and generosity; addressed with empathy and mercy.
I am profoundly aggrieved by depictions of wholeness, what most call--in their penchant for solemnity--Holy.
I know this of myself. Never surrendering, but arguing silently, without weeping, or grimacing, in the face of my mothers terrible rage. In that--I was well trained. It was her, and God?s, gift to me for which I am grateful beyond measure, the treasury of my being me.
. . . & of my fathers silence; I bless that as well with my forgiveness and celebration now.
Monday, December 21, 2009
God is: Love/Loving, a verb--not noun
091221 07:35
God is for all of us--what God is: Love/Loving, a verb--not noun, kind, merciful, far more forgiving of us than we, of, or for, ourselves--or even of another---or all Others.
In recognition my malevolent self-disregard, the failure to attend my ecology; smoking cigarettes, the use, and abuse, of women who loved me to the best of their giving. In my shame, the endless list remains, conscious, and never far from the heights of ecstasy.
Both extents held well balanced in my conscience.
Of my economy? Welcome to Club Poverty.
I knew the woman who died recently, in small parts--Mary Kroeger--but knew well, and loved/love still, the woman who knew her, more-or-less, from beginning to end--they were friends.
I am impaled upon the counter spike of remembrance; e.g. Rod Steiger in “The Pawn Broker.” I, in that memory, know another small measure, yet significant pain, of the crucifixion.
Ask, and you will receive.
Focus, dedication and conviction for the next, whatever, moments, or eternity.
Mary Kroger was a glorious, intelligent, vibrant and desirable young woman born of a schizophrenic mother. The mother won in the end. Mary died alone and ignored by such as remained of her family; so misunderstood was she as a consequence of her mother’s tutelage of, and in, insanity.
Why was it not me?
I have no authority to diagnose the degree or kind of my mother’s rage yet I bear the stripes of it upon my soul.
I am too ignorant of doubting Thomas and Jesus, their last encounter after His crucifixion, and resurrection, to quote chapter and verse . . . yet in the mention, i am there.
For the meaningless, neglected death of my friend’s best childhood friend . . . oh yes! I remember now breaking bread with her . . . and though she bore no remarkable beauty then, I well remember her shy charm . . . and gratitude while stuffing left overs in her pockets.
To say I will remember Mary in my prayers, is to announce the expected--and anticipated--ritual response. It is the nature of my love to embrace her daily in the mirror of my heart . . .Rest easy Mary as I am sure you do.
God is for all of us--what God is: Love/Loving, a verb--not noun, kind, merciful, far more forgiving of us than we, of, or for, ourselves--or even of another---or all Others.
In recognition my malevolent self-disregard, the failure to attend my ecology; smoking cigarettes, the use, and abuse, of women who loved me to the best of their giving. In my shame, the endless list remains, conscious, and never far from the heights of ecstasy.
Both extents held well balanced in my conscience.
Of my economy? Welcome to Club Poverty.
I knew the woman who died recently, in small parts--Mary Kroeger--but knew well, and loved/love still, the woman who knew her, more-or-less, from beginning to end--they were friends.
I am impaled upon the counter spike of remembrance; e.g. Rod Steiger in “The Pawn Broker.” I, in that memory, know another small measure, yet significant pain, of the crucifixion.
Ask, and you will receive.
Focus, dedication and conviction for the next, whatever, moments, or eternity.
Mary Kroger was a glorious, intelligent, vibrant and desirable young woman born of a schizophrenic mother. The mother won in the end. Mary died alone and ignored by such as remained of her family; so misunderstood was she as a consequence of her mother’s tutelage of, and in, insanity.
Why was it not me?
I have no authority to diagnose the degree or kind of my mother’s rage yet I bear the stripes of it upon my soul.
I am too ignorant of doubting Thomas and Jesus, their last encounter after His crucifixion, and resurrection, to quote chapter and verse . . . yet in the mention, i am there.
For the meaningless, neglected death of my friend’s best childhood friend . . . oh yes! I remember now breaking bread with her . . . and though she bore no remarkable beauty then, I well remember her shy charm . . . and gratitude while stuffing left overs in her pockets.
To say I will remember Mary in my prayers, is to announce the expected--and anticipated--ritual response. It is the nature of my love to embrace her daily in the mirror of my heart . . .Rest easy Mary as I am sure you do.
Winter Solstice
091221 08:18
On this the eve, the longest night, the nadir of my life, I am impelled to move into a new configuration, dedication and conviction that all preceding this moment is refined into love for others--like myself--broken under the wheel of night never become dawn.
I do not ‘know’ how to ‘DO.’ However i know why, and for whom, i now live in Love.
In that statement I am reminded of all my denial; “I am well! How dare you suggest otherwise!” Indignant I am reminded that I was then a child, become parent of loss, and now merely an old man too soon, or not soon enough to die.
We isolate and insulate ourselves in lies; living in desolation. And we are no better than the secrets we bury alive. Who & What haunts us, about & from which we ask no questions; expecting more lies, or silence.
Worse.
Punishment heaped upon insults, terrorism self-righteously justified by parental precedent. They, the victims, victimize their, Legacy, freely given to children without recognition their abused and crushed soul’s potential bequeathed.
On this the eve, the longest night, the nadir of my life, I am impelled to move into a new configuration, dedication and conviction that all preceding this moment is refined into love for others--like myself--broken under the wheel of night never become dawn.
I do not ‘know’ how to ‘DO.’ However i know why, and for whom, i now live in Love.
In that statement I am reminded of all my denial; “I am well! How dare you suggest otherwise!” Indignant I am reminded that I was then a child, become parent of loss, and now merely an old man too soon, or not soon enough to die.
We isolate and insulate ourselves in lies; living in desolation. And we are no better than the secrets we bury alive. Who & What haunts us, about & from which we ask no questions; expecting more lies, or silence.
Worse.
Punishment heaped upon insults, terrorism self-righteously justified by parental precedent. They, the victims, victimize their, Legacy, freely given to children without recognition their abused and crushed soul’s potential bequeathed.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
a truth in your heart of hearts, wherever your soul resides
091219 12:01
. . . a few words of dedication to a narrow focus specific to those in need
Explicit this season, the brevity of light, ‘half night’ plus the soon to come Winter Solstice
Too well remembered the past 68 Christmas nights when I longed never to awaken; all hope forlorn, bereft, desolate . . .
This may be the first and last Christmas of my life and its nearness to that shortest of days no longer terrifying since I now “play it as it lays . . . or as is dealt” my ordinary daily life; not in fear but with confidence that should I not see another night dawn vanquished all is well.
I can tell nor teach you anything that is not currently a truth in your heart of hearts, wherever your soul resides. The gifts of life, short or long, ignoble or royal, are what they are. The only caveat being you will, sooner-or-latter, know it and yourselves blest as I.
Love pours upon you in day and the twinkle of starry nights, throughout all your life. I beg you to receive it and know that you are your own bank account . . . so tremendous that to hold it would be to be suffocated in never being able to receive more, and more; endlessly.
& of this I am confident/convicted that of all life is well & more so day-by-day
Amen.
happy new day dawning 365 24/7
all darkest night, soul/sole experienced, end
& amen & amen 7 x 70 x 7 octillions refined/forgiven
& of course for our family in the Southern Hemisphere the antipode applies:)
. . . a few words of dedication to a narrow focus specific to those in need
Explicit this season, the brevity of light, ‘half night’ plus the soon to come Winter Solstice
Too well remembered the past 68 Christmas nights when I longed never to awaken; all hope forlorn, bereft, desolate . . .
This may be the first and last Christmas of my life and its nearness to that shortest of days no longer terrifying since I now “play it as it lays . . . or as is dealt” my ordinary daily life; not in fear but with confidence that should I not see another night dawn vanquished all is well.
I can tell nor teach you anything that is not currently a truth in your heart of hearts, wherever your soul resides. The gifts of life, short or long, ignoble or royal, are what they are. The only caveat being you will, sooner-or-latter, know it and yourselves blest as I.
Love pours upon you in day and the twinkle of starry nights, throughout all your life. I beg you to receive it and know that you are your own bank account . . . so tremendous that to hold it would be to be suffocated in never being able to receive more, and more; endlessly.
& of this I am confident/convicted that of all life is well & more so day-by-day
Amen.
happy new day dawning 365 24/7
all darkest night, soul/sole experienced, end
& amen & amen 7 x 70 x 7 octillions refined/forgiven
& of course for our family in the Southern Hemisphere the antipode applies:)
Felice Navidad
091219 07:22
I awoke with a different sense of this time and this day and our future together. An expectation of myself given as gift regardless of those received. Unconditionally spent without reservation; no hesitation.
Looking down at my right hand I am astonished at my profligacy gifting myself with a Turquoise ring of remarkable size set in silver, not expensive, yet I am dressed in splendor while otherwise disheveled. Ashamed at the prospect of presenting myself to anyone save the White Wing Doves I love.
Annie is accustomed to my slovenly attire loving me nonetheless.
Life is a fleeting thing while love is eternal. . . .From beginnings and endings it knows not.
I am finding my voice independent, the should’s and ought’s of yesterday, or years before, from the beginning till now. Where have they gone; those pains, sorrows and confusions?
For a brief moment in my experience I’d occupied the lime light for too few years sacrificed? No. I had no sense of giving anything but my trifling attention to Randy’s life with greater ferocity than any object/subject in Art.
I had ‘sailed’ through Johanna’s birth, life and death and collapsed, deaf, dumb, mute and blind at the advent of Randy’s demise. . . .Both now present--presents discovered.
Looking back, at now, the future seems brilliant with the light of season/reasons all the gifts given me at all times. Now that I am collaborative with The Author of Life who being Love fills me with love unrecognized before-during-after; no end of time since it began before clocks and will end never.
To know such peace in a time of terror is a gift beyond all treasure. You need not read, nor ask, since I give it freely without request and am detached your neglect of either this author, The Author or Yourselves, all nearly, dearly, seen, equal.
Felice Navidad
You are all blessed by God and this humble friend
. . . if I long for anything now it is merely that you know yourselves blest, never damned, either way --xoj
I awoke with a different sense of this time and this day and our future together. An expectation of myself given as gift regardless of those received. Unconditionally spent without reservation; no hesitation.
Looking down at my right hand I am astonished at my profligacy gifting myself with a Turquoise ring of remarkable size set in silver, not expensive, yet I am dressed in splendor while otherwise disheveled. Ashamed at the prospect of presenting myself to anyone save the White Wing Doves I love.
Annie is accustomed to my slovenly attire loving me nonetheless.
Life is a fleeting thing while love is eternal. . . .From beginnings and endings it knows not.
I am finding my voice independent, the should’s and ought’s of yesterday, or years before, from the beginning till now. Where have they gone; those pains, sorrows and confusions?
For a brief moment in my experience I’d occupied the lime light for too few years sacrificed? No. I had no sense of giving anything but my trifling attention to Randy’s life with greater ferocity than any object/subject in Art.
I had ‘sailed’ through Johanna’s birth, life and death and collapsed, deaf, dumb, mute and blind at the advent of Randy’s demise. . . .Both now present--presents discovered.
Looking back, at now, the future seems brilliant with the light of season/reasons all the gifts given me at all times. Now that I am collaborative with The Author of Life who being Love fills me with love unrecognized before-during-after; no end of time since it began before clocks and will end never.
To know such peace in a time of terror is a gift beyond all treasure. You need not read, nor ask, since I give it freely without request and am detached your neglect of either this author, The Author or Yourselves, all nearly, dearly, seen, equal.
Felice Navidad
You are all blessed by God and this humble friend
. . . if I long for anything now it is merely that you know yourselves blest, never damned, either way --xoj
. . . .Random, rouge, Christmas Thoughts . . .
091218 08:16
--Walter Lippmann : American journalist (1889-1974)
"A free press is not a privilege but an organic necessity in a great society"
. . . .well, actually a prayer for freedom from ignorance and superstition . . .
It is the season of giving, of love generosity, hope for the future and I have favorite charities too. Foremost, topmost, amongst them is faith in the Internet to educate all man-person-woman-kind generously. Though I doubt that my family will read this, as written or intended. I am able to fully communicate my dedication of myself to them &/or my meager resources for them. I will give such as I can to Wikipedia & sister projects:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Main_Page
Additionally to:
INFORMATION CLEARING HOUSE. NEWS, COMMENTARY & INSIGHT
One person's effort to correct the distorted perceptions provided by commercial US media. ... Yeswecanistan; By William Blum; Why should anyone be surprised at Obama's foreign policy in the White House? He has not even banned torture, contrary to what...
234k - 33 sec @ 56k
www.informationclearinghouse.info/
. . . though I doubt God is ‘political’, I am. And am willing to go where ‘angels fear to tread . . . ‘
I am a journalist, through-and-through, and bored with standing covert in the closet silent, mute but never blind; fearful and muzzled the offence to anyone’s religion, philosophy or teleology. Of/for this truth am I willing to die, God forgive me, as Jesus did, for you; all of YOU.
My fleeting moments of doubt, nascent fear, flee in ever growing conviction we are too near the end of everything to hide my passion that if we collectively die, we do so courageously
. . . never forget we are All Precious To God. --xoj
--Walter Lippmann : American journalist (1889-1974)
"A free press is not a privilege but an organic necessity in a great society"
. . . .well, actually a prayer for freedom from ignorance and superstition . . .
It is the season of giving, of love generosity, hope for the future and I have favorite charities too. Foremost, topmost, amongst them is faith in the Internet to educate all man-person-woman-kind generously. Though I doubt that my family will read this, as written or intended. I am able to fully communicate my dedication of myself to them &/or my meager resources for them. I will give such as I can to Wikipedia & sister projects:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Main_Page
Additionally to:
INFORMATION CLEARING HOUSE. NEWS, COMMENTARY & INSIGHT
One person's effort to correct the distorted perceptions provided by commercial US media. ... Yeswecanistan; By William Blum; Why should anyone be surprised at Obama's foreign policy in the White House? He has not even banned torture, contrary to what...
234k - 33 sec @ 56k
www.informationclearinghouse.info/
. . . though I doubt God is ‘political’, I am. And am willing to go where ‘angels fear to tread . . . ‘
I am a journalist, through-and-through, and bored with standing covert in the closet silent, mute but never blind; fearful and muzzled the offence to anyone’s religion, philosophy or teleology. Of/for this truth am I willing to die, God forgive me, as Jesus did, for you; all of YOU.
My fleeting moments of doubt, nascent fear, flee in ever growing conviction we are too near the end of everything to hide my passion that if we collectively die, we do so courageously
. . . never forget we are All Precious To God. --xoj
. . . reborn daily in . . . .
091218 07:33
I am reborn daily in Jesus. Not to be Him but myself. Eclectic in matters spiritual and religious aware God’s gift of self that we live at all, much less love our lives and all life surrounding us. It is my theology that we are all unique and precious different as snow flakes, none, no one like another yet in love do we live and make possible life for others. Our children, of course, yet it is equally blest to adopt and be parent to those whose lives otherwise would be ignored.
None is ‘in charge’ since the I/Thou is always with us silently awaiting the moment of our conversion from hatred, feigned indifference to love and immersion into the flowing, sometimes raging, other times gently flowing, river into eternity . . . We the chalice and the wine, pure water, known nowhere else within our sight. Our knowing is always outward moving beyond our grasp yet within is the eternal and infinite Other who asks only that we be ourselves transparently sincerely and fluidly bubbling around the boulders obstructing our passage self correcting; self healing given the ‘doctor’ of Creation apparent internal eternal outward always Other.
All else is adornment, costume jewelry, worn to cover our naked terror of poverty, meaningless lives otherwise dedicated to everything rather than Truth.
We, the girl and I, made love eventually. Our ‘affair’ abandoned for whatever, yet our love lives in me, not merely the fleeting ecstasy of sex but the ever constant embrace of mutually adored life as art.
In love everything is possible
In death everything ends
or does it?
. . . we, are each others, keeper responsible for all life
can we not lay aside the dagger pointed at from to each other’s eyes
random? This date, this time discovery:
--P. Hill
“Knowledge is Freedom: hide it, and it withers; share it, and it blooms”
--Paul Klee
“Art does not reproduce the visible; rather, it makes visible.”
I am reborn daily in Jesus. Not to be Him but myself. Eclectic in matters spiritual and religious aware God’s gift of self that we live at all, much less love our lives and all life surrounding us. It is my theology that we are all unique and precious different as snow flakes, none, no one like another yet in love do we live and make possible life for others. Our children, of course, yet it is equally blest to adopt and be parent to those whose lives otherwise would be ignored.
None is ‘in charge’ since the I/Thou is always with us silently awaiting the moment of our conversion from hatred, feigned indifference to love and immersion into the flowing, sometimes raging, other times gently flowing, river into eternity . . . We the chalice and the wine, pure water, known nowhere else within our sight. Our knowing is always outward moving beyond our grasp yet within is the eternal and infinite Other who asks only that we be ourselves transparently sincerely and fluidly bubbling around the boulders obstructing our passage self correcting; self healing given the ‘doctor’ of Creation apparent internal eternal outward always Other.
All else is adornment, costume jewelry, worn to cover our naked terror of poverty, meaningless lives otherwise dedicated to everything rather than Truth.
We, the girl and I, made love eventually. Our ‘affair’ abandoned for whatever, yet our love lives in me, not merely the fleeting ecstasy of sex but the ever constant embrace of mutually adored life as art.
In love everything is possible
In death everything ends
or does it?
. . . we, are each others, keeper responsible for all life
can we not lay aside the dagger pointed at from to each other’s eyes
random? This date, this time discovery:
--P. Hill
“Knowledge is Freedom: hide it, and it withers; share it, and it blooms”
--Paul Klee
“Art does not reproduce the visible; rather, it makes visible.”
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