120928‭ ‬02:06‭ ‬train wreck

Time is a fetish; I once sold it by the hour to clients around the world; but principally through The New York Times and one or two Editorial Agencies . . . never in that era finding the courage to go out and sell myself to other clients I was well qualified for.

Retirement for my peers seems odd to me since I’ve not yet realized that I am in fact‭ '‬retired.‭' ‬Many of my associates remain idle reliving the‭ "‬glory days.‭" ‬I am still in the trenches pushing the envelope of creation forward and outward.‭ ‬Chuckling now I remember dad calling them‭ "‬war stories.‭" ‬I have yet begun to die in the traces; always noticing odd incidents and coincidences; what CG.‭ ‬Jung called‭ '‬synchronicity.‭'

I am,‭ ‬to myself,‭ ‬a train wreck of ideas‭ ‬.‭ ‬.‭ ‬.‭ ‬have you ever seen one‭? ‬Enormous‭  ‬mass hurtling in one direction.‭ ‬Engine going off track or burying itself into something stationary.

By vocation I was a professional photojournalist. Teaching the topic at The University of Rhode Island. Writing a photography column for The Providence Journal. Where I was employed as a staff photographer.  During this time I went to Missouri for a photojournalism workshop taught principally National Geographic Editors. And there I met Howard Chapnick of Black Star Publishing who later on gave me an assignment to cover the “Dump Nixon Rally” in front of the Rhode Island State House. I declined fearing it would imperil; with my son’s diagnosis of Leukemia  an employment assured Medical Insurance Policy. I recommended a coworker who did the work but my photograph made Life Magazine, double page, with an Associated Press credit line. My son Randy died six years later and my career as a photojournalist had for all intents and purposes died with that missed opportunity. This is not a resume, but another page in my journal keeping. I am surprised to recall that particular loss right up front. Until recently I could remember only becoming blind to my ambitions then. Of which Howard, over lunch at his invitation said; “Jack you are one the the twenty best photojournalist in the world.” . . . I was stunned and having no self-esteem presumed he wanted me to crawl beneath the table and fellate him; as it was I managed to leave the restaurant with a white linen table cloth firmly stuck in my belt.

Between then and now everything has changed. It is difficult to explain in detail and irrelevant; my focus it other and outward directed; away from myself to you and your Self.

I had begun keeping a journal shortly after my son’s death, his death following that of his sister’s; born with Spina Bifida. Traumatised in childhood as most of us are, in one way or another; my life became unendurable: depressed and suicidal. In 1993 I threw away all that I had created; images, tearsheets and my writings; everything.

This business of keeping a journal is not exclusively for posterity. I find the act of writing therapeutic; lending both peace and joy with the added benefit of clarity recorded for later review. Even if only to edit and rewrite before publication a deliberate effort to save others who like myself lived with daily suicidal ideation.

I argue synchronicity both ways, for and against myself, attempting to deny what eventually became obviously undeniable. Events and words strung together that were too fabulous to explain otherwise. Looking at now, the before and endless afterward I am simply humiliated that I could not own it or fulfill the gifts bestowed; instead I fled. Even now I am compelled to transpose or translate what I sense is appropriate and meet or match the language of those I encounter . . . those who call me long distance to say goodbye dying after hanging up. Bereft of excuse or shrugged shoulders I need to be explicit with both, myself and the audience of one.

Remembering is part of keeping a journal; placing events and choices within a context. Though I’ve kept it for years and well remember surprises discovered being now rediscovered newly minted bright shiny and new coins from common materials. Choices seen seminal, roads taken others abandoned. My ego surrendered to a newly discovered truth. An old man with the ground rising to meet my journey; distant mountain tops ahead beckoning my stride increasing. No longer laboring. 

The teacher taught that I have light years to travel yet vigorously. To myself I seem younger returning to innocence all previous lessons learned well. A night train running full bore joyously; whistle echoing behind me.

© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

"We are the people of times infinity flowing"

Reclining my eyes through the dark/sense a dream catcher/my head toward the north/upon my wrist is a band of brass from Tibet/around my right ring finger/a ring of silver upon which/a Mimbrenos peoples of my locality/1000 years-ago symbolic a lizard reposes/and upon my left Anamika ("nameless")/ a turquoise ring glows/what you might call 'wedded finger'

Perhaps, if time allows, meaning I don't die too soon -- one never knows; given the chaos of over crowding everywhere . . . I'll complete the poem started at the annotated time: it is now 120927 20:07.

M has taught me many things: intentionally and unintentionally, since with each time together I grow; both in love with her and larger in ability to understand and interpret her silences intuitively. She has walked with me through many changes, what I can call conversion/born again but refuse to accept the lexicon of either Occidental or oriental divination. Since it is thousands of years ago that it was spoken of.
Experientially the feeling is being extruded, or reduced -- losing prior conceits, hypocrisies, bigotry etc. Watch the no-speak of politicians and you will know what I shun and why. . . . seeking tolerance versus intolerance.

We are a people of the New Consciousness, all called, few answer and of those few most seek profit; not prophecy. Prophets seldom die in their sleep; they always speak truth to powers that dominate their time.

The image illustrating this post is her name in Native American Symbol. If you can read it you can/may know who she is. Otherwise, should I predecease her, you will never know; at least not from me.

We both are of Native American descent; hers considerably more recent than mine. Ancient: his name was Florence, buried beside a significant oak tree at the time, with his horse; in the state of Kentucky, USA. His grave is otherwise unmarked and I haven't a clue where it might be within a state that I've traveled: side to side top to bottom. 

I have immutable faith in the succeeding generations judging by their reverting to tribalism; what I initially misjudged as 'acting out' is in fact identification of their time of power when we are gone. They are possessed with anger worthy of the time ahead. 

Unlike the learning of those who protest our (America's Preeminence in the world) they lack our education. Theirs being, on the poorest levels of society, limited to what their religious leaders want them to know and act upon. We the learned of the world, while cynical at worst, skeptical a best know a better blend of church & state.

I am able to read signs. And so please forgive my rationalizations as being dictated by God. Who is not the God of your understanding; but The Great Spirit who knows what a Shapeshifter is/for/about. 

Yet, at that, I am equally able to intuit or trace the paths of others, either oriental or occidental towards what they sought . . . it is the Teacher who will answer your fears with peace, not me, or "God" or the 'devil.' Once you have crossed the boundary between illusion too experience, you will kill no one and definitely not your self. 

No costly licit or illicit drugs, no byproducts save for love; and no hangover. Better, or more better, yet no jail time just move forward towards eternal life.

I have light years to travel before my next rest period. House keeping chores mostly and a wedding rehearsal and dinner to attend tomorrow. 

http://encyclopedia.thefreedictionary.com/Medici%2c+Cosimo+de'

120927 14:43 amulet talisman fetish

© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

120927 05:25 4 U

I'm not here for you, me or God. This is simply my journal from which I occasionally tear pages sharing my images; here and there. I have no sense of urgency; what drove Jesus to committed suicide on the Cross. Although His sacrifice and martyrdom was for me for us for posterity magnificent it was done and that's enough. 

My theology, teleology or tango is of no concern to you. You, if you care about life, should learn to simply love yourself as you are . . . as God . . . and as I do. Yet I am ashamed to put my name next to, or near, or even on the same page, book or anywhere near God. Scratch the 'ashamed' replace with humiliated maybe. Or maybe not because to claim humility is a signature of genius and therefore of God. 

I have begged, prostrated, belittled myself forever attempting to gain approval and a right to live when all I ever received was, more-or-less, rejection, abandonment, beating, kicking and all the rest. Yet when I stroll the graveyard at St. Genevieve's and come upon a child's grave I don't kneel and weep as I did leaving Rhode Island beside Sr. Karin Flynn's grave to say 'thank you & goodbye.'

I saw two women, once, tamping down a fresh grave before which was a marker covered with toys. I asked who, what, where, when and why . . . they told me the father &/or mother had beaten the child to death for wetting his/her bed. 

And here, in Las Cruces, New Mexico -- it really is part of The United States of America -- once a part of Mexico but no more. I know a man who is my friend, a good friend, my best friend until I told him I'd never ride in his car! Because he was sold a new iPhone and was telling me about being bored while driving so he did, could and will use it as a diversion. To be fair: he stipulated very strict limits: at night on a deserted interstate, as he did while driving long haul trailer truck all across America.

He was overdosed with Ritalin as a child for annoying his parents. Was he, like me, 'lucky' to not be beaten to death? What is the difference? He is a handsome man turning 68 on October 20th and could run circles around me multidimensionally had he not been mentally mutilated chemically. . . . 

The only reason I have not, at least not yet, run amok completely berserk killing anyone or anything other than myself -- sitting here in my underpants smoking cigarettes -- is that someone, many someone(s) were kind to me. And if I claim to be loved by God I am, as we all are; even the parents and doctor and pharmaceutical company who made the drug etc.

I have no fear and fear not death. For starters, Jesus taught me that, were you asleep during the teaching? Or were you a slave in North Kingstown Rhode Island asleep with the master's horse waiting his/her pleasure the ride back to the manse? I weep now for the simple pleasure of having touched the cup consecrated by a Spratt during Queen Anne's time serving the Blood of Christ in The Old Narragansette Church . . . I digress and should never be allowed access to a computer or The Internet.

Ritalin; for ADHD = Attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder 
refract v prism bending light
"religion is society worshiping itself" . . . from my 'personal dictionary' where I look when I cannot get Google's Chrome to look it up for me; why I use it.

. . . The Ritalin Man hasn't spoken to me since I told him I'd not ride with him even if I'd been burnt nearly to death by some other person speaking on a cell phone driving me into the Jersey Barrier or a pile of other folks also being burnt to death from negligence. I've promised him my car at the time of my death; his has 380,000 miles on it. Mine, though eleven years old, paid for, has only 51,000 on it + 30 mpg around town 38 mph highway. 

I make note of days, hours, months, seasons the wobble of the earth moving into the Age of Aquarius etc. I can, but won't, tell you why. You have to figure your own periodicity out. Every minute is sacramental now. I take special note of birthdays, his is the 20th of October, I won't call him, won't send him a card, won't inflict my attention upon him or M or Susan or Annie . . . 

And I won't bother with the Authorities since I tore myself apart for thirty-five years with guilt that I might by: any means or measures in ways unknowable, have caused the death of my daughter, the abandonment by the other daughter or Randy's death. Susan possibly introverted and by nurture or nature silent seems to become more so behind the costume of Priest. 

120927 08:54

I am, at times, seized, by, or with rage; ready to lash out. I have tried to kill myself and failed too many times to not wonder why. I know the rage as the obverse of my passion and compassion, the opposite of empathy . . . at it is at this point the childhood discovery of H. L. Mencken's; . . .they should be put to sleep like mad dogs . . . echoes. 

Was I a victim? yes Did I want to kill my parents or God for the children's absence? yes Did I, Do I, want M to die? No! Do I want to die -- i don't care anymore. If you speak to anyone providing security personally and in trust of non-disclosure, no quote. They will tell you there is no possibility to deter a determined foe. I am not unique. I am a member of the School of Terrorism -- THOUGHT POLICE TAKE NOTICE! -- I am merely an unwanted child born from or by unknowing parents. I am too well versed in The Bible to presume Randy could save the world yet in his death I feel into hell and . . . or so I now believe took Jodi with me. In all probability she will never know me as I am now, nor will her daughter. Nor will Susan. And. . . .not even M can hold me for long from killing myself . . . dare I say, only God can? He couldn't save Jesus. Add to which I am sincerely more concerned with lunatic fundamentalist who might take offense at what I say about HIS BIBLE or HIS KORAN. 

. . . and then I return to the certainty that in Imperial Rome and the KGB they would eradicate forward and backward all who seemed to imperiled the State. The Holy Roman Church is guilty of the same. By deed or behavior it: THE AUTHORITY is stilling doing it to those who are, like I was in life, inconvenient to the authority able and willing to incarcerate, beat to death, burn me alive, eradicate and expunge.

In a sense I compete with God to be least and last making sure that all the living are saved. When M dies the world will have lost a magnificent human being for whom I have no jealousy; since to see her with anyone else is to see grace incarnate. Not, mind you, that I enjoy being a lump or litter on the floor but either or any way it is a joy for me to see her 'work.' I am merely a witness of God becoming more so hourly: a witness for God. 

With that I will close reminding you that you can only change your perceptions and know peace. Bliss beyond the providence of medicine, licit/illicit drugs . . . I would rather, like the religious and civilians of Tibet burn myself alive than thwart her powers. Beware of 'bad Karma' as The Dalai Lama said in regard to China's incursions into that place.

© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

“If what Proust says is true, that happiness is the absence of fever, then I will never know happiness. For I am possessed by a fever for knowledge, experience, and creation.”

"It takes courage to push yourself to places that you have never been before... to test your limits... to break through barriers. And the day came when the risk it took to remain tight inside the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” --Anais Nin

“For whatever else the religious life may be, it is the fountain of self-knowledge and disillusion, the safest form of psychoanalysis.” --C. S. LEWIS

120926 14:57 ordinary life

Day follows night seamless; I follow the Buddhist Master's; "Sleep when tired, eat when hungry." Napping during the daylight hours: I sleep like the dead and nothing can awaken me. Living on a local shortcut between two thoroughfares gleans many kids on motorcycles without mufflers and children screaming in playful joy only noted when I am awake.

I love this place where I live.

Breakfast at 02:30

Lunch at 07:30

Supper at 13:00

And I cannot remember when the last meal of my day is consumed. As stated: seamless are my days. I do sleep approximately one to two hours at a time awakening and cleaning house, grooming Annie's litter box and writing. Awakening remembering a dream or dialog and then the usual routine . . . .
Has changed from collecting quotes seeking answers to dreams or what's up Doc!?

Since retiring from Hospice work. Where I had presumed I would have continued until I could no longer do so. Never anticipating the conflict over my copyrighted material. Oh well . . . I'm okay, they're okay and life and death goes on; nothing unusual just the ordinary of, what has become, extraordinary: my life.

I travel easily between cultures and can fool around with even the most violent gangsters; immune. Why? I'll never know.

There are, even now, "days of Obligation:" water aerobics, grocery shopping and I will of need do the laundry idle since last February -- don't be concerned I have days of the year underwear. Sheets however are another matter.

Then there is M my joy in whose presence silent I've known more pleasure than anything I've ever seen in a television or moving picture show. And for whom I'd crawl naked over broken glass through fire just to see and maybe, maybe not, hear her voice.

Dangerous of association and impossible to live with for the ferocity of my lust and love am i. However I did in previously idle moments wish I had something to do that did not require the authority of The New York Times, Playboy or Time Magazine to do . . . oddly having been around the world so many times I simply refuse to encase myself in an aluminum coffin and go anywhere now.

Preferring instead to enter eternity within my mind, soul and heart; vastly rewarding it is, more tears, laughter and joy than I ever assumed myself capable of.

I haven't told you anything you do not already know of or about me yet I've had the pleasure of touching the keys and seeing the characters copulate becoming sentences convicted that I must stay awake another few hours to fulfill a previous engagement: pre rehearsal, rehearsal dinner, wedding and whatever follows--the most arduous work I'll ever do with a camera. Weddings for friends who abused my free gift by stealing my copyright claiming; "well I just charged the for my time getting your stuff printed." And she was a 'fellow artist' whose living depended on her craft.

The last tendril of my association with Hospice is a wedding I volunteered to do for zip to keep a friendly custodian from having to spend money for a wedding photographer. And I hope I don't expire on the job; the hardest work I've every done with a camera.

He, his family, and community are the remnant of what has become blurred here. Boundaries between Native American, Franciscan, whites like me, Mexicans, blacks, Asian Indians, etc. . . . by intermarriage the kids are glorious.

The last tendril. I knew it was always possible that they would have discovered me doing things I was unqualified for. There was no one else to pick up patients off the floor. Wipe their sit downs etc. I knew it was a privilege, not a right to be there, and so finally they kicked me to the curb over copyrights? I have arthritis in my hands, bad, shoulders, back and neck, getting worse each attack and so the professional grade Canon Cameras had to go. I couldn't hold them with one hand and do the things I did that would have resulted in my being asked to leave anyway. I replaced the entire system without promise of paying for it from reserves held back in case of medical emergency. Roughly thirteen thousand dollars lost; I should have just given them the money instead.

Life is ugly in America now. Civil strife between the have and have not. I pray it remains nonviolent.
Whatever
I remain joyful and able to arise from sleep and greet the next session of writing nonsense. It gives me a joy I never knew possible and more so each day, daily growing better and more conscientious about editing and rewrite before rushing . . . there are no more deadlines and I'm stress free. So I'll live another day or so concerned about M who may not.

Just another ordinary day. In an ordinary life. i ain't nothing special and nothing to see; pardon me while i disappear.

120927 00:57

I said and did all the wrong things for the right (to me now) reasons. Is that rationalization?

Were I Hitler in front of The JUDGE what would I say, what could I do?
a. God looks nothing like you or me
b. Jerusalem the 'city of peace' who named it?
(note please: I didn't start this; it began last night at a little semi-humble real adobe Franciscan Church where:Ray & Family: Bertha and four daughters who called themselves "#1, #2, #3 & #4 . . . all lovely and none looked like one or the other . . . thinking post man, milk man, baker, banker????
c. Father Dom who knew Cardinal Bernadin as I did, conversationally, never showed up? What was I there for? . . . .Well let me tell you I was in bliss (weeping now) the moon kissed the clouds peeking at us visible 3/4 of it and the light, oh Dear God The Light! Was it #3 or #1? Who said; "Yeah the sunset was good too" . . . looking west. I hadn't noticed as I wandered around where I was six years ago on The Holy Mother's birthday and the natives dancing ferociously ecstatic. Curious . . . i'm always curious . . . especially about all the Children of God . . . I've always been -- and yeah when I talk to myself I get answers. No. I'm not crazy I'm just in love with God . . . and . . . All God's Children . . . get you mind out of your pants Jack.

On second thought leave it in your knickers. I mean those short legged pants to play golf in not the British version of panties . . . you know the short legged pants to show off your Argyle socks and fancy pointy spiked shoes (laughter)

. . . God doesn't really change us. Metaphorically God makes us, like Hitler, see all the why's, wherefores . . . poor Adolph. I once viewed an "Illustrated Novel" (read Comic Book!) Hitler strapped into a chair eye lids propped open head affixed to a posing brace -- See Mathew Bradley etc. -- time exposure photography listening to and viewing his speeches: ALL OF THEM FOREVER ON A TRIP TO NOWHERE

is that hell?

Well if it is; this what I'm doing at the moment; is hell too two to 2 in a tutu and I f#*!ing love it. (M said; "I delete at first sight the "F" word! . . . is there such a character as a Half Exclamation point? I hate being scolded by beautiful, intelligent, kind, women, whom I love, worship and adore. Meaning I know when they are excited and out of control. Oh Boy oh boy do I remember the few times Susan was so! Sexual I didn't know her but enjoyed it. Making love to or with a (for me only women) is fantastic! Even if it is merely practice. . . . and oh man Rae is a happy dude. . . . & Bertha, #1-2-3-4 have special names for him slyly smerking and him, aw shucks, pawing the pavement looking down at his shoes . . . now I know why I was there . . . I loved him, love him so because he was he and I was i in hospice.

. . . i'll stop here. I have to. God is not in charge of me; i am. I feel like one of those inflated toys suspended above the madding throng on Thanksgiving in NY,NY what is now called Macy's Parade and I simply must deflate myself before I float away defying the laws of nature and physics . . . it is not time for me to return home. not yet anyway.

Religion is a portal to God. It is about -- but not God. We are we, or what we are; and God is simply God. Always Thou. And like M I am helplessly in love with BOTH! As I was with Susan, then Randy, and Johanna and Jodi but I've lost them all and . . . found or been found by God

120927 02:27

You are very special to me, not merely those few who read what I write, but all of the world filled with life. At that. I am helpless to do anything dramatic. And were I able it wouldn't matter. There are too many of us to sustain and the world . . . is going down.

Worn out?
Don't think so since were it not for us the world would be just fine. But then we wouldn't be here would we?

You, including those of you who attempt to control or flee from the "Madding Throng" are loved by God and thus me. You like me are nothing special, just another form of life like wolves and butterflies. There is one small difference, not my faith in or love affair with God, it is merely that in the Carnival Mirror Maze I've broken most of them to bits and cleaned out the vast floor of . . . the ground of my being and now in line skate freely upon the vast plain of eternity knowing myself as 'other' than what you say i am. As reflected in the mirrors surrounding me here on my in line roller blades chortling and skating doing figure eights.

I've long held a theory that Jesus was resurrected as is Mary via the Holy Spirit or something like that within all forms of life. Merely conjecture for and about which I have no affirmations from God . . . I've come to adore God's silence as well as God's 'speaking' not to me alone of course . . . but to all of us and that's why I write. This is a personal journal of how I came to be conscious in a time of unconsciousness. A time of fear, anxiety and, let me very plain: terrorism.

U ain't seen nothing yet! It is going to get, rapidly, worse: wars over water, air, arable land and it is not exactly "Global Warming." But maybe -- maybe not -- that plus a host of other issues.

Sex is fun as well as procreation. Without television, the Internet, etc. What's a man and woman, boy and girl, boy & boy, girl & girl going to do on cold winter nights? U got it! Whether ecstatic, by the numbers, boring as wheat paste; it is part of life like; birth-life-then death: part and parcel.

Yesterday I deleted all my pornography sites from Opera my, next to Chrome, favorite browser. Remembering M's affirmation of my doing so once before. (Odd, or not so odd, last evening exhausted I returned from the adobe church were the Indians pray . . . singing silently to me and Our Lady of Guadeloupe whose Cathedral in Mexico City called to me, to kneel, and knee walk to her walls & kiss her then grimy stones . . . True. I didn't but remember, remembering at the church in Mesilla wanting to and I so adore The Virgin Mary . . . i'm starting to cry. I realize that I saw her face yesterday in all the women I then met in reality and I'm weeping more now for the joy of seeing what I saw = see/saw & yeah looking into the Emerald Green Eyed Sphinx is for me similar just hadn't recognized it yet until writing it out.) Pornography is one of America's greatest profit makers and exports. Do you now wonder why Muslems want to thrawrt our 'progress?' I don't really know, but judging by my experience, sex to them is a sacrament about which no image can be worshiped. Yet in American, I cannot deny my complicity in it, pornography is a product. Yes 'Virgina' I masturbate lots, at least I did getting no, Susan my love forgive me, satisfaction.

That one life should be destroyed, whether Diplomat or peasant, boy, girl or dog . . . They're all equal in value to God. Yet Adolph Hitler and Joseph Stalin killed people by the millions. Why? Ideology become idolatry.

It is not what I, or God, or you want . . . it is They who profit from war. Were there a tithe, a gleaning, the lesser part of all the money spend on destroying life . . . life and love would be more possible for the rest of us. Retiring from hospice, and sincerely praying for a sundry reasons and roles causing it, I've come to recognize, without rationalization, it was very simply time to move on.

I did it. Not God or "The Devil."

& what?

I'm out of the closet: decisive versus indecisiveness; my former name.

I am not a lot of things I could name and don't want to be anything but a retired photojournalist who has seen what I didn't want to see. When I told Denis of my sorrow at losing a woman I'd fed for three years because she couldn't. He said, quietly: "i know."

In that simple exchange I realized the agony of Jesus, not on the Cross, but all those he couldn't heal because they said; "No way" or "Go away you bore me." Or, Or, Or.

. . . Susan became an Episcopal Priest and I happily didn't. Clerics are a reprise of Jesus driven out into the desert to die alone. He didn't, obviously. Scapegoat -- means covered with the sins of others they wish to no longer know about . . . how do I know this? From experience since I too did the same thing with her.

M said, loosely transliterated, to me, cryptically: "heal." When I later on asked 'who, why, when and were?' She said; "you will."

I have tried to editorialize my opinions making myself ridiculous to myself let alone you who have read me. It is not all the cats who don't get stuck up trees that make the "News!" but all the cats that don't go near trees. Cats know how to get down, their human companions don't know or have forgotten that.

Sufi's talk to me drawing the child who reads them into conspiracy with love. Buddha et al make it simple how to read life but Sufi's live it . . . and the one who evaporates me making me air or water is Rumi.

Helpless to heal her. Knowing I can't have her. I know better the humility of being a child of god. I have God no more or less than any living thing -- well actually all the elements of life and being -- than either you or M . . . I do not love Rumi the poet but who he wrote to. Add to which the who writes back U won't know that until you look inward as M implied . . . it is not she but God who replies.

In closing: I took a notion to buy some ice cream, it is really bad for me -- triglycerides-- yet waiting to check out this little girl in a pink top started unloading her families cart beside me. I turned to the cashiers, a woman of indeterminate age and asked; "Would you like to be her?"

"No. I did that and don't want to go back." What The Buddha said upon his death bed. That's why I'm a Christian because in death Jesus said; "forgive them they know not what they do."

And i, nothing, want to join that small chorus of those who care and give versus those who take.

# 6. Thou shalt not kill: from my notes -- The Ten Commandments

© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

120926 0440 --Ayn Rand

Visit CulturalBook

--Ayn Rand
"Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark in the hopeless swaps of the not-quite, the not-yet, and the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish in the lonely frustration for the life you deserved and have never been able to reach. The world you desire can be won. It exists . . it is real . . it is possible . . it's yours." --Atlas Shrugged

--Katharine Hepburn
"Love has nothing to do with what you are expecting to get - only with what you are expecting to give - which is everything."

Of the two, I prefer the latter to the former for President.

Everything material thing in life has a bias. Wood, for example, depending on the type of tree, has a distinct grain or bias; easily identifiable. Were we to speak in terms of "The Tree of Life," I think it appropriate to speak not of a single tree but all of them since trees are principal agents in clearing the atmosphere and water filtration.

Material such as steel has a different grain than aluminum which is principally flaky. And of plastic only God knows what's in that. Chemicals controlling the molecular structure? Speaking for myself I prefer glass having no carcinogenic potentials. Where I buy groceries poor people go and they advise me to avoid cans and plastic preferring glass as well as I now do.

I live on sub poverty Social Security, my inheritance lost in the recent economic downturn while considerable and excluding the million or so given to my half-brother should have been $l.25 million dollars. I appreciate and apprehend the value of poverty since amongst the poor we share everything and no one goes with out.

I rest my case.

© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

God, more real than you or i are

God, more real than you or i are

120925 22:19 ah ha!

I'd hate to die wondering and now I can die in peace finally recognizing that we, you and me; all of us are unwanted burdens to, resulting from, our parent's pleasure. 

Maybe: byproducts?

Accidents! Yes!

Of course you and I are unwanted; never thought of in the moments of mating like rabbits. That's what mothers are for to take of the mess for the next so many years. In some cases forever at least until they die leaving the child remaining at age 12 grown old at 70 still mentally challenged and incapable of taking care of themselves . . . no shame in that. And. Yes. Children we are our brother's keepers.

Yes. Life is divine but not particular to you or me but all life in general. Love & God are funny that way. Sometimes God says; "take notes" and gives me entire poems/prayers or sentences and paragraphs and once a complete short story. Seldom, but it has happened more than once . . . I know . . . I know you're thinking I'm nuts or at best schizophrenic but I'm too old. It would have happened in my middle age not just before I'm gonna die. 

In for a penny, in for a pound: British Sterling. 
Do you get my point? 
We were children when first we made love and that was because she didn't want to go to the movies watching actors pretend. 

As indicated I was gaga over her and still am: The Bride-of-my-Youth. It wasn't her fault it was ours, I was complicit and though I did run away I came back. Actually we renewed our vows three times over and the last time was magnificent! 

All the omens, portents and signs. Lighting, Rain like a Race Horse before the race; then a rainbow I'll never forget and the sun, "God's Eye" winking between the black under bellied clouds.

Soon I'll meet St. Joseph again and we'll talk about it all; the whole deal; enquiring minds, mine, wants to know. EVERYTHING!

I'm not just the gazing globe I am the chrome trailer hitch. Dense. Blind. Deaf, dumb and stupid. 

Okay.

It's okay we'll be fine here or wherever God wants us next; we've worn out this planet with overpopulation and it is time to move on. 

M said it all, "In my time you got married. You'd made you bed now lay in it forever until you die." From which and other clues I know she remains married to OB & Nazoni. As for me, though divorced we'll meet in heaven and carry on or something like that.

With just one little problem, I'm married to God. . . . or something like that.

Sweet baby Jesus flying a drone bombing mushrooms in Tokyo. I was never alone. You were with me?!

Wilco over and out I'll wait until you take me home bro. If you have yourself & God who else do you really need? Annie? And/or Koko!

120926 02:22 Part II

Myth and poetry serve a purpose. It is to express and detail things otherwise impossible to believe. 

In infancy we are cynical, then become skeptical. Once fully mature, as I am now (being male it takes much longer than females and most men never make IT.) The sequence in The Creation Myth was reversed because men wanted to take all the credit then enslaving women to them by guilt & shame. 

First created, metaphorically was Lilith/Eve something like what we called the skull 'Lucy' from whom, by virgin birth, was conceived and created 'Adam' the first male. It is at this point that I was formerly confused. Where was God? Was God the tree? The snake or The Apple?? 

Given M's allergy to tomatoes I think it was a tomato, which she calls "Deadly Night Shade." Which, I may be very incorrect on this, some call it a 'fruit' and others call it a 'vegetable.' For convenience sake let us think in terms of God being a Shapeshifter http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shapeshifting 

"Every poem can be considered in two ways--as what the poet has to say, and as a thing which he makes." -- C. S. Lewis

I remain nameless. God has yet to reveal my 'God-Given-Name' to me. My role is obviously subordinate to M since I love her to the extent I loved Susan; unreasonably and putting up with her intransigent silence. When I told her I wanted a divorce it was shameful since I was then dependent upon the agency of another woman. Typical male: Standard Operational Procedure: SOP find a newer or better model and leave. I did, without rationalization, wait until seven years or so after the internment scene: me hysterical and she silent standing with Nancy across the open grave.

Approximately eighteen months into our relationship. We were having lunch at The Village Inn, the one closest to our gym. I distinctly remember becoming gelatinous when M suggested that Susan was 'evil.' Seated at a semi-private both I nearly fell crying to the floor. I have never been 'suggestible' to men but women have always poised a threat to me. I had fended off several, not many, suggestions that I have sex with women. And one in particular had been a "Groupie" of Lee Romero's. Apparently she liked "star" photographers. I denied her going on to deny the promised potential in being "a star photographer" when my son was diagnosed with Leukemia. Recall, please, that my daughters birth, witnessed by me, it was obvious she would not, could not survive. The recall I had as a charity photographed for a hospital in Rhode Island a caesarian section birth.
I can be both Fire & Ice with a camera in hand and am so as I write this.

My intentions and motives in writing have now become obvious to me. M suggested in her acrylic way that I could 'heal.' At a time not too long ago I asked what she meant. She replied; 'you will.'
In frustration I "doubled-down" on keeping my journal, eventually publishing in hopes that others, like myself, could find healing without drugs or professional help. 

Never underestimate your 'enemy' think instead that the adversary, is like or possibly, superior in stealth and cunning. I mention this because I have an arbitrary limit learned from writing a photography column for The Providence Journal. Add. That your attention to anything written has the span of a fruit fly's attention.

My 'healing' is a process not a miracle. It takes grit, dedication and collaboration. I know, if you read me, you are worth every second of your life to achieve what has been 'given' to me. As 'writer or author' I have no idea how well or poorly I accomplish my intentions. Yet. I have a genius for discovering God in others. Add. That the same genius is applied in witnessing God's providence in real life everywhere. The only limit being free will, choice and willingness to address our fears.

Death has no dominion.

© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

Similitude and adoration seem felicitous ingredients for relationship; yet not in all cases.

We were both bonded to our mothers. Hers died young from breast cancer. Which is her inheritance now.

Mine went through several medical crisis that threaten the tenuous adapting I'd gone through with my mother. The first, at six, newly reunited after a year's family separation, my sister was born. Everything began to skew from that epoch.

Her father was emotionally distant, as mine, for similar reasons; it was the model of their fathers to be so. Pleading silent incompetence leaving child rearing to the mothers. Adored of course, the mothers were our first experience of god like love and dependance.

Both had tragic childhoods explaining much of our relationship now. Perhaps ending too soon for us; yet prized the moments together, our love is unusual; two solitaries, we probably will never marry.

Her keeping on keeping is a daily concern for me. Frantic as the time mom was cut in half for gall stones removal. Yet she is no mother to me more nearly an older sister if you will, or must, title or define.

Our love seems at this remove -- oh yes! Its not Sunday and we won't have lunch tomorrow. She has an appointment with the surgeon dealing with her cancerous breasts. As she is, she's more like her father to me? I love her yet my love seems to roll off her in distrust. Curious isn't it to know her so well assembling the pieces of our puzzle in a pleasing, or at least manageable, picture in a time of persistent stress. My crisis sailed thru minus one testicle; the pathology report benign.

Last lunch. Last goodbye. At our age last things are preeminent. Sloughing off of prized possessions identifying our lives apart and together. Ourselves in preparation for the dawn when one of us will not witness it or show up for water aerobics: three times a week. The exception being an Advent/Thanksgiving event celebrating turkey day, her birth day the next longest day after winter solstice, then Christmas. A gathering of friends and family; fabulous. In times past she would leave for California to visit her son and other family and friends returning to water aerobics some time around Epiphany. Christmas' Twelfth and last Day. Always agony for me my son died 10 December thirty-five years ago at age ten. His sister preceding him a few years before at 18 months.

Blanched with pain, older than I, laughing, smiling and scowling or simply being The Sphinx I adore. In all kinds, sorts and conditions. She will not give me permission to . . . with only one exception . . . publish her portraits by any effort of persuasion. And I love her because she is from first to last beautiful, kind and generous. Once proclaiming she must change venues from the hospital rehab to water aerobics due to pain. She added; "This won't be a divorce, we'll still meet for lunch . . .  Of course I followed her making no difference to me where or how I rebuilt my stamina from which early on I'd decided to end my life so limited it had become. I've always been attracted to beautiful older women. She is all of that and more so much so.

Once a forensic psychologist for the State of California and in private practice there. Something she did not tell me until long after we'd become the best of friends. She saved my life. Then gave me a reason to have a life where before I'd had none whatsoever. Moving through the days from pillar to post and back again. So if you think of us, remember we are or were: Lovers of a certain age reborn; expecting to meet again in heaven with her husband and a wolf named Nazoni.

God bless and be well arrived from all your travels.

120925 19:03 similitude
© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved