change yourself change the world

Hyper Vigilance is to remain awake through exhaustion in anticipation of not missing a threat. Now, after years of remembering Mom's remark; "There will be a time when you will beg for sleep . . . "

Of course it never happened. What did happen however was that I became aware of loving my solitude; the silence, not having, or being obliged, to be 'on guard' all the time.

With bitter/sweet fondness I kissed myself, as I was for the past so many years I no longer count them; goodbye forever. Co-Dependent to the very end. I used women to define me in ways unacceptable inevitably leaving them overtly/covertly but running away without excuse. Eventually recognizing myself dedicated not to being a wild child but to God. Nauseated by the cloying saccharine images of Jesus seen in Baptist Sunday School Classrooms: reference where this me began, somewhere around the changing of time; irrevocably altered by a men's study group centered in Keith Miller. In time, such as is left to me, being too well acquainted with instant death from birth until now that I find the prospect as welcome and living trillions of years in the mind of Creation. I will detail my experience of all the help available to those who quest for truth: personal; freely given.

Instant recognition: I thought I needed an audience to see my suffering and tell me what it meant. Not to vacate it but find meaning in pain, humiliation and my shameful addiction to it; being molested endlessly for the distraction of people just like me. So it seems now that in redeeming my parents and our endless, or so it was until now, cycles of abuse: cause and effect. That which I either walk away from or reply with savage violence ala Christ amongst the money lenders tables. Whether factual or fanciful, metaphorical or just a typo, the scenario is more instructive for me now being nothing like the Jesus I know as a brother in God.

Metaphysically we are all Children of God. Regardless of race, creed, gender, geography or any of numerous definitions to assign what is benevolent or malignant. I find no threat in God of whom and for I would extinguish my consciousness gladly sure that it and all will be well here and now. My trust and faith explicit. . . . as Jesus calling from the cross; "why have you forsaken me?"

"I ain't nothing special, nothing to see, pardon me while I disappear . . " From "Take the 'A' Train" by Duke Ellington. I got soul too but you have to give me a break; being a pink elephant rolling about the stage of eternity, for now, upon a large red, white and blue beach ball.

After the Keith Miller experience I began attending the Episcopal Church, leaving behind The American Convention Baptist Church, a co-pastorate no longer affordable, meaning both pastors had to leave.

Well remembered those times, Randy still lived, there was hope abounding. Yet for me it was merely waiting for the inevitable. Recalling now my sense that I was gifted by those widows who attended for a lifetime (Saint Paul's, Wickford, Rhode Island) keeping the heat and lights on, the place clean . . . my roots are elastic, loyal and never broken, at least not in my conscious heart. The corpse I kissed in my sleep was rigid in wanting someone, a woman best, to tell him it was okay to be beaten raped and robbed endlessly. I don't need a mommy anymore, haven't the time and sure as God made the Stars, will never again contemplate 24/7/365 with or without gratuitous sex and all the trappings of a marriage the once ideal.

I still keep the Mass knowing that God is in no way religious, we are. And betimes I kneel five times a day praying to Allah as well. Sitting under the The Bodhi-Tree (or wisdom-tree) covered with blossoms. That said: when I read Rumi i disappear altogether in love for it and you all.

Significantly M&i learned in early childhood to think on our feet. In this regard consider it meditative versus contemplative. Or finding God under fire. Neither of us consider wealth as jewels but smooth river stones. . . . there is joy in menial work and being anonymous. . . . one's ideal mate is God.

All is well, you know, it will be whatever happens.

121104 18:40 soul processing
© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

self love, sorta

A musician by nature, nurture, genes and DNA I remember being told by dad; if I wanted to be like Miles Davis or Chet Baker, a pro, he'd punch out all my teeth. I never thought to ask Maynard Ferguson if he wore dentures. The one time I was with Miles, backstage at The Newport Jazz Festival; he ignored me. That image is buried in Naperville's landfill. (A WASP suburb of Chicago, Illinois, USA)

Oh Sweet, sweet Jesus on a unicycle do I hate being white! And once-upon-a-time middle class from Greenwich, Connecticut, USA

Do I need proof? The mementos, women, souvenirs, quarts of tears, scars

I've been there, done this, and that, can attest the greatest thing we create is ourselves.

Add.

The only competition worthy of your attention, like applause, is within. Easy for me to say but a hard earned truth . . . wandering through Rodin's studio, astonished now to remember Rilke was his secretary . . . if only the rich like the bitch who owns Walmart were to donate their theft of others lives and art, to be freely see in population centers and not Little Rock Arkansas. I might be a little less chimeric towards the vanity others; of mine, I subdue with frequent clubbing's. Sometimes to ride others to be devoured.

Decade upon decades I've wept at the sounds universal prayer, music sung in my soul; just one  bar and I could name it. And now, even now I weep for the slave I was made to fulfill my fathers failures . . . friends do not enslave . . . yet he seemed so calling me moments before his death to say goodbye.

Who am I to judge he whom I am required to 'honor'? At the cusp of my seventy-third year on earth I forgive myself for loving him so blindly and adoringly. Music now speaks genius to me yet all I know to write are words. He would pay me a nickel for every orchestra voice I could differentiate; now I enter the whole and find more the will to create, not follow train tracks without terminus. Near the end he offered me the music publishing aspect of his fame and fortune saying; "It's only worth five or so thousand per year now . . . "

“No dad I've no time for it.”

Ashamed of the devotion I gave and his disregard of all that was sacred to me. Myself now rich beyond dollars and cents happily mendicant.

Turned out to pasture, to die in peace. Little chance of that given the Nazi Death Camp made by J. L. Gray Management, where I live -- another story perhaps.

Those who can do, them who cannot teach, and they who can do nothing administrate.

The world, this small abode of mine, suffocates beneath the lard posterior of incompetence parading as divinely endowed authority.

How can it be that I have met the few kind and gentle people, women and men, gigantic in compassion; while I am daily subject to fools? Can I be for them: J. L. Gray, et al,  the balm those compassionate, passionately so, were for me?

Once I entertained suicide daily; knowing all the methods and practices intimately. In an idle moment I asked, to no one, for I was alone; "What can I do to be fully engaged without begging the permission of Mass Print Media to justify my further education?"

At the very least I now am self-loving enough to laugh at myself zooming amongst the stars: a flatulent party balloon farting comets; eternities lived in moments.

121104 04:40 self sorting
© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

Dancin'

To say I've flim-flammed the FBI & Secret Service is no lie, nor boast, just the facts Mam.  But then I'd been working for their boss at the time. My dream suggests that I have a too easy familiarity with authority, resented by those who watch me tap dance my way through life. Blessing and curse I've just discovered it my major problem interfacing with bean counters and failed lawyers; all more-or-less ambulance chasers living off the suffering of others.

Odd to think of myself as Wile E. Coyote http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VEFmFMeXV3E.

The divine education continues by various means, measures and rods of measurement. My point being: to unlearn all that I was taught by parents, teachers and schools; especially The Greenwich (Connecticut, USA) Board of Education.

I am talking about The Big I AM upstairs. All the rest, from The White House down to the local administrators are superfluous; pikers and wannabes.

"The sins of the Father rest upon the son . ." or something to that dyslexic perception of mine. Means: The sins of the parent (mom or dad or both) rest upon the child (see http://bible.cc/isaiah/14-21.htm) . . . there is so much more discovered in what I sought, enough for many posts.

I am thinking of a vision I received long ago; that of two funnels conjoined; a variant of a speaking and/or hearing trumpet: glass, floating in space. With? A confessional screen between the two??? It suits my following metaphor: of myself a moth drawn to the fiery light hitting the screen like filter and separating essentials from chaff.

I sense now, at times, I write to redeem myself and my parents; who's behavior was less than instructive but more destructive to all that I might otherwise have been or become had I the confidence than that holding me now; feeding my vain pursuits into The Fargo Shredder. Emergent not a pink mist but reconfigured; a kinda mystery meat--me.

If as I do now understand apprehend and celebrate the purpose of pain, obviously not self-inflicted, but borne as I have, I have loved my parents regardless of their intents or absence thereof. In forgiving them I am better able to begin having compassion for myself. In some small measure learning to love me, as I am, or was, regardless what I become . . . a dust mote racing around infinity becoming less daily. A zero: nothing.

These dialogs are not for me alone, but us, all of us, potential to be all that we are yet deny capacity for. Fear makes us small, growing smaller and meaner as we progress towards death. I can prove nothing save to tell, or witness, what happens daily now.

However should you ask it will be given.

Think in the final moments before slumber what troubles or celebrations you have. The reply may take a lifetime to understand but the simple awe of being attended is beyond speech.

In closing; I doubt I have done due homage to the gift awakening me. Possibly lost in my normal mechanics of greeting the next time of being vertical and still alive. I lie not since I do die in bliss and at times wish never to awaken again.

Yet I do, and for what I know better daily. Governance and religion are what they are, human institutions about, but not, God. Truth? And being such go only so far and no farther. It is up to we who care for the life of love, and love of life, to do what is asked and what we are capable of doing no harm. Healing this world, crushed beneath the false god of Mammon.

As for myself, I have enough, yet in giving it away make room for more. In the process all my dysfunctions have been, or are being, healed; integrated reconciled and redeemed. This is priceless beyond any value I can name otherwise.

"You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal part of your body love what it loves." - Mary Oliver

http://www.featureshoot.com/2012/11/you-dont-own-me-mitt-romney/

121104 01:11 MDT dancing
© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

I have, forever, hated my birthday, soon arriving after the turning of clocks backwards lengthening the dark.

Recalling the barren trees of Connecticut. An occasional yellow leaf dourly lingering; the next rain, frost or wind to take.

In those years before my enslavement to mom and dad, their business affairs, I’d be recently returned from heaven, the haven of my maternal grandmother’s love, near always unconditional save for the time I fell off the pew back during the Wednesday night, bug light, prayer meeting. At Ripley Methodist. Dim bulbs hung by skinny snakes dangling from the dark above.

She mouthed the letters forming: “M U R D E R” -- followed by an oval -- “U” No exclamatory mark required. I pinned by shock upon the church floor looking to heaven for help. Afterwards during the walk back, three blocks, in the dark I danced chanting; “Oh Mama Lu, I love you” over and overs circling her steady march. Upon entry into the dark of her kitchen our only ingress she embraced me laughing and I held in reprieve and a kiss.

Seemingly so long ago, yet reprise in my lust filled eyes for another woman; imagining sanctuary. Never held for long enough or adequately to ever be safe. Come hither go away. Or stony silence. No affirmations or acknowledgment. Friends no benefits. You’d think I’d have learned by now there is no room for me anywhere accept in my cave with Annie.

Love it seemed was conditional at best political in the sense of reality pragmatic and I held captive beneath a steel submarine net staked in rock. I often in retrospect wonder was it me or her? Who destroyed the bond so fragile. In loving God, who is more responsive than anyone I’ve ever known, why would I need a woman? If God loves me and knowing this experientially why I see the embrace of another woman is perhaps, just to know the world safe for love? In community and communion. We know no value until it is lost. Irrevocable.

I called her this afternoon asking after her well being wondering had she made the change and accepted the implied or hopeful prospects? Yes! Two Thousand miles east and northerly in Vermont where I once skied Jay Peak. Our ‘affair’ centered around two who were near death. One is gone the leaving day left behind my career besmirched by administrative snarl. The other remains very much alive fearful that she will be expelled for the same reasons. Alive. And attempting to reconstruct that which was taken away from her so that she could die in peace.

It was wonderful. She who knew my burning passions and compassion so formed around the halls and patients we’ve both abandoned. Not so much by choice, but merely that there is a breaking point. Both had gone far beyond the point of no return without protest or violence until there was no reason to stay masochist.

Oddly I’ve wandered into the explosive point why I run away and/or otherwise would “Go Postal” flipping out and destroying indiscriminately anyone or thing in my path: going berserk, running amok. Such love sought and found freely given comes only from God.

In a time and culture of consumerism everything and everyone one is a commodity. I lost the one woman who thought and taught me to be who I am now. But in that love I remain since it is love that matters not it’s source save for God. Her providence lingers still driving me to beat the keys . . . a i above all know the fabulous life i’ve lived and am well blest in that and that is enough. To fill the long lingering nights unto death this winter promises alone.

To close. I found in a thrift shop a Moon mounted on a pedestal with a votive socket behind it. Thinking of Randy’s, Merton’s and my maternal grandfather's death anniversary: 10 December I will burn the candle and weep for joy this next, perhaps last, Christmas knowing the gift of God inherent in the celebration--Christ Mass--birth and the coming death then resurrection sure.

I may never write as well as those I read, especially Annie Dillard. But oh Dear Lord do I enjoy her and knowing that I too walk the same planet for now.

Be well, if not. please invite me to walk with you for a time together; both getting better.

121103 18:43 MDT arriving fall
© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

Awoke with a certainty that all beauty, as wealth, is relative and dependent upon the eye of the beholder. Then rushing into the light this next and never to be repeated day discovering myself rebutted not refuted in what I published before retiring for the rest I sought.

I remain in free fall from hospice seeking a new configuration the wings of my attention. While doing rolls and turns breaking the barriers implied moving past the speed of light it seems now I move not at all . . . an attempting to read Annie Dillard want to remain silent the rest of eternity. Add to her Lao Tzu. Both carpet bomb my mind leaving not ruble but flower of light exploding. I sense God laughing at and with me as I attempt to define The All nakedly invisible with Post-It notes.

My free fall becomes more explicit moment by second. Seeing it is not healing others but merely creating myself. And horror of horrors I’m fulfilling, albeit unconsciously, my random rouge ideal of rewriting the Bible in today’s advertising language; sans lies, but truths available experientially. Sadly aware that so few and fewer read. However there is hope since nothing is inconsequential to God; no lie is every hidden like the child in a gingham dress dismembered and covered with lye or acid to hide the guilty from prosecution eventually. But my knowing of myself indicates even those beyond redemption have crucified themselves. The Real Deal, The Judge awaits, patient and invisible.

There is no safety, nor harbor of tranquility accept to accept it all and everything as given without resentment being robbed blind, striped naked, raped, spindled and mutilated more better kicked aside as litter to those who do so.

Of all my heroes and heroines Randy and Johanna remain the best since they blest me for a time with their presence and through that gift of unending grace I am fine thrice blest to have ever lived at all.

Of messengers I remember best she whose words, seldom, but blows, kicks and snarled stated the legend of the Stoic boy caring a fox beneath his cloak eating him as he ran to the King. Upon delivering his message the boy fell dead eating by the fox. I won’t tell you my after death experience save to say that she, mom, was god to me . . . LOL . . . fully integrating the two one male the other female and she taught me and how! To do the same. Own nothing not this body that writes nor the mind that drives it.

How to say it? I love Islam as another facet of Abraham family traditions. Each attempting to eat the other for their affirmed and truly revealed favor of God. Or should I say flavor of God?

I have an instinct for God is Good in All Things. Earned with gallons of tears, limitless rage, laughter beyond telling and scars all over my mind. Ask and you will receive more than you or I or all can contain; at least in this life we live. Dancing with The Stars? Absolutely learn to soar to fly from galaxy to others so distant none can be experienced unless in their arms.

Why merely sit at either right or left side of God? Why not merge with The All Right Now this infinite being in NOW.

121102 07:30 extraordinary

To read something grander than that which is published on the outside, The Breakfast of Champions, metaphorically, is to take you head off placing it in a microwave oven and blow it apart.

Possibly this explains the phenomenon of the born dead. Note: Not ‘still born’ but the ones who drive SUVs proudly covered in the flesh, blood and tears of National Guard’s Personnel lead by the virtual equivalent The Congress of Baboons. More or less the Old School of Favor the Idiot you know versus the interest of wisdom and commonweal of all life.

So many threads, so little time, must keep my head on target; eternity not mere entertainment. The reigns on this run-away-maverick have dissolved. Largely through the agency of prayer. Not: “Now I lay me down to sleep . . . “ so much as those thoughts posited upon the threshold of rest from which . . . I love the word trebuchet, not merely as the first instrument of siege introducing chemical mass destruction wholesale but merely forming the word itself in my mind. Then, of course, in my mouth but problematically I start grining and guffawing and sometimes, now, become weak in the knees preparatory to falling laughing down! . . . It once was being hurled from sleep into this activity of annotating my dreams: the multitude, variegated, scintillating my posterior singed from by self-propulsion ignited methane aflame zooming through the ever distant boundary of the far flung outer edges of  Creation expanding into nothing.

Factually, of and in myself, now, having no anthropomorphic image of God as man, woman, child, mineral, water of any kind. Being no longer bemused with the potential of Shape shifter etc. Fearless acknowledging the “Acts of God” not attributable to malevolent intent anywhere near the extent of our killing ourselves with waste of all kinds--the water table comes to mind for merely on example to fuel the foolish vanity of SUV s and heat McMansions upon the shores of seas. Gazing fondly at your pomposity in the darkened glass surround, upon the boundary of what you own and what owns you; reaching into the sanctuary of your supercilious accomplishments and dragging you to drown in the deep soon to die of pollution.

Boys and girls I am not talking about farting in the bathtub and igniting the bubbled gas with matches here. I refer to the fact that fracking will lead to bathing in napalm. But of course that is external; imagine an enema of flame. Or merely belching near open flames, a candle lite dinner for example and cremating your date. Not blowing him or her away but merely making of them a cinder with small inconsequential wisps of smoke idly wafting about in the vagrant thermals of the restaurant. A nearby couple celebrating their graduation from high school both in synthetic attire now in flames screaming leaping and writhing in midair. Somersaulting through the distant overlook from the nineteenth floor becoming comets falling upon the pavement below.

Move over Nostradamus. I think we’re onto something here! Another flood of sorts? Filled with soiled condoms, years and years of New York Times Sunday editions regurgitated. No floating corpses of National Guard personnel self extinguished or retroactively aborted. Born free yet dying because there is no right to life after being born. Becoming cannon fodder for scatocephalic lawyers who define life as a convenience to service their greed for more.

All institutions die of administrative fees applied to the truths once inspired; if not now, when?

What exactly did I ponder up entry the silence of rest? Well. I remember asking why M would wash out her son’s mouth with comet cleanser and then refer to another young man as calling her “mom.”

At this point in my narrative I realize that the entire planet is in hospice dying but not knowing it. Add. My anima, the feminine component of my soul really has no face; nor the illusion of Mary beneath her cowl twice visited in her pulsing pink quartz grotto. Should or could I revisit all her incarnations the nudges and tweaks. Would I know better this beast who now speaks of the end of everything laughing at the prospect.

The beauty of poverty and old age is that one gets to see God in real time. Retaining the ability to tap dance in a red striped blazer flipping your boater straw hat twirling your cane and smiling while evaporating in love. Annie, the rescue cat rubbing my ankles smiling.

I wish one and all a nice eternity though you will wish never having been born you’ll get over it maybe.


121103 02:28 something else altogether
©2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

Self Care

Have a care for what you allow or expel from your soul. Health, both physical and mental, is our responsibility; not the Doctor or Legislator’s; nearly never parents or peers.

For a rough guide, or scale, think your choice governs 90% of your health; the remaining 10% is your DNA, food chain, physics, and so on.

Each day tumbles away into darkness; my path towards the light. It is a way, my way, yet your way will be different since although we are similar, nearly equivalent if not in essence: same/same/equal. Our perceptions set us apart. Celebrate that--the you-ness of you.

Of late, considering the storm and chaos of lies promulgated by politicians who are to me, at least or best, failed ambulance chasers. Lawyers. Those despicable people who argue your meaning and value as though you were a thing, litter, or a cypher.

Lamentably while changing out of, or into street clothes at the gym, I am bashed by the noise of endless squawk; much-ado-about nothing. Tho my attention, by now, is a hardened chrome ball like a gazing ball, like a lawn ornament; lethal to touch. I do listen briefly to the snark and no speak of all that is on offer. At the moment grinning at my liberty of not having an open sewer spewing waste into my abode endlessly. Television has become brainwash; endless dreck or simply a shit storm 24/7/365.

In the hymn of silence each event becomes astonishing; a new galaxy birthing or dying.

God does not need me to be a sophist for love. Or an apologist for the 6 and 60 million slain by fascism. Or for me to draw obvious comparisons between what it was and now is evident in a political process for sale.

I remain curious about what lays in my path, easily resting in the silence and realization, my ego: road kill. That said. Why do I continue to write?

So little time remains though I might or may live another, physical twenty years or so, or at that; another ten million. Each day, moment, second is filled with richness inconceivable to me yesterday or the day before. If anything, the motive to write is more an expelling of thoughts making room for more experience. In meditation I wander around the feast, like The Last Supper. Except in the sense of myself as a photographer who once sought a “Terminal Lunch” laughing at the comparison. Bankers, stock brokers/speculators, politicians have sodomized me out of my modest retirement and thus disabled me from travel. At least physical travel. However following clues rendered by Thomas Merton, all Tibetan Monks (male and female) and Eric Hoffer I have traveled inward and found something inaccessible by travel within a tubular aluminum coffin prefaced being groped by goons who get off of making me their victim.

Sniff my library card!

I will close here with my original intention. Authority, mostly bean counters, compelled me to leave what had conceptually been my last home and effort to socialize with reality: hospice. I have no regrets and have returned to my last friend dying there several times. Remaining chagrined at the changes in personnel, atmosphere . . . having spent four or more hours in The Chicago Municipal Morgue which I found far more hospitable, I discover myself reborn free to engage whatever is next and no regrets.

I am smaller now, more mobile, better able to traverse the spine transiting the earth from Patagonia to Alaska faster than the speed of light passing through rock. More better yet I have more time to randomly read Rumi which merely makes me nothing to my delight.

121102 21:30 Care
©2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

she of weeping lubricity

Widgets and whim whams attack as if i’d rolled ecstatic nude in poison oak laughing and orgasming endlessly becoming a broth.

Fleeing then seeking an attack of normalcy I wander through the isles of $1 Stores wishing I’d have walked naked barefoot and penniless instead of fully clothed in my car with too many credit cards and so--so, many temptations I really don’t need. No way. No how.

She weeping lubricity, all feasible and fecund, smiled as I confessed my errancy.

Oh sweet Jesus my deliverer redeem me now. No rupture; rapture. Render/Rendition/Dissipater me mist evaporating in lust. Still capable but vastly distant those halcyon days of endless erections. I could bar graph what was who winning the contest to penetrate her then there ravishing her completely bewildered she looked nothing like anything but or anyone other than herself.

IN GLASSES NO LESS!

Can men be hydras? Maybe Octopuses! Perhaps squids walking? Blind groping her uterus via eyes, ears, anus, vagina all portals explored counting the seeds I could inseminate filling with the last vestiges of semen left to me so near the cancellation date dad’s last known erection at seventy two.

Could it be that inserting my penis in a food processor--i’m not really that long--but big, or so I’ve been told by a woman who’s name I cannot not now remember. Black as midnight in Chi Town who said; “Oh . . o-o-o.  O  Yeah . . . Honey I might just be able to deep throat you; she grouping me public on a nearby public beach park bench fully clothed early fall crisp day.

Death alone will slake my lust and be done forever? The Author of All Things is astonishing and mom never knew until I buried her i belonged to God.

Yet this one, childless, married, actually forty something, available? What? Was it that so attracted me to her smile, winking scintillating eyes and gentle kindness so ravishing to me. In rumpled denim and sneakers; no rape me stiletto heels. This was no fetish doll, blown up for a party or otherwise and i so terrified of women being the only male for a time and mommy said dad wanted her to be The Virgin Mary and a Whore both at one time?!

Vestal tongue anteater long and wanna be Rhinoceros horn the $1 dollar store that one would be plastered against the ceiling screaming with ecstasy she’s a Stradivarius never played before sonorous cello mellow cumin brown not fully baked or broken but taken to heaven and never returned . . . reflecting, musing, bewildered I think she did that to me just standing there in the isle for three hours me preaching creation to her.

Mistake, colossal, fall asleep pondering why St. Francis died alone in a cave? Was is St. Claire, the honey bunny never merged physically or all the vanity of those Brothers seeing who was looking most poor?

?Instant replay the Main Frame in Heaven? Did I ask for this or is it intended? OMG Chuck! She’s a carpenter too, no tutu. And me terrified of women knowing myself a girly boy meaning merely I’d rather make love with one real woman I could trust finally before it falls forever limp.

121101 11:26 she of weeping lubricity

I have changed in an exquisite blooming of a flower, never seen before, rooted in the mire and muck of my life, so oft denied until now. Atypical of me not to post upon completion. Yet knowing now, more so, from time marching forward; the only thing best about me is the self within.Not what I write. Nor my desire that another like myself will be saved. It is not the prophets of God who save us but God period. I have a sense of The Presence in all things and can no longer deny that I lust for a companion and am rude and salacious about it. Reality and prior experience indicates the anima--feminine aspect of my soul equal to animus = male; is what I long for. And it is she who waits patiently while I go through convulsions of lust occasionally . . . . Projecting Her upon the being of another Woman. More typical of now I wander away attending to food preparation, cleaning house in an attempt to make myself beautiful for Annie and She who lives within me . . . Who betimes dreamed of The Mother of God seen twice in visions, visitations, oracular; wordless, face hidden in a shadowed cowl. I am comfortable with endings and last things knowing it is well being right here and now.

Truth be told there is a neighbor who informs me better what she would or will do given the tears she shed preceding my encounter with the young woman I idealized--for a time--slaking my imaginary lust denied to be for more women than just one an embrace chaste. Yes. I did preach but significantly it was a day woven thread by thread into a tapestry I’ll not soon forget. Laughing. I then saw the maiden stretched taught upon a rack during the Inquisition; as emblematic of my writing this time. The only poetic real communion is with God; all else is collecting material as grist for the endlessly spinning miller’s stone in my mind’s envisioning.

To acknowledge all of yourself is to be able to choose appropriate behavior in the reality of life. Not by laws but autonomy. Wisdom must be earned not bought.

121102 00:09 final/final
©2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved