reverence

To weep is no shame, anymore than to be a child of our time as born. But in the ark of a lifetime it is to become aware that one must speak or otherwise drown in tears. And within discover the gift of reverence and awe. The dialog between creation and man. By which, again and obviously, I mean all life, both genders; equality.

Suck it up, get over it, this apparent warfare between what is and what, seemingly, is impossible. In some curious sense to revert to being as a child born then corrupted in time to survive life in our era.

To love and prize one above all others is to sink the world. Instead seek to build an ark capable of lofting all above the flood of indifference. Not my or your but our way. Collaborative, co-creating life and love as possible. Impossibly and/both versus and/or. No one and nothing is merely this or that as defined as we would have it or them. But more - vastly so.

As much in art, religion and science definitions change. Seen from random association and inclined to see things in obverse; a form of play, myths seen differently speaking truths redefined or applied as better but bitter truth crossing boundaries between subject and object. Indicate to me not this or that but inclusive and available to all consciousness; a river of mindfulness become a flood tide.

. . . 05:18 At times I consider myself, variously as: a scold, wannabe preacher, teacher, a fool and specious - pretentious and simply wrong. But then considering the facts I realize now that I still seek and excuse to keep living instead of merely eating a train. Humiliated since birth, I sense now the value of humility, recognizing the origin of power and force as manifestations of fear. To which some have, in their last words, forgiven instead of decried revenge. Leaving life as they define the value and meaning of love; or better yet, what it is to be a friend, universal. . . . teaching with their last breath.

In recognition that I misspoke, referring to my time at hospice was ‘The Work,’ I now define it as part of my life’s tutelage swept upward, downward and broader; the knowledge that everything changes and death has less to fear than I previously supposed or assumed.

Yesterday I took a friend to the El Paso VA Clinic, at his request, since he hates to drive having been once a long distance hauler back and forth across the continent alone. I love people of all kinds yet despise herds or crowds as some would have it. Yet, though equipped with a book, a computer, etc. I found myself, yet again, wandering about asking people who they are and why.

Not exactly conscious from a lifetime of travel I found, here and there random friends who are better than lovers since it, the relationship holds no boundaries defined by convention. Not so much grist for my mill of writing anything defined as ‘art’ since life itself is its own reward. Recognizing that from infancy to the end game I remain curious about others their life and times defined as they will or need, even those who have stolen all my resources save that curiosity about how and why.

Now, if I be a fool who laughs and cries, I am more fond of that then anything else about myself. Or anything I’ve ever done in life.

“I look forward to growing old and wise and audacious.” - Glenda Jackson
"Love demands infinitely less than friendship." - George Jean Nathan

130306 03:34 reverence
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

The Work

She was, is, I don’t know - leaving - her hours ago with her son, one of several; dying. She, not him.

The purpose of my visit was to say goodbye to a friend.

More than a friend - it is complicated; us:

Once a patient, instant friend in the sense of a fellow traveler acknowledging each others secrets unspoken. A crossing of paths across eternity. Not at, or in, a night sea: ships passing distant. But a brief / close / intimate / touch. Unannounced. Not articulated.

Then at each visit, amplification, renewal, expansion: a touch, a word, a gift . . . she gave me her travel Bible and Concordance.

We two became a pair, a couple inseparable by anything not even now, not death; never.

A One.

She’d have a room full of visitors, women mostly. I learned in time they prayed together; then even for me, even now that I am long absent. And she in her way ordained me bereft of liturgy or celebration.

In parting this evening said in closing, silently, with one thumb up, her eyes smiling not otherwise, whispering; “keep the faith” . . . the door quietly closing behind me . . . .

Endless we who do the work -- The Work -- service to those without; the poorest of the poor. We know one another by deed and behavior. Not by word so much. Talk being cheap but actions speak louder and are lasting . . . and I will carry on until it is my turn to lay dying smiling giving a facsimile of what she has given me like M consecrated in love.

Now I know the good, the better, the best, the sense of God blest; a light passed from one to another; glowing a star in the darkness . . . .

we are but a tear, she and me, in a sea of endless darkness, for now, but we give what we have that others know love and peace always

"All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well."
"Between God and the soul there is no between." - Julian of Norwich

. . . be well, one and all, know your soul, your greatest wealth
shared, going home, never really alone

130305 0058 The Work
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

dreams having me

Dreams now seem like symphonies, plays, cinema, worship; something entered in within to be churned like a Snow Globe . . . now wondering who does the shaking? Making the dance within!

Last evening I viewed “CABARET,” inspired by a Teri Gross interview with Joel Grey. A consummate entertainer something like Sammie Davis, Jr. but different in intent; seemingly motivated by the same desire. Then too I love dance and had been oblivious that Bob Fosse choreographed the film; although I have viewed, now, the film, four or five times.

My dreams, as remembered, have no monsters but people acting in cruel ways. At times doing despicable things to me, sometimes others. Emergent in the dream that followed held a sense of how and why I had made myself inert. So too the people I lived with. Acting as if being ‘the living dead’ then suddenly going randomly berserk. Retrospectively, demonstrating my life as it was and no longer remains.

Why do I and human life surrounding me do the things we do . . . or don’t do? An abiding concern and focus moving me with greater velocity daily, impelling me to better understand the meanings and values of behaviors; mine especially.

Between awakening and arising there is a period of analysis. Long or short it seems to variously defuse, pollute or emphasize the characters and actions invoking memories and behaviors redefined.

At the moment I am thinking of Last Words and forgiveness. Compassion for assassins; those who remain mired in “is this all there is?”

There is a society available in books manifesting ideas across the boundaries of science, metaphysics and entertainment apparent and apprehensible at least to me.

To me there are no boundaries . . . This becomes increasingly conclusive as I weave back and forth across the loom of my day; a shuttle between what I write and read, across the treads and hyper-links. With the surprising, always, preface of dreams!? Then too I sense a community, if not actual family, a body of friends to and with whom I could and would be free to confess all my sorrow and ecstasy while remaining accepted and understood.

Heaven?

No. Not a place, or goal, but what is resident within; something not transient but permanent - a place wherein we are not tenant but co-creators and owners of our infinitesimal footprint in the universe.

But not always. Sometimes there are thoughts and ideas/ideals that have been nascent for years and decades emergent again; insisting upon my attention now. I wonder if I am merely being a scold; preaching confession, consciousness, full and transparent revelation. If we are unable to fully know ourselves change, growth and evolution are impossible.

The “ah-ha!” moments strike unexpectedly. Changing me in wonderful ways; and then its good to be alive: finally!

130304 03:23 dreams having me
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

deathless prose?

I question the concept of being other than biodegradable. Seeing what was before and after the advent of man. Equivocal towards naming, claiming and imaging The Creator anthropomorphic. Which seems at best a conceit to aggrandize those who have no other way to excuse their behavior.

Utopia or dystopia seems little matter when you consider that everything dies: Mountains, monuments, continents become obscure - eventual dust. . . . to gyre and return in another form, re-manufactured in Black Holes.

Gandhi, far wiser than i, in my lexicon and pantheon, did not imply but explicitly stated: “THERE IS NO GOD HIGHER THAN TRUTH.” - or so my refrigerator magnet says to my continual chagrin until now that i have begun to validate and redefine my dreams, imaginings and sense of periodicity allowing the river of others flow through not mind but mindfulness, not conscience but consciousness.

Given the relative immensity and infinitesimal my favorite vision remains two glass funnels conjoined; the apex of an egg timer? through which passes--what?

. . . to Be Here Now: confessing/admitting/submitting all the conceits/foibles/follies remembering being the ventriloquist dummy of reporters who occasionally referred to ‘deathless prose.’ Chagrined the prostitution of our talents genuflection before the fools: The Congress of Baboons. Merely another form of criminality. I digress. What matter the characters of harum-scarum who should by all rights be scourged then gibbeted for treason against the commonweal. 

. . . but then what is life for but to act in our time?

Honey Bunny follow the money and know the fools for what they do, not what they say. Remembering they, in self-congratulatory conceit, reward themselves endlessly. Whatever you may think we are owned by “The Man” with the most money - at least in this life. Slaves one-and-all.

130303 05:47 deathless prose?
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

dreams inconvenient

She drove a pink Cadillac Eldorado convertible. And was that fine age of a woman ripe, mellow and wise; tasty in prospect. Haunting my dreams across the years. 

A different kind of woman than my mother who also drove Cadillac cars. About each there was to me a deliciously dangerous prospect. One, my mother dangerous in the extreme -- volatile. The other was like all my longing: wise, perceptive and accommodating once I knew her; being so bold was I to approach. 

Strange these dreams having me rude and wise, crude and divine. But then there were those several of The Mary who showed me not her face but accepted me as I am filled with faults imperfect and at times lecherous.

In life or death I imagine I’ll never be perfect in anyone’s eyes save mine. Since I am by nature curious about all things. A collector of not experience but of motives, even mine. Sensate? No! Sensual!! In my mind, to see is to own: possess and ravish; the common and uncommon of all that I perceive neutrally no longer wishing to own, possessing only myself. 

There are these dreams reprised unacknowledged yet by accumulation become familiar . . . that in no small measure inform me above all things I prize the commonality of mankind. By stealth and subterfuge - disguised - moving innocuous across the random rouge behavior of men finding no one place for me and happily so. Ghost that I am, touching pulses.

Moving backwards and forwards in time.

The woman of this previous, oft repeated dream, was like The Mary in a sense for she - silently or by gesture - reminded me of the commonality of all life. None captive, slave or owned save by her/him self experiencing it.

So it is not She of the bubble-gum pink ride or the many enclosures, homes/houses, I visit inhabited by women I’ve known passing onto this time of annotation but specifically now aware of those among us who self anoint greedily aggregating authority. Those I sought to give me a mirror of who I am. My cupidity and folly now lays as dust beneath my feet. Like this body that writes, soon to be blown across the desert no longer venal. 

The process of writing up one’s dreams reveals meaning by accumulation. The one great dream of my life, begun in childhood, took decades and five repetitions to understand. And at that several entries in memory to apprehend. 

Good things come to we who wait; understanding the motive and method applied to sway our lives . . . what impelles our behavior to do or not do anything at all.

As for she, of the rude pink vaginal ride, I can only say, astonishingly she was a Madam who employed me as delivery boy presenting compensation through a letter box. The front door of a convent/country club otherwise in the common landscape of our culture. Long will I remember the furtive eyes seen briefly. The smells and voices of a harem inside beyond my reach. 

Fortunately.

The keeper kept -- imprisoned.

130303 03:16 dreams inconvenient
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

the arch of time

Over the arch of time science, as much as metaphysics, have become equally important. Melding a pragmatic awareness, less wishful thinking, more broadly real. Brutal, at times, discovering myself the enemy who leads me astray with grief, sorrow and ideals I’ve not been able to let go of until now. Objectivity is strength to anneal an otherwise tremulous position on those I love/loved: past, present, future.

Not a monotone nor steel but a flexible gyre of energy surround the core of my perception and disinclination to judge or mourn the having or loss.

“Born to be wild - live to outgrow it.” - Lao Tzu

. . . discovered as fortunate in my life to not be mired in love the way I longed to be. How long it took, absent consciousness, the love I gave fallen upon stone. Wherein to persist would be to attempt not only the impossible but criminal activity; to change that which I professed love when in fact I longed to have the beloved define me instead of myself.

Long bewildered by several who forgave their assassins in the act at life's departure. I know now, of and for myself, what I give and its power . . . 24/7/365 is something I do with myself and The Author of Life and no other.

Equivocal, until now, in the extreme. Oblivious the unfolding of me, a myth impossible, being too serious to be real or attempt and fail.

Advantage to me being, several times a week, in a pool of water charged with the energy of several, if not all, who share their trials and responses. Details of their how while I sense their why. No longer curious about how it is that I receive this energy but embrace and celebrate the changes invoked . . . the process of alteration and change. Sensing there will never be a: I am there! complete, whole and accomplished. Its a process not a goal.

Add: I have a sense of departure from whence to when being a contributor versus a consumer.

130223 13:55 arch of time
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

if i love

If I love. . . .Of course I do, deeply, flowing, arid and flood, I do. I do flow like a river of stars to arise white mist upon dawn burnt down between the thighs lubricious, sensuous, emergent, fecund from darkness the Ohio River Valley flowing into the distant sea moaning with steam whistles, now and then remembering the childhood of me.

. . . if ever I had a near home it was there beginning at five and he who remembers lofted by dreams return near seventy-three again that young buck in the flesh nascent flesh beginning again to beg that God be real and of course God is. Not some old man like me or older by considerable time adorned in white with as mine a five o’clock shadow and beyond seemingly from a bag of white sugar jelly donuts covered . . . dare I say we birth one another renewed?

. . . arise and slumber porpoise playing the wake of time in schools or solo at time breaching the glass silent to splash or plash like the paddle wheeled towboats reflecting the moaning steam whistle trains passing in the night’s milk run across from me in Kentucky.

Who else could/would remind me of the first and only love lasting until now resurrected in dreams! the most sensuous touch her hand upon the back of my head . . . . then infant then young man . . . last seen on a portapotty in senility asleep . . . she awoke at first sight and laughed remembering the chicken I attempted to toilet train.

There across ice floes Liza bore her baby child fleeing from the slave catchers and dogs to safety where decades later I noted the iron forged manacles displayed in the hidey-hole at The John Rankin House first stop on the Underground Railroad . . . oh please . . . if now would you bury me there where my heart resides high above the river seen from near that attic of safety.

I dream and in dreaming go backward and forward in time before and after this physical life could be having been. Becoming eternal in faux death sleep otherwise discontinuous splintered restructured transparent glass flowing like God throughout time.

 . . . like god before the name was given and long after language dies.

. . . 02:22 of the myths, memories, omens and portents, recorded or not, lay moldering somewhere east of the Mississippi. The waste of myself - detritus - in landfills - the only vital part of me is this or these relationships to the tapestry woven and decorated by Creation, or The Creator, or what seems to speak to me both in the dark and light of now. At times I am the loom, others the thread, and remember that I have no special claim, yet had I had one I’d give it away to all as my heroes did.

Late to form, formerly mere impressionable clay, I took from others their disdain and remedied my pain. A form of control or preemptive damage control. . . .to presume their truth about me mine.

One should never forget God laughs, not at but with. Add there is a time of change, leaving and rebirth for everything in eternity.

What was endured is now celebrated; the dings fondled for the forged me as I am unknowing of what will become yet confident and at peace tho I am written upon the void. And who but me could adore and reverence the night.

Starless
 . . . i grow extinguished

130227 01:08 if i love
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved