good lord willing and the creek don't rise

Don't know why but exiting the pool from water aerobics today

magical things have happened there before

I asked myself, 'Could it be that it is my fear of failure with women that holds me back?'

and then

and then

this and that happened

in the ordinary of this day

Sidereal time extraordinary, what we in the newspaper biz called; “It flew in over the transom!” Inspiration or collaboratively respired, I respond with potential implications.

Opportunities similar to my being swept down a roaring rain swollen creek, my friends laughing while my head pounded rocks, until, floundering, I found a eddy of peace and emerged unscathed but otherwise terrified.

Sincerely. I have no excuse for being alive, so many times I've been near death and survived.

Dr. Ballard, the discoverer of The Titanic ship wreck, talked about sidereal arrayed sonar and I knew exactly what it implied being a lover of light, which like sound can reveal objects otherwise invisible. He seemed surprised, while I was delighted with his talking car, from the back seat being the dummy; just a photographer with a reporter doing a assignment.

If you think me foolish for my inspirations, random associations and dyslexic understandings of things fixed and immutable. You should also know I wonder more often than I confess: just exactly why do I do anything; much less write.

The above clipping is from Parabola Magazine celebrating their 150^th issue. From the image and by the words: it dawned upon me that I too was lost, now found. Cliche, I know, but, Amazing Grace!

To love, and be loved has consequence--astonishing . . . an unfolding that seems endless. Blossoming. As indicated elsewhere, by me, epiphanies continue. The problem being, to integrate them into some communicable form. Not for fame, acclaim or being a legend in one's own mind but to share, give away freely. For the process of renewal, being filled once empty, is continual.

Conspiratorial?!

I will labor to be more cogent and prescient. While inappropriately revelatory of my experience; current and historic. I sense it worth the potential of saving one life from desperation.

Tossing acorns, broadcast, across the WWW, growing a few oaks here and there, under which I'll never know the shade.

130429 17:18 MDT good lord willing and the creek don't rise

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved

obturate/block/jam/impede/obstruct/occlude

The word obturate then a need to void awoke me now, well, actually long ago before making coffee and the first cigarette. Yes. I know: death wish. Logically but intuition says I don't care in my race to create.

Odd. First the word, need to pee, then the first quote of the day:

- Henri Poincare:

“It is by logic that we prove, but by intuition that we discover. To know how to criticize is good, to know how to create is better.”

And so it goes; at it again taping the keyboard. Not surprising since I don't know how to spell, punctuate and hate my handwriting. Easier to write on a pad otherwise, but now I cannot live without a computer. Farther, for that matter, I don't know how to write but why.

Gideon's proof, possibly, not a crutch, but works for me daily.

In sincerity; there was a string; a one-line poem of, sorts about stains and things constrictive in culture. Anal Retentivity ruling the world while the poor get poorer; consumed as whales eat plankton.

Obturate, near-sighted, glaring self-righteous rectitude, occlusion of all life made redundant; a stain upon the earth, the wealthy.

I am an ignorant person, self educated, unworthy of what I sense as grace. Thinking, at the moment I should be clubbed unconscious by what, and where, I intuit this comes from; squashed as a swatted fly mangled.

What the rich have done, historically or especially in recent history, is criminal. Avarice and cupidity beyond anything Nazi Germany ever achieved in their indifference the cost of their success.

And old man soon to die, leaving behind my shame for not learning that my heart belongs to the poor; until now. Amongst whom I see God more clearly than anywhere else. Laughter, I can hear the pontifical posturing of the rich and politicians shouting all the imprecations: lunatic, insane, fool, etc.

The first spreading of wings, reading, initially a great joy, now eclipsed by writing down what I never thought of listening to. Unworthy of annotation.

As an image maker (painting and sculpture) then image recorder (photographer) always suffused with music. I sense myself, convicted and literate in many modes . . . at the moment thinking the greatest thief is Bill Gates for simply destroying Word Star. Which even William F. Buckley adored. Gates is in and of himself a greedy man who in his avarice has cornered what I might otherwise had made some sort of living from: Stock Photography. My point being that literacy is shifting from word to image, both are merely symbols one requiring learning and the latter nothing but seeing.

Look at what you see. Simple?! But if applied with mindfulness it becomes a horror. George W. Bush comes to mind: facile, handsome, beguiling smile but that's all: zero content. Beauty is an internal and eternal quality. To me the Koch brothers and Rupert Murdock are grotesque on any plane of consideration.

What we have is tits and ass plus false toothed smiles; tinkle down economics. For the rest of us urinated upon there is less and less dryness daily. Always stormy weather, drowning.

Wealth is relative. In that I consider myself wealthier than any person, place or thing I know or can imagine. I fear nor envy no one. My personal ecology is a disaster, addicted to coffee and cigarettes, indicative of indifference to myself with a warrior's creed: “To day is a good day to die.”

I am reminded, frequently, what I write, are merely notes on a process of a life living itself. Taking a lifetime to discover it impossible to compel anyone to love themselves; embracing the best and worst elements within them. Integrated into a whole person beyond the dictates of conformity to any ideal. Which, in my thinking and conviction, is idolatry.

Whereas creativity is something available when we find the root of our self. . . .God knows this as all that is required. Or is it the beginning? Of what new thing we can become! Alive not subsistence. In all my travels abroad and within I have yet to discover anyone living who did not have dreams and ideals. Fanatics seem the most fearful people; regardless their creed, politics or gender.

My advocacy and appeal is to the few who sense a need to change and grow. Having suffered, I feared the process possibly suffering more, but find all my sorrow and grief resolved. Finding joy immeasurable.

As an ordinary person I recognize my foolishness. Folly and failure teaching me more than success; real or imagined. This, that I write, is derived from a personal journal, an attempt to write myself sane. Discovering in the process that to irk the ire of those for whom I have no respect is to invite troubles, sorrow and grief which I have had enough of for a lifetime.

I can be, and am at times, as lunatic and fanatic as those I call so. Not in judgment or anything other than jest. Everything has consequence as experienced. Where I find benefit being raped, mutilated and bankrupted, I expect no one else to join me. To forgive and forget or contemplate dismemberment.

Well acquainted with my own addictions I feel compassion for those who have abused me. Aldous Huxley said it well: "There is only one corner of the universe you can be certain of improving, and that's your own self." It is our world collectively, we are family, some more lunatic than others but still family; one body: humanity—we need each other.

130429 01:38 MDT obturate/block/jam/impede/obstruct/occlude

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved

escape velocity

Genius resides in all life, no exceptions allowed (a bumper sticker on a friends car). But then all the usual rules apply. Beginning with: you have to work it to make it real. Not what you do, or say, but are. Love, of course.

Laughter! I suddenly realized that I love and attempt to decorate others, always women, men being hopeless . . . never ever growing up but old and remaining infantile. Oink. Little piggy me has trouble not with booze but broads. Least I offend my Empress M who recently claimed; “you don't need me” I will, in reply proclaim: I love you because you are you and I am me, finally . . . or something like that. Or Milton's

"So dear I love him, that with him all deaths I could endure, without him live no life." . . . implied/infered 'him' being god as Jesus . . . the ineffable always I/Thou.

This impossible love I have is anwered in unexpected ways, tapping on my forhead in dreams, visions and adorations indescriminate; but too often cathecting to those women whose kindness, like Julian of Norwich, is obvious. Imagine a Christmas tree overlaiden with ornimentation cascading and smothering me. Both smothered by adoration.

But then I remember the few couples I've known, of many, who symbiotically grew one another despite the mechanics of, “did you clean the litter box?” Or. I won't do THAT! . . . I have a headache . . . mother said.

Milton also said:

The mind is its own place, and in itself

Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.

Paradise Lost (1667; 1674), Book I, line 254

My love affair with Milton, infrequently visited, was suggested by a mystical statement by mom saying: “We are less significant than a grain of sand upon a beach.” Later to find Thomas Merton's reference to being bereft of god/good/love upon a desert drown by a tsunami of it suddenly.

arroyo at flood

an undertoad

ribbit

There is no death for we who inhabit the future without us.

Do I imply the events monumental should not be made memorabilia. Trinkets or tombs? The winds of grace touch us all. Never to be held by anyone. Implying conspiracy inspired respired by grace. The elasticity of my mother's mind never made a difference in her behavior. Preponderantly given to violence. She was, as all women are, slaves to culture save wherein they are a cosmology unto themselves internally.

Until now this little piggy wiggling towards the trough seeking the slops of my mind's desires, actually lust, would give up the farm, the entire estate, immortality, for what?

Been there done that wearing the bumper sticker tattooed upon my forehead in reverse to easily read while shaving. It didn't do the trick regardless how well we fox trotted. Mamboed, jitter bugged, that double backed dance, recreational or for procreation sometimes; what girls and boys do. . . .then too boys and boys and girls with girls. . . .something like the love between myself and Annie when we talk. She being a cat and I being her lover.

Regardless of gender, creed, pleasure or joy, it all seems the same relationship issues arise. Escape velocity is only possible when we honor the being of another for themselves unconditionally. For me it was reading Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury, becoming apparent I wasn't alone. Later. It became clear, at least to me, acceptance was the base of love and all the rest was embellishment or aggression.

In another way of describing the same affairs of lovers would be to say that we gather together to create something. Usually finding I brought concrete and sand, you brought the butter and sugar. The resulting mess unpalatable. To stay together without working on personal truths and expectations: suicide. A living lie a death while walking/subsistence towards the ending.

As I am wont to do, wandering between collecting and writing, I saw her, a brown kraft paper grocery bag discarded face. Discovering "Growth is not concerned with itself." 

- Meridel Le Sueur

Love is sacrificial despite all the promises and wishful thinking. Regardless my longing to merge with another, love cannot be suicidal. Yet I think it heroic for most of us to love another in marriage. For me, for now, I must submit: my love is ferocious and more than I presume anyone alone can bear. Except to spill it freely in words concrete not cake.

Neither Nether a bonbon or prize I must be what I am

alone?!

I overheard the nuns who set me on fire, regarding me, as being 'seductive'. . . .I think I finally understand what they were concerned about.

08:16 after nap

“I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude.” 

- Henry David Thoreau

. . . bit of a piker, I'd say going home to mom for lunch. But then I'm a fair good I'd say.

Life's an interactive trip, and for myself I'm no longer astonished: the collisions and coincidence of falling over serendipity; actual synchronicity.

Knock and the interlocutor/author will open the beyond the beyond.

no accidents I mean.

oh . . . simply lovely: “co-occurrence”

ah

always capable of awe

slain by kindness

130428 04:45 escape velocity

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved

perceived perceptions

The tail of my dream slithered away between gears whirring; nothing happened, no shriek, and the day moved on. It was one of those I usually flee from. Then while making coffee I realized the conflict was unwinnable. A turning point, not the gears, but my perceptions of what I live for; refusing to die a zombie.

Statistically the world is less violent than ever before. Yet predation persists by those who would sell us things unnecessary by psychological manipulation. Violent penetration of our psyche. Entertaining, until buyer's remorse sets in, wondering why I did that.

Highly adaptive, until I could no longer contain my distemper, apprehending death by rote. I've always had difficulty expressing my love; articulating adoration. Pleasant for awhile but then becomes fawning this inflecting of my perceptions of you.

Who you?

You all.

Otherwise it is which socks to wear with what tie and/or will I miss the game tonight? Addicted to crap food for the mind. Is that life? Small wonder I am a comedian: neglected, ignored, abandoned physically or chemically throughout life by those I loved, then and now, all forgiven--they and myself.

Mindfulness implies consequence to what I say, do and think. The fleeting dream from which I awakened, running away to escape, reminds me to engage logical consequence to my actions before committing them. . . .Engage thought before popping the clutch. For those innocent of ever driving a stick shift automobile; think putting it in drive: pedal to the metal. I'm that way but have found the right stuff to face the consequences.

Is my greed for your well being a replica of the lords of slums bored; thoughtlessly torturing their victims for amusement. But seen in reverse=obverse. The other side of a coin tumbling through time. Bright on one side dark on the other? Flashing then a no-see-um.

Since being excreted from hospice I have labored to understand what to do with what little remains of my life? Discovered: To hold the hand, not of the dying but the living dead, perchance to enable their dreams unconscious.

Another way would be to write fiction, plays, movie scripts or poetry but I sense there is so little time for me and we, the all of us.

Baldly conscious that everything has been said before, in most cases better, I began to examine the seeds of my curiosity; wandering the, as Montaigne said, garden of quotes. Even weeds are glorious once you come to know them. The will to life loving the light.

Where else could I find the freedom to laugh and cry? To sigh and swoon; for the love of being as crazy as I am and am becoming? Those who claim to judge insanity are simply insane doing the same things over again expecting different results.

Once again, and again, I've written myself marginally forward to sanity. Otherwise I'd die of boredom since boredom best describes our time. Control freaks lead us over the cliff of greed.

Read!

Unable to find a life worth living? Make one up! . . . something you're willing to die for.

“The greatest good you can do for another is not just to share your riches, but to reveal to him his own. “ - Benjamin Disraeli

130428 02:55 MDT perceived perceptions

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved

From To 'Had She Said Yes'

Welcome is your kind, loving, warm and sincere reply. I had fallen, in the cold light of day, to confusion regarding all my intentions towards you. Fearing that in my honesty I would have potentially caused you distress. Learning in the process that I am more imperfectly flawed in my self than I had previously thought. I too have a longing to bond, to unite as one with another, secretly impossible by perception until now. Thanks to you and god. Add others living or dead I trust and consult hourly in the walk.

We are wed by sincere sharing, and for now that is wonderful. What will come next, on my side, is governed by my will that you be for yourself the kindness I have seen you so freely give to others. We, equally, have spread our seeds of kindness upon infertile ground; loving those who are incapable of loving themselves. I know this true of myself, formerly, and intuit it you. So much seems lost in the mechanics of life, expectations and failures to be the ideal. What, in turn, is impossible since we can never fulfill the all required and fall, as failures knowing it impossible. Failure being the better teacher than success.

Failure is no shame. Since by, and from it, we arise, renewed, going on. Keeping the formerly beloved in our regard without resentment but willing their highest good always potential in themselves.

Apprehending that we, at that time, possibly never, could or would, be adequate to the task. Yet as in me, so I sense in you. We love as children--unconditionally. Until the gift we give becomes catalyst for pain or shame in the beloved. Oddly it seems we have become partner in their crimes against themselves, their addiction to avoidance; where they find peace for a time; pleasure not joy.

In time I have come to define them as the living dead. Unwilling to do for themselves what they must. While clinging to what was: preserved, stale, a stain unchanging--apprehensive of change. We cannot save a drowning soul for in that we can drown with them.

Some of us wander across the stage of life until the mid point when it occurs to ask; is this all there is? Most, at that point of no return, gather more of prior success as happiness having no other ambition. While the fewer turn and face entropy, stasis and engage the enemy of life: status quo. Everything is in change, either expanding or contracting. Forgive, please, my sense of God as change; not fixed and immutable; an idol. Perhaps this not the venue for such a sentimental opinion?

We can change nothing but ourselves, in the process becoming free to give and grow something new. Be creative instead of slaves to what was. The tuition is very high, this divine school of hard knocks. All are unique and precious, even the sleepers who do awaken sometimes. If not now when they die. For now this is my imperfect sense growing minute-by-minute, attempting to find my job description, written in my heart's core.

I will close here and go on to something more personal to “Had She Said Yes.” To whom I may, or may not, recommend this. I will not use or abuse anyone as I was abused and abused myself in order to survive.

Discovered: I may as well have been writing this to my former self.

Above all things be true to yourself.

130427 14:52 From To 'Had She Said Yes'

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved

administrators?

Administrators talk more than do anything, in the process disabling the doers. Those who walk the walk.

It is generally suggest that America is a Meritocracy wherein one can rise from obscurity and/or humble origin achieving something ideally noble like service to others. The problem, as I see and experience it, is that the obverse is reality; they merely, by and large, serve themselves. Advocate celebration of their evil abuse of power. Aggrandizing and richly award themselves at the expense of the servers and served.

I spent the previous three years volunteering at hospice. Where like, visiting Jesus in prison or in other extreme circumstance, lending a cup of water or comfort was enough. I wasn't too shabby about doing that. Much less becoming a legend in my own mind. The service was humbling and one I learned to pray that I had the dignity to serve and be received.

Since the initial days of being a photojournalist coupled with the illness and death of my children, I have grown a willingness to work for charity; another word for love. Becoming intimate, by intuition and curiosity, acquainted with the administrators. In the process learning much about myself and, life and death, in general.

One remarkable aspect about service, secular or religious as practiced; there are hundreds of ordinary people doing extraordinary things for zip income, acclaim or acknowledgment. In the trenches while administrators, our (fearless) leaders, strut and preen their specious pride acting noble/notable fraudulently.

Being a “people person” intuitive and experienced, now adding energy/force to my other perceptions: thinking, feeling and sensing; daily, methodically and deliberately. I am, was and will always be both, innocent as a dove and as nice as a coral snake in your breast pocket; lethal.

At hospice at some point it was requested of me that I take “portraits” of fellow volunteers. Many of whom I'd come to know via random encounters. We would share why we were there and had become more than acquaintances. When people ask me who I am, what I've done, I used to mention working freelance for The New York Times, soon after that: I am the parent of two dead children and one missing in action; ancient history on both counts. . . . All my griefs, sorrows and regrets resolved thanks be to god and M and hospice.

In retrospect I would rather have not had what happened. The resulting slide show was like elevator music; something in the background of a volunteer Christmas party. However the process of collecting the images was to me final vindication of all my ambitions slain when my son was diagnosed with cancer.

I was, and remain, grateful for the experience. As I was for the opportunity to serve others in more significant ways. Due to grief tendered by the administration I left; over copyright, who owned the “property”? Ownership of copyright is something of a joke when dealing with digital images.

I suggest the presence of an interlocutor in my life; awake and asleep. I am not alone in this, by historical reference. A lifetime impression of being unworthy of love, much less life itself, it has been difficult for me to credit or validate being the recipient of what I will call/claim as grace. I could as easily die this moment fulfilled. All that I begged, or prayed for, is given, received and I what attempt to pass forward. Do not be offended but know I now sense my address to those in living death unaware of dying. Who like myself, once, lived lives of quiet desperation.

The dream from which I have recently awakened was one of conflict, suggested in my too long preamble. My ambition is that you forget me and always remember your true, and best by God's will, self. No art, craft or other enterprise has ever given me such joy as this I do now: write.

Scarcely do I remember from day-to-day the day before, dying each night, reborn the next now. Happily alone, never lonely. I am by nature, nurture and choice, now, solitary and recognize I must fight to keep that liberty. The freedom to apprehend the vast fields of wisdom I receive daily and struggle to incarnate.

To close, it seems the most frantic, fanatic, zealous administration hides behind a mask of pretense. Its fear; no fame, providence or dying anonymous. Power and force are signs of addiction not health.

“Freedom and justice cannot be parceled out in pieces to suit political convenience.” - Coretta Scott King

http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Wikiquote:Quote_of_the_day/April#27

130427 00:40 MDT administrators

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved

equivocal perversions

Equivocal to no one and nothing save the interlocutor. Who grades the roads within; scraping and plowing new ingress to my distress. 

“Had She Said Yes” wrote asking 'R U OK?' Chagrined. I discovered other interpretations of prior missives. At the time, after six hours of solitary nakedness, all creative juices roiling, I replied and now regret. What? My honesty? Sincere transparency laid bare.

No reply yet. Yet I am equivocal to the either way of it. Having learned, or was I convicted by experience to never announce a want or desire, especially towards a woman of obvious kindness and inferred trust. Do I not project upon others, the woman within me, with whom I cannot have congress. Consult oracles and flirt with cremation standing up crying eyes balls popping like grapes stepped upon.

What some call 'getting lucky' 'happy endings' or merely getting laid, is for me perilous since that time of castration at twelve by banishment irrevocable. That was The Big One all other traumas pale by compare. 

The dream just awoken from broke me down to the primary flaw: a wilting fern buried in a dark and fetid rain forest of grief. Anticipatory towards women. The switch mercurial between full stop and free flow; exactly what governs whether a seat beat holding you in securely, or allows you the freedom to scratch and itch on you ankle while driving; in most automobiles of recent vintage in America.

I love wandering the mirror maze within, wherein I allowed others to tell me who I was. Annotating each flight or fight, turning or turning inside out . . . do I mean self-betrayal? of course! And for all time thereafter questioning myself fleeing from the shoulds and oughts, the autopilot of culture: secular or sacred. The roads taken and those abandoned: choices.

They now seem, all relationships, to have been boxes full of marbles. But worse. Maracas shaken, cyclonic, in an Afro Cuban Jazz Band. I hear the screech trumpet going above St. Michael the phase and phrases just a few bars before my mind blows.

Sincerely were I able to describe the short circuit inside the circus of my mind you'd know what death is. Looking back and the strings and steams of words above I wonder if my desire, love or mere lust is more than any woman could ever handle; pardon me while I get the chopping knife to remove the source of my everything.

Laughter.

In childhood, well really nearly adolescence, I read H. L. Mencken's remarks about those who habituated the bleachers watching Baltimore Oriel baseball games. Claiming they should 'all be put to sleep like mad dogs.' And forever after, even now, I wonder should I not also join them in the final grand slam? The crack that launched a baseball into outer space winning history's eternal fame.

“Wonderboy flashed in the sun. It caught the sphere it was biggest. A noise like a twenty-one gun salute cracked the sky. There was a straining, ripping sound and a few drops of rain spattered to the ground somebody then shouted it was raining cats and dogs. By the time of Roy got in from second he was wading in water ankle deep.” -The Natural - Bernard Malamud

. . . read the book, oddly the bat "Wonderboy" was kept in a bassoon case!!??

There really is nothing so magical as inhabiting some sort of creativity—the cerebral orgasm of it. Not just once, and only, but the ongoing ecstasy of joy in it.

Why I laugh at the prices paid for Van Gogh these days or Stradivarius; to make such things is to touch God, the money paid is nothing but suffocation.

Then there are those times when I slump into the ordinary of my days. One, simply, cannot sustain a self on coffee, cigarettes and orgasms; or one long continuous orgasm riotous. My stomach rebels and desires coupling with lust carom and ricochet through my imagining and longings for a kind touch or embrace. Only ever really known with my grandmothers hand upon the back of my head.

My Achilles heel?

Kindness I mean.

In my near dotage there are only two women I have had such trust with. All prior remembered best for 'walking upon eggs' with me, while I was skating upon marbles with them!

I will go head-to-head with anyone or anything for a time, until it reaches that point best illustrated, for now or forever, by what it is said that Jesus said, “shake the dust off your sandals and move on.” Here and now I'm thinking the pearls cast before swine is me, little piggy oink oink. I refuse to use anyone as I was abused. Yet like a Samurai can kill without a second thought. Thus I am dangerous to myself understanding. . . .a Nazi and an Angel tussling throughout eternity. Leary of Saviors sensing we, not only I, must not trust the redemption/absolution to anyone. The bottom line regarding which prophet or wisdom figure I read is: That which I seek is inside--extant and inherent. Age has yet to make of me a castrato singing soprano. Add. I don't know how the Red Priest (Vivaldi) did it with all those nubile girls?! I am a fool but not so foolish as to claim redirection of my lust into words as he must have done with music; that divine language best speaking of all I seek.

An illustrative aside: The last time, before M, I was suicidal, I found a cat and loved him like nothing else in this world. And then moved in with a woman I presumed to be the ONE. He became jealous and peed on everything. A long time after this began, his marking everything, a thousand or more dollars spent on medication, etc. I gave up and had him put down; witnessing his death and the look he gave me in dying. I would rather knit a cobweb with my entrails, opening myself with a butter knife, instead of doing that to another life, now thinking of my daughter dying alone in custodial care.

At war with myself, in mortal/immortal combat, I resort to another woman I trust: Anais Nin; a great memoirist. Weaving in, via intuition, several other threads and streams addressing my conflict(s). The honest truth is that I give away my power, too easily, to women presuming them capable of making me not half, or enough, but whole. Only now occurring to me they in their turn may expect the same of me?

Given the opportunity several times in life, I stated, either published or implied; Savior your self. In the community of two, both being fully integrated making something else, greater, if not fabulous. Ideally yet by reality impossible to my quest. The only vessel, or chalice, I know capable of such passion is God. So regardless Ava Gardner, M or “Had She said Yes” I will remain celibate.

Celibacy like marriage is a renewable bond daily, if not minute by minute.

Besides which I am half way there; having only one testicle left and no prize when I had two.

Largely, all that I have ever asked for has been fulfilled experientially. 

Be true to yourself. 

- The Rolling Stones

“You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you might find, you get what you need”

- Aldous Huxley

"Chastity - the most unnatural of all the sexual perversions."

"Experience is not what happens to a man; it is what man does with what happens to him."

 . . . obviously, here, “man” applies equally to both genders. As in the whole commonweal, the entire family of our human kind.

- Paul Tournier

“Acceptance of one's life has nothing to do with resignation; it does not mean running away from the struggle. On the contrary, it means accepting it as it comes, with all the handicaps of heredity, of suffering, of psychological complexes and injustices.”

“Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets.”

130426 14:30 MDT equivocal perversions

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved