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
.JPG)
