precedent precedence

Jack Frost was precedent to me Jack Spratt, while a classmate was named Peter Rabbit . . . possibly Peter Abbott but so called Rabbit; in my time at Old Greenwich (Connecticut) Elementary School. Where, initially I was called by teachers, “Jack Frost.” Magical to me since I have largely taken my nursery rhyme name indifferently. . . .Jack being a nickname for either John or Jacob.

Formerly mired in suffering I seldom remember the wonder of delight back then.

There is a remarkable penchant/proclivity for both M and P to follow me down into my rabbit hole. Where I would otherwise hide from the vicissitudes, vagaries, slings and arrows of random chance to curl fetus like sucking my thumb . . . Like Jack Horner and his Christmas pie . . .

Little Jack Horner

Sat in the corner,

Eating a Christmas pie;

He put in his thumb,

And pulled out a plum,

And said 'What a good boy am I!'

Wondering now what kind of fool I'd be were I to avoid the opportunities inherent?

On the personal front I seem to be undergoing a fantastic expansion of opportunities. Begun long ago when at middle age I began to wonder; “Is this all there is within or about me?” Then discovering I love to mess about with words, concepts, constructions of thoughts, religious, philosophic, governmental . . . long long long ago . . . yet in love discovering something greater. No me, of course, simply that for others I do just about anything to so touch as I've been touched and healed.

A sentiment derived from the words and works of others, not exclusively literary. Yet literature is explicit, at least to me it is. While dance, movies, symphonies and images seem suggestive. All prayer.

Easily cyclonic, fearing the destruction of myself, or the beloved, I still wonder at what I'm playing with; considering a consequential relationship full time.

“God sent his Singers upon earth With songs of sadness and of mirth, That they might touch the hearts of men, And bring them back to heaven again.” - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Regardless the vanity by association or aggregation, they, both M & P. are more giving than I may ever be in real time kindness . . . I'm such an eejit fruit cake, sensing it possible to grow one's soul in solitude, but a personality only in community. . . .The bride groom jitterbug tap dance?

One obviously having said yes. And at best, I've known from beginning to end, myself easily slain by kindness. Obviously, always, a fool for love.

The one saying yes, so far, emblematic of expansion and the line of integration. A greater wholeness unimaginable at my age previously. . . .and what of Annie? Who, obviously, loves me too. No one and nothing being merely anything to me. So defined as dismissible.

. . . could be I am merely a prayer frog hurling my ribbits heavenward, or just an old toad. Kiss me, kiss me not, remaining unchanged not Beauty and the Beast.

130506 06:50 MDT precedent precedence

© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

relevance

I am irrelevant in the context of time; the before, during and after of it. I could and would, were it not too painful for all others to remind themselves, equality in this estimate, save for the Origin of us all. What I play with is death to others, perchance death to myself, a la to several I contemplate it was.

Context is another matter. It is the center of what considers relevance. I appreciate the few readers I have. Reminding myself these are merely annotations of a life never having listened to itself before. Otherwise it occurs to me, I am merely a burr and inconvenience; a source of distemper and distress to most. Yet it amuses me to be so. At least within the precincts of my conscious mindfulness.

“Good, Better, Best” a phrase I heard my father discuss regarding coffee; all the same merely labeled so. Like General Motors, the same vehicle costumed differently, same/equivalent, if only in regard to functionality. As with all things I can argue the case either way.

A person first, man second, a soul who loves unreasonably; the former being overruled by the latter usually . . . a dust mote considering eternity. What would I be without woman, the singular or many of them giving me birth from age to age. Saying nothing of civilization; not man first, woman second but both equal and created together. Love sold as a commodity like tooth paste an ignoble economy cheapening life perpetual slavery. Random review startles me, the number of women whose kindness kept me from drowning in despair; men being hopelessly self concerned, vain really growing old not up.

The woman, PD, is organic, a logical progression by experience/intuition, and with M, I sense, finally, I am loved; otherwise not sure I could affect the same alteration by myself alone. It is choice. God is otherwise irrelevant if not operative within flesh and blood realty what we call life. Being more real to me than myself.

I have not been able to find a construct, either science, religion or philosophy, to contain or express my concerns. Yet each woman within their individual selves has brought me to this new found freedom from my didactic (ridiculous?) self. The nitty-gritty is not all sky pilot, so heavenly concerned, no earthly good. . . .However were they sleeping beside me or near, I'd not be able to write this? Or would I?

Face-to-face they have demonstrated to others and myself, a singleness of purpose and focus of kindness, astonishing in kind and degree. . . .of and about which I seem, if nothing else, a witness. About more, one says no the other says yes.

A complete fool, I make simple things complex.

Life flowing around me, a hoary lichen covered stone. Talking about, walking the walk. Forgive me for inflicting upon your attention these personal questions. It is a way, not The Way; merely a process of clarification in chaos; pleasurable potentially joyous.

Reminding me of my “Great Dream”. Recurring five times over: Leaving a castle into the moon lighted, trackless desert. Demonstrative of potential paths for others? Amongst all the traditions, they seem equally divided between celibacy and the opposite. In either case, they seem stronger than I am. Wiser too.

Wondering: either/or – and/both?

Together with either M or P there is a radiant warmth enveloping me.

Laughter just discovering by chance:

“Have no mean hours, but be grateful for every hour, and accept what it brings. The reality will make any sincere record respectable. No day will have been wholly misspent, if one sincere, thoughtful page has been written. Let the daily tide leave some deposit on these pages, as it leaves sand and shells on the shore. So much increase of terra firma. this may be a calendar of the ebbs and flows of the soul; and on these sheets as a beach, the waves may cast up pearls and seaweed.” - Henry David Thoreau

. . . who went home to mom for lunch.

Ask and you will receive, perhaps not what requested but what is needed. To which, of course, as with God, one is, in Free Will, always able to say “yes” or “no”

Reverent and uncommonly seductive (read Casanova) I am written upon life like the wind. Here now gone momentarily. Yet I live, love, think and write better by the attentions of all three personalities listed above. Add: is it not one of historical function, women growing little boys into men? History's folly, not giving equality to them.

"Who knows what beautiful and winged life, whose egg has been buried for ages under many concentric layers of woodenness in the dead dry life of society ... may unexpectedly come forth ... to enjoy its perfect summer life at last! ... such is the character of that morrow which mere lapse of time can never make to dawn. ... Only that day dawns to which we are awake. There is more day to dawn. The sun is but a morning star." - Thoreau

Submerging to nap awhile I thought and upon awakening remembered: “No man is greater in love that he who is willing to die for his neighbor . . . or something like that, at least the essence of it remains . . . and it seems not chance or fate but something greater has given me two neighbors who love in return. You'd think I am about to die? Laughter. Saved, who am I to savior another?

http://ed.ted.com/lessons/tales-of-passion-isabel-allende

130506 02:46 relevance

© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

never take yourself too seriously . . .

I tried it. 

Discovering myself fraudulent, ridiculous, humiliated, then more humble than before.

Masturbatory when didactic. Where I would make love possible to your mind, only happening in poetry, inspirational not penetrative.

Weaving back and forth between this and quotes, randomly not drunkenly . . . 

- George Carlin 

“Honesty may be the best policy, but it's important to remember that apparently, by elimination, dishonesty is the second-best policy.”

"I'm completely in favor of the separation of Church and State. My idea is that these two institutions screw us up enough on their own, so both of them together is certain death."

“Some people see the cup as half empty. Some people see the cup as half full. I see the cup as too large.”

"When you step on the brakes your life is in your foot’s hands."

. . . 'bold' being today's discovery, dawn over Rockport/Mable Head, recently. These could inspire poetry instead of fixed and immutable truths, suggested outside all the Wisdom Books. An ongoing dialog. . . .Today's script in the play of life? No. Merely suggested reading material for contemplation. . . .Oddly, for me, realized in flesh and blood reality. Which, obviously, I no longer take too seriously, laughing at myself, since what I do and am is now joy.

"We die. That may be the meaning of life. But we do language. That may be the measure of our lives." 

Toni Morrison  http://www.dailyliteraryquote.com/daily-literary-quote-share.htm . . . dip stick reality check, motive fuel gauge . . . 

Now “I see you” has become, sometimes an empty cup, at others a cup inverted, into or upon which, I pour my love—finally indifferent your choice unconditionally. That is my sense of truth and love, and by what I measure the treasure of M and P. More P, since she responds not with wishful thinking but welcome more than sexual, which of it self is as fleeting as life. Familiarity in this context is not stasis but promise of a lifelong, long or short, quality conversation. Agreed to meet unladen with expectations.

130506 00:58 

About my celibate estate, is a quiet, within which are born personal insights, impossible otherwise. I sense that love is sacrificial, the pleasure/joy of sex being within me a compelling force articulated both satisfied and tragic. In passing, speaking with P, I mentioned being a “Road Warrior with very High Mileage, something like a Checker Cab at 600,000 miles on my ninth engine.” She laughed knowing the same feeling . . . not exactly a metaphor incomprehensible to the 'average intergenerational relationship'. Culturally immobile absent research easily available. Pregnant with ideas, concepts, aware my faith in succeeding generations, I wonder will I fall silent and more in love with the realization in our relationship. Born by all prior suffering, or grow to something more.

I have no regrets as yet. Acknowledging the rare and precious catalyst of M and now P. Or any and all relationships previous, inclusive of my current poverty, or soon to die age. Quality versus quantity defines my fearlessness of either: death, dying or vanity, competition and envy. Of itself a vain statement. 

My problem--learned from imperfections, failures and living with dysfunctional people--is merely that I attend too closely both enemy and lover. Concerned that I injure by distraction this process of annotation my discovery. Thus making myself inhuman. Another vanity.

Aware that I have an 'invisible partner' this dance of life yet aware that she seems the additional, making of us a company and future.

“That best portion of a good man's life, — His little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love. ~ William Wordsworth . . . quote of the day, Jack at bat, will he hit it out of the park, walk or strike out? I do not consider myself 'a good man' but both M and P seem to think so. God Help Me Please!

At least I realize myself pregnant with a story about M waiting birth. Thinking now all I write, a life unfolding, and joy in itself. To dance alone is no pleasure but occasional unreasonable joy.

And; I ain't nothing to look at, nothing to admire so pardon me while I disappear. Refrain from Duke Ellington's “Take the A Train. . . .At least insofar as I can remember it played a thousand times over in my childhood and adored.

Tho a failure with all former lovers, this one seems the next invitation to succeed.

“If you shut your door to all errors truth will be shut out.” ~ Rabindranath Tagore

Laughter at myself.

130505 0909 never take yourself too seriously 

© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

it is not what I say life that is

It is not it what I say it is, itself--something else.

Suddenly upon awakening from a death like sleep. No dreams, just rest. It seems our saying yes to one another, was making real: two not one. Then I fell to wonder, is that the way of death or expansion?

Becoming, unfolding, blossoming . . . or aborting all that was, or had become, until the moment I asked that she take me with her.

"Everything in the universe relates to the number 5, one way or another, given enough ingenuity on the part of the interpreter.” - "The Law of Fives"

. . . annotated in the order presented from beginning to end: this date and time http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Main_Page

- Benito Juárez

"Between individuals, as between nations, respect for the rights of others is peace." 

"Democracy is the destiny of humanity; freedom its indestructible arm."

Splayed naked I realized that Gideon's fleece had spoken to me and the implications were something utterly new: the ball is now in my court . . . to eat or volley.

“Once you label me you negate me.” ~ Søren Kierkegaard

“I see it all perfectly; there are two possible situations — one can either do this or that. My honest opinion and my friendly advice is this: do it or do not do it — you will regret both.” ~ Søren Kierkegaard, Either/Or

No guffaw, a deep chuckle at myself; thinking I need to read more, as in what happened after the message was received. Prescriptive? or What? (notes on a life attempting more than existence)

“If I have ventured wrongly, very well, life then helps me with its penalty. But if I haven't ventured at all, who helps me then?” ~ Søren Kierkegaard

The steel of my resolve become a marshmallow, back on the anvil, hammered into what? Could it be that I love the pursuit and catching better than seducing myself? I have, you know, discovering a life resolved in peace, cast upon the waters and the water is now pushing back. Presenting me with consequence pleasure or terror? Surrender the discernment: weal or woe, or stay in my dreamland alone. In all past commitments to loving another I have collapsed, surrendering to their agenda losing myself in the process.

I am nothing if there is no shadow cast by the light of day: reality. 

“Is it an excellence in your love that it can love only the extraordinary, the rare? If it were love’s merit to love the extraordinary, then God would be — if I dare say so — perplexed, for to Him the extraordinary does not exist at all. The merit of being able to love only the extraordinary is therefore more like an accusation, not against the extraordinary nor against love, but against the love which can love only the extraordinary. Perfection in the object is not perfection in the love. Erotic love is determined by the object; friendship is determined by the object; only love of one’s neighbor is determined by love. Therefore genuine love is recognizable by this, that its object is without any of the more definite qualifications of difference, which means that this love is recognizable only by love.” ~ Søren Kierkegaard

Am I caught in a Kafka device/narrative of my own making; to have my sentence scribed upon my soul? Had She Said could, at the time before said 'yes' and I'd be facing the same issues lacking current knowledge, conviction, the firm sense of her response to me as a person. Not a man led by the small head; possibly soon irrelevant both? Then was then, Now is now. I have no personality if not in community with others. And this very, special to me 'other' responds like/as M. Rare, in a life of illusions sold as reality. Precious. As she is real and responsive—a pair either way. (laughter)

“Do not interrupt the flight of your soul; do not distress what is best in you; do not enfeeble your spirit with half wishes and half thoughts. Ask yourself and keep on asking until you find the answer, for one may have known something many times, acknowledged it; one may have willed something many times, attempted it — and yet, only the deep inner motion, only the heart's indescribable emotion, only that will convince you that what you have acknowledged belongs to you, that no power can take it from you — for only the truth that builds up is truth for you.” ~ Søren Kierkegaard in Either/Or

Regardless the modest difference in age, we both were parentless, potentially becoming 'parents' to one another. Led by obvious trust, inspired by the Parent of all life, the ground of a being, common to and tenant, this world wide experience we inhabit. What will we incarnate? There, seems always: choice. To move forward or step back. Standing still is to be subject/object of force. Surrendering yourself to slavery bound in chains devised by those who would, and do, exploit us for profit or pleasure: no joy. 

All people, it seems, when there is a knock at night, know God as real, naked of all other considerations. 

Either way, it is grasp you ass with both hands and kiss it goodbye, to live or die: choice. To say 'yes' or 'no'. If 'no'. Do we cower in the shadows until it is over?! The ground of our being is change. Chance. Nominally modified by choice.

I am, to myself, obviously now, attentive to those who chose to live. At their end defined their life by what they said at the end of it. Confident. Would I be that? Not following their example but finding what they sought.

“Men make their own history, but they do not make it just as they please; they do not make it under circumstances chosen by themselves, but under circumstances directly encountered, given and transmitted from the past.” ~ Karl Marx (born 5 May 1818)

I am reverent to the Source, myself, M and to P ('Had She Said Yes') There is within my choice a respect and wonder, does that stand for “fear the Lord”? A sailor, I know best, life sailed upon the sea, not anchored in snug harbor, slumbering a living death. Is not life, risk? Otherwise it is sufferance. Indifference.

“You cannot get the truth by capturing it, only by its capturing you.” 

~ Søren Kierkegaard

I did not choose this day, nor the quotes discovered. This date and quotes are chance. Coupled with an abiding sense, not of astrology, but curiously there is within a thematic integrity. Through which I discover myself at peace, following a methodology proven over a long period of time impelling me to this date. Chance, coincidence, serendipity or synchronicity it works for me as other than prescriptive but offering choices expanding.

It is always coldest before dawn. Discovering myself, as I slept costumed, shivering and hungry. Wondering about the heat that sustains my indifference to anything but this, the words that question, finding no immutable answers. Indifferent to the unreeling of time: what will be will be.

Oddly confident, wherein all previous times equivocal feeling unworthy—incarnating unworthiness. Laughter at myself: hazardous either way. If I have learned anything it is not to rely upon what I say but live loving life. Not as I would have, or have it not, but what it is: reality.

“Sin is in itself separation from the good, but despair over sin is separation a second time.” ~ Søren Kierkegaard

130505 05:55 MDT it is not what I say

© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

crib sheet

"Sit down before fact as a little child, be prepared to give up every preconceived notion, follow humbly wherever and to whatever abyss nature leads, or you shall learn nothing." - Thomas Henry Huxley

Random reading of various authors and poets could be a resource for many literary forms. However I am testament to free healing by The All. The process is first thought, then affirmations. Extraordinary! I know.

I remember words that I adore saying like 'spatula' and 'trebuchet': delicious in my mouth. Then come others not near so tasty but memorable and curious. Passages of music, poems misunderstood, novels by the ton, read long ago. and current. Scenes from movies, plays, behavior on the streets. Of late I am cramming all the science I can find for free on the Internet; especially about the mind and evolution.

Having been assigned to record aspects of plays and movies I am seldom seduced by their artifice. but adore being so. The performance of need be stellar. Pornography, on the other hand, amateur or professional, is something of a joke since in most cases it is a performance art/craft. Actors mugging the camera: Gee Golly Wiz look at me!

Sadly I have discovered my self caged by shoulds and oughts culturally enforced. Gag ordered by The Church . . . about which: we are the church and within our hearts the psalms and hymns written.

Nonetheless I intend to, before I die, sooner or later, write erotica inspired long ago by John Updike's Poor House Fair and use of 'lubricity'.

Person, place or things memorable to me, stay with me, surfacing randomly wherein I laugh. Usually alone, since I fear being captured by dudes with coats that fasten backwards otherwise.

Following my father's practice of calling me 'you little fart' I continued saying it to my son Randy. Until he said; “Yes, Big Fart?” in reply . . . you know you're clean of grief once you remember only the good times. Randy had a penchant and proclivity, or so I think/remember, of speaking in a deep gravely voice. Odd for so young a child, he died at ten. And so now when I lurch dance about mimicking his voice to Annie; she just watches me very carefully. Her version of a cat laughing? Staring wide eyed! I even sing to her, basso profundo, outrageous lyrics. There ain't nothing aloof about either of us when alone together.

I pay homage to those people and resources who have brought me thus far; free of fear and envy. Kindness is a religion worthy of attention and “I see you” the next best thing. I could not see myself, ever as worthy of attention until I started to write in my journal long ago. Living death being in the presence of people with whom there is no trust. Absent trusting myself I had no life, no home, no future.

- Michael Jordan

"I’ve failed over and over and over again in my life and that is 

why I succeed."

"Some people want it to happen, some wish it would happen, others 

make it happen."

07:30

Awake again. My mind is like a mud hornet nest, benign until stirred up. P is a nurse, not a fetish figure, but one I trust by experience we met at hospice. An arch like a rainbow over/through which, like Palladian windows leaks in reality, I travel. Unlike Vonnegut and his mirrors: benignant.

Behind me is an industrial wheeled cart; bearing a host of dictionaries, including the Complete Oxford in miniature, frequently molested—all of them. Preamble to a pitch, unpaid, for WordWeb Pro which, unlike neither M or P I fondle frequently as well. As yet.

Once married to Carol Steiger/Stigger, we lived for a time near The United Center, Crystal St. Chicago. No basketball fan, as with all other sports: too much exposure via photo journalism and being run over five times by football players.

I have held, unconsciously, until now, a fondness for random associations coupling with my dyslexic apprehension of meanings. Taking to adding quotations should I ever pass this way again: i.e., read this post. A vivid memento. Improbable.

Life unfolding annotated, I am at the moment especially aware, I may have dug a grave with my mouth. At the same time recognize my unfailing reverence for choice in the beloved.

Once a beggar for love, a squishy schmo-schmuck, love and affirmations running off me like a gazing globe in a typhoon. Was I with those who could not get through to me? or merely that I too blind and stupid of mind to hear?

These stellar celestial hours I no longer care for yesterdays or future, I've been extruded from that base metal into something else; neither sword or plowshare, possibly, merely a moth flutter about, happily so. In all the prior hours I knew no ability to ask for love. Blowing up, apart, or running away when I sensed myself run aground. Dismasted and gutted.

I will close here, at the risk of being more pedantic then most of my previous excursions. With a few clues regarding the origin: Why, what, when and where I am now and came from, for the moment.

Both parents were addicted to success and alcohol. Suspecting I might be so inclined, I began to attend AA, plus a host of other iterations: Sex, Codependent, Adult Children of Alcoholics, Al anon, etc. All 12 Step Programs; peer councillorship. Discovering myself not alone, finally, part of the human family, imperfect and loving the experience. Becoming no “Goodie Two Shoe” anything. While I am capable of compassion I could as easily kill, heal or love dispassionately. Ruled by a simple choice, to never abuse as I was abused.

The ambition I have is to offer awareness that healing is possible, independent of all the expensive alternatives. Especially, psychotropic drugs, which by personal experience, do little but mute the problem, not heal it. Becoming another addiction, comparable to alcohol, but sanctioned, profitable and licit.

'Be well' is more than a sentiment, it is deadly serious.

“Virtue is a state of war, and to live in it we have always to combat with ourselves.” - Jean-Jacques Rousseau

wrenches by Diana Zlatanovski

130504 05:12 crib sheet

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved

cultural artifacts

“The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.” - eden ahbez

Noised about, commonly where we live, is the sense it the poorest place for those with allergies airborne. It follows that few notice my red eyed lab rat condition with curiosity. M, of course knows my lack of schedule; engaged in my covert love affair with words. Mere symbols, until you understand your perception and their meanings to you. The most impossible of all is: 'love'.

Friends, family, lovers and others observant, would soon be jealous had they seen either of us with our constant live-in companions: small and furry. Upon whom we lavish the most obscene affections: languorous strokings and love talk adoringly sung, or silently communicated.

Since our first meeting, when she began the long process of saving and giving me a life, annually I am allowed the privilege of visiting her home. At first, fed, I'd flee early on but in time came to sense the best was yet to come and stay later of late. Of the few images I am allowed to capture of her, amongst my most favorite, shows only her hands upon Koko, a companion of nine years.

Point being, I am simply gaga for her and P. Wondering now what will become of me, Annie, and the maverick mistress/muse, writing, should I surrender my solitude? Either one could ask for one or all of my vital organs and I'd freely give but . . . but . . . but? What me worry? I could easily be swept away by a passing Cadillac Escalade Sports Utility Vehicle, operator texting, sexting, talking inattentively. I pray they kill me instead of rendering me useless to myself.

Could be a city bus or a runaway rhinoceros; I'll save eating a passing train for last resort. Crawling in between the wheels not leaving to chance leaping in front.

Aside from random kindness and drive by affirmations, all women of course, these two have lent me reason to keep breathing . . . it seems possible to grow a soul but personality requires accomplices, communion, community and goals.

Both spirit and body in fine fettle I seem to be on the middle way as yet. Feeling the warmth of two hands one and the other with me in between. Thus the lofting gliding sense of being aloft flying. From either, at times, I receive clues that they have read something this intimate of me. Both knowing the terror of my childhood mother, forgiven and recognized as the source of my, sometimes rude, vocabulary. Well shaken, stirred, tamped down, compacted within it the alchemical retort my mind.

Such intimacy is perilous when published; but it is from my personal journals that I've learned to listen to myself. And potentially save another life; one would be just Jim Dandy. It wasn't so much singing for my supper as humming to keep alive. She was a terror in general, at times, especially when intoxicated, otherwise silent: never benign. I am so fortunate, even at such a late date, to be healed by both M & P differently. Given a history of love in spite of it all, I tend to give undivided attention to these two, for whom I would give my life.

Historically I began to distrust all prior women fatally. Not boredom but simply concluding myself either unnecessary, or fatal, to them by their antics. Lessons learned by mom's tutelage have been near impossible to unlearn. For the majority of what I formerly called 'life' really subsistence I concluded that I inflicted or infected others by my existence. By choice or chance near death I was saved. Why?

Thy will be done?!

I sense life is, in itself, a self-portrait. Not what we look like, but are, and do.

The nature of my love is to give, independent of response, refusing to be defined good or ill by anyone, regardless the consequential meeting face-to-face with what I love most above all: The All.

To be the dark angel fallen hearing the last word of love, "Be Gone!" Or otherwise. So too with these two women.

"Fare thee well! and if for ever, Still for ever, fare thee well." - Lord Byron

keys by Diana Zlatanovski

130504 02:47 cultural artifacts

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved

loom of dreams

From the clay cup he passed I drank hearing

'. . . in my memory . . . my blood . . . '

Then idle draining the dregs of last evening--still--the Merlot, my eyes flooding in memory of He, His Dream, and now me with mine, celebrating life. Dreams awaken me, my subtle alarms, whose yarns are woven and loomed herein.

A book in a box, compact yet deep, from which upon opening a cake discovered, imbedded within the first page. The box and book, wrapped in white, the first page faint but fine. Of all I idly unwrapped while reading; then called to my mother who came and accepted the white cake and awake, here I am. Sipping the coffee I made plus the next cigarette.

Curious about shuttlecocks, threads and tapestries; gossamer beliefs woven into faith absolute. Remembering the Cloisters collection of bejeweled chalices and the Unicorn fenced, encircled, corralled, captive.

"The unicorn, through its intemperance and not knowing how to control itself, for the love it bears to fair maidens forgets its ferocity and wildness; and laying aside all fear it will go up to a seated damsel and go to sleep in her lap, and thus the hunters take it."

”Men standing in opposite hemispheres will converse and deride each other and embrace each other, and understand each other's language.” - Leonardo da Vinci

I disremember now, it was so long ago. Remembering better the sense of awe singing through my adolescence and thrill of discovery: Leonard's poem recently.

For the portents and omens, the dreams and images, I should be, but am not, terrified. Remaining disabled to claim exclusivity to the Christian version of God ascribed. Grateful am I for the gift of awe and being so loved with mutual reverence.

“God” seems to speak to and through all life.

And of the love I experience kindness seems dominant.

130504 00:26 MDT loom of dreams

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved