How can we be more caring?

I cannot speak for you..I can only call out my own name into the unsulliable vastness of This-I-Am...and in hearing its echo which is not an echo but the aftertaste of the substance of this morass of joy and pain which I braille out into an unknowable future...frothed up and distorted with wordplay and comedic dance into the semiauthentic souffle that it is...in hearing my own echo, I feel a pull to move supersonically, flow directly against the sound to feel into the place from which it comes....to connect with that deeper self in the black, blind, glyptic, voracious omnipresence lying behind the walls of laughter and costumery.....to rest as the damaged, neglected, humiliated little boy I once was... curled foetally on my bed sucking his thumb for scant solace against the downstairs neverending fucking rage and violence.....the days of being stepped over....

And to connect here in this hard hurt...in the hope that, as Octavio Paz once wrote, the last tear is of joy...but not yet...to weep for my own lost motherlove...and to spend the next decades of adulthood armoured with intellect and mirth and sweetness desparately attempting to recapture love in ways which frankly undermined the possibility....to connect with the compassion I feel for this very bright and open litle lad... for the things which should not have been done to a little boy...for the damaged parents doing the best that they could but not not not fucking good enough.....

To connect with the texture of this pain and enter fully into it so that this hurt is not a hurt but a power...a source....to connect with this power and to act directly from it as a martiall artist acts directly from the hara....to connect with the raw authenticity of this place as my centre is to be real...and when I am real, then everything I do and think and say are real...and how much more caring for myself and for you and for all the other part-lost, part-beloved others is that?

I will shortly go back into my therapy room with that little boy nestled securely... covered by a warm quilt spun from a deep warm heart...and gather all the neglected children I come across to share the space....

Thank you Robert Augustus Masters.

And also those of you who have ever written to me, made  nonharsh comments on these blogs and encouraged and stroked the cerebral mechanisms which make me just a little cleverer and more distant and therefore just that bit less caring....I will explain myself a little more perhaps, in future.

Namaste....Jon xx