~the soul is left to wander~
~dazed & confus’d searching~
~Jim Morrison~
~there is an ethical aristocracy just as there is a spiritual one~
~Nietzsche~
~children as our conscience~
~spirit guide intentional~
~WordWulf~
~dazed & confus’d searching~
~Jim Morrison~
~there is an ethical aristocracy just as there is a spiritual one~
~Nietzsche~
~children as our conscience~
~spirit guide intentional~
~WordWulf~
~Instance of Id~
At some very deep and necessary level, my children have been essential masters of my spirit. The singer in me might have sung himself to death, the writer written himself over the edge to the other side. Harley Davidsons, brothers of the blood, cocaine nights and meth weekends would surely have claimed me, consumed me body and soul.
Staring into campfires shared with night riders never compared to family camps, marshmallows, snipe hunts, shaking bushes and grizzly bear growls. What a thrill, the handsome squeals of boys and girls afraid to be scared, delighted to be so (and safe). Always my children’s eyes have been in the campfire speaking, “It’s okay, Daddy, come on home now. We are waiting, faces in the window.”
Not being a man of virtuous patience, I have led a full life with the hammer down. Standing in line leaning on a shovel, burying fellow madmen over the years, I have wondered what made me different from the good men died, that shovel full of dirt on the last mortal door slammed shut.
Freud described the psychic apparatus as being composed of three parts, three theoretical constructs. According to his model the id is the uncoordinated instinctual self, ego the “now,” organized and realistic piece. Lastly, the super ego is critical and moralizing.
In consideration of this philosophy my super ego has most times been staring into the eyes calling out from the flames. My damned ego was dancing around the fire, flames spewing from the spout of a five gallon gas can. It howled until it could howl no more then took gulps of gas and spit flames into the face of the night and the astonished crowd ducking and moving on the dance floor. Within the undeniable hunger to create and survive, I find my id, a deep well of desire for creativity, no value judgments, a reservoir of no fear.
Such a place in a manmade like the man I am would demand a kind and attentive master. Shot at, stabbed and run over, six decades of life behind me, I understand at last who they are, these keepers, how well I find them and me in their eyes.
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
At some very deep and necessary level, my children have been essential masters of my spirit. The singer in me might have sung himself to death, the writer written himself over the edge to the other side. Harley Davidsons, brothers of the blood, cocaine nights and meth weekends would surely have claimed me, consumed me body and soul.
Staring into campfires shared with night riders never compared to family camps, marshmallows, snipe hunts, shaking bushes and grizzly bear growls. What a thrill, the handsome squeals of boys and girls afraid to be scared, delighted to be so (and safe). Always my children’s eyes have been in the campfire speaking, “It’s okay, Daddy, come on home now. We are waiting, faces in the window.”
Not being a man of virtuous patience, I have led a full life with the hammer down. Standing in line leaning on a shovel, burying fellow madmen over the years, I have wondered what made me different from the good men died, that shovel full of dirt on the last mortal door slammed shut.
Freud described the psychic apparatus as being composed of three parts, three theoretical constructs. According to his model the id is the uncoordinated instinctual self, ego the “now,” organized and realistic piece. Lastly, the super ego is critical and moralizing.
In consideration of this philosophy my super ego has most times been staring into the eyes calling out from the flames. My damned ego was dancing around the fire, flames spewing from the spout of a five gallon gas can. It howled until it could howl no more then took gulps of gas and spit flames into the face of the night and the astonished crowd ducking and moving on the dance floor. Within the undeniable hunger to create and survive, I find my id, a deep well of desire for creativity, no value judgments, a reservoir of no fear.
Such a place in a manmade like the man I am would demand a kind and attentive master. Shot at, stabbed and run over, six decades of life behind me, I understand at last who they are, these keepers, how well I find them and me in their eyes.
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
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