Mr and Mrs Spratt

My father, who tolerated no fat, predicted I would do nothing right or good, much less healthy, in my lifetime. My mother, absorbing nothing too mean or lean, felt I could do nothing wrong now, so probably later as wellness swell. Neither my father, mother, nor I seemed particularly surprised when I rose and fell somewhere in-between these two extremes, as do we all, I suppose. And yet I wonder about my father's hierarchical value structure, placing perfection on Earth's highest biggest thickest wellness state. And remain silently awed by my mother's reverse-hierarchical terms endearing depths of greatest compassion for who is deeper and thereby more robust with whom. I suppose this means something about where sexuality conjoins sensuality, About triangular cognitive structures amid diamond infolding co-relationships, about 1's intersecting 0-Zones, about light foreshadowing dualdark reminders of perfection, about fullness of time within timeless absence, eternally co-arising. Although, neither Yang's ominous hierarchical value predictions nor Yin's generously interdependent deep learning hopes, sexual and sensual, were all that helpful for adolescent me, struggling with spectral hungering we.