Hidden Received

My reading chair is awry in the 1000th death of my repose

2012-01-20T22:04:00.002-05:00

Black bubble bouncing ryddim--in the sink of self-process... Murke and resignation.
Washing dishes, life exquisite dust plashes as if this home is under the same catharsis, and a little bubble less than a 1/4 inch diameter wafts up thru thermals to my rt. I'm (verifiably weird) thinking, "hate" him now... Hmm, now? I don't know why I should hate anything or anyone, but I look at it quail-eyed, paranoic. Perfect glistening, getting to live by a wandered trajectory-- it is the tincture of the measure from some body conscious-ness? I'm rinsing the soap off my fingers w/opportunity to sweep a damp finger to my eye. Warm, scratchy feeling--a thing worthy of dreamtimes. Looking again to my side, a ploy of my sup flashes in my mind, then the bubble which had been above me, drops in a deflated scrabble vertical flap.
***
***The resolve is when I can dao onto authenticity. Really, mine is an irreverent and plaintive cry. A lament thru a parched sentence of music's potent succour =proxied with psychedelia in reggae's way-of-it & some felaheen sounds thru Hamza al-Din, those sounds arriving like my neighborhood streets unfurl--again in some mesmerizing brand. Irreverent, since I'm snubbed in finding the promised rose garden... (any special knowledge). Not realizing mine--is expected, but an Other is radicalized in all the kaleidoscopic proportions... specter is seamless virtue and still waters--the rest from worthless identity campaigns. To eschew rastafarian or judaism, you might expect implcit confidence is a sorry excuse for reverence in some so-called Provenance in the embodiment (say some fixed point in time=in messianic expectations, perhaps) of holiness occurring within the grasp of a man--temporality all but unknown in humilty, for some. But... Mainly I disagree that my family accepts few comers--in my head, as in something conservative pinging the interior self with perfect attention & regard. --all the foment of divided self. If you're half of something, the probity into the other half's possibilities is sovereign in our embrace of something feeling like a conscious crowd. However, family is only going to relinquish me toward student agency and maybe in terrible populations of silent throes they wait to be discovered... seen (then) as irrecognizably Core-culture, so obstensibly from Without, oppose my conventions, immanent.

Why is everything the last song I'll ever hear? Like, realizing a sense of a maurading Nov's rain, puddles like cheerful cups there to drain--in sublime feast of the senses. If fountainsky is the limit--give me that roof. Funksome thing (I bet that's been used) playing on cassette player some yrs back, I come up to a hill & I turn to corporeal heat of self--I ask, if now, then what? Burroughs selling pyretheum in reflection as his I apprehend, is his character's passage from Mrs so & so's kitchen out storm door - it framing the blue dome, where her son's imminent return emanates. His folky atmosphere there with her and her distraction as an If Only--untypically yields to this intuiting I would have reason to while away 10 houses back. Just the sky actually not really asking for my sabbatical, looking all in improbable hand's reach...

No Door? Precisely, life suspires, if sweetly, thus.

2012-01-02T18:04:00.011-05:00

****
In my neighborhood surveillance out to the yards lining the street, I say again to myself, Those folks look like they'd be at home. And its spry connotation, all the activity one might assume, only sometimes trots out a miniscule persona--someone's dog sauntering, me aloof then--car doors shutting, the trafficked assailant has head aft, forward leaning to their own domicile. Some places to go, and what they've come home from. The chattering monkey mind of pychic thwart wholly in the stage of squirrel's ambulations, makes their ubiquity in burbs as unprofound as their hidden scat. The brain of squirrel baits. Woe, the dusty, riddled temporality of Minds. Tree limbs are black and wet, like a knit bark lair in commands to go-on-lay-your-head, man, lay....
***
The Shomer were Watchmen in Jerusalem, guarded spiritual resources temporally grounded, albeit. A priest, then at the Holy of Holies, performs the existential deed, says His Name, says it to safeguard the betrothed kehilla or kahal, the congregation that deigns impoverishing certain iconographic notions rather into rallies of action, performance--calls this black fire on white fire, if any language-technology, minds' glyph relicks be illusorily "termed." G^d is alliterative. So, a Shomer Shabbos is an Observant sabbath, which I may have had 3 unrelated weekends altogether to somehow filter the devotional corner stone to Jews. (holy days/festivals herded me into certain camps too) I told Mom I dreamt of a soldierly ...some marshalling figure, in the room I lived in here on Rebel, but at my emotionally missionizing 2nd oldest brother's home. A taunt of my own forces for security, but almost too exacting as Eric, perhaps...--even then, so dubious an image of dreamtime, thus I lain in resuming space--this dream--in the room of my respite. If this figure, a "thick shadow" not calling me to the door, or my window, but thru him thru those walls, would be a composite of Brother, it was clear to me his being animated & in chromo didactic, I didn't know him any better then in our ensuing shared sober light of day. And that conscious crowd being the largest bite into a persona of worlds unto Harmonia Mundi--it could be anybody. And my praises, even tho' a strain of prayer with glad certainty, would rejoin even fewer fellow ascendants. Would that vigil votives unleash the cleansing fire--as Adab & Abihu, there's nothing not already consumed, and the temple is where it ought to be--in the astral--where we have no business being gratified over the world calendric come-uppance, as to expect anything there but victims of our excession.

***I have to get lost in it. Sometimes to provoke memorialized space is silence resuming yet quickened while its adjuring this space, makes feeling in fewer demands on its readied intimations. The Priest - such an ascendant to alight contemplative steps, watches what he sees like letters enumerating, & beyond into speaking laser-green lettery margins, suggesting signs appurtenance of subtle bonds clearly authorial, and discriminating with and against a waking deed Unmeant in the narrative of cant & sojourne.
***A shrewd wonderwall, knowing few, by whatever bridge untrodded, have spoken to its appreciating luck of my tote. Belched out of coolness past frigid fog of steely cigarette smoke, Granny by way of a felt shadow, there possibly drapes me. In my hand, material world translated in nothing adjudged: my control was possibly inept (in the physical) but maya-tacit, just imagery could in its breach illumine feelings like I stroked a thousand razor blades. All systematically arrayed, as in a fine garment which enscounces with weeping incisions...my fingers, curtly benumbed, lie over the roseate-black sheath, blood feelings, nerves prone to her only way in. A fine garment, it proceedth from my trunk, rooted into my heart, but Heartfelt consistant with her remonstrations without--Granny's linen soul suit.

***I can tell you yearning is incitement, and meritable travel is insight. (I doff my hat.) The dreams stock in retinue of what was phenomenal places to have veritably performed, consistantly revelating (we) "look-at-these-paths." ....Is even more so the glance in gaps of nothing/something of less prone niches 'pon the folky carpets, spider's tarmac. It is ancient kindling they use in fueling let alone a minute's passing dreigh as to whatever extent--my age'll defy much ornamentation, I think... . Haven't actually seen a spider this winter--not inside. (Well, the cats eat them.) The one I fed in a couple of rallies, out by the little backyard barn & yeasty apple tree (in Beaumont) had the mantram in viral, say bacterial code, soul-eyed argumentive - vigilant, saying: "look into the life of realize." The wake of our 1/2 acre yard looked way-over far-over in fact a great theoria for metropole blue webbing--at once a kaleidoscopic cntr of reception.
***I saw my body yield to a mean, leaving my spine, bones generally, the prose of consciousness unwritten. I watched all flesh leave a lasting glimpse of a skull caricature & white docile creatures, my friends, whence the soul strained to exposure. In a dream, my legs were rent forward prone, then lopped off, denying my pace across proud land.

***
I put it this way to my buddy going thru something similarly--tho' the news is old, it's not gospel, gossip around the corner, but ought to be reinvented at its peaks, and strange unsubtle epiphanies: The dispensation of all things considered, one thing ill-contained emotionally, spiritually, but impermeable toward the sense that a shared awareness wouldst be the morrow... Mom, as of Monday at 12:13 pm has passed away. Now keeping my dad happy & active... I think the battle gets harder, but desperation is desires brain. And I've cultivated willingness to give a damn, mostly because I think Mom's given me about 10,000 reasons to--as in the case of the eyes of Evil-glowering, whose folly to think I'd ever reckon a defeatist, will sorely seek me in my meditations of worthy probity
***It is precisely anger I experience as an early departure from the golem-ghost, both incessant, by stifling the processes of emotions' control on intuitions of moods, my transitioning... Perhaps he like me is Yum of the Lakota's myth, having this imagined leash to a pivot united in suggestions of the 4 directions, like his brother in full suzerainty of one Direction: his release from the shared archetype of Space beginnings, is release from it, always expectorating in victories without. They start at the Teepee. Yum rides his back, or brings up the rear--but champions a larger conscious map still with presumptions of the 4 brothers' discriminations appreciating yet a greater share (for Yum) of a first leap out of temporal grounds interstices: University. Golem's leash commits him to the space in time, the pivot of pilgrimages like less vaguely in perhaps a tsadi's vigils--the golem as his charge. Tho' he can be imagined as sentient, there's no persona-shaming (egoism, shame's high?) since he's not meant to make accidents of humility--greed of noble causes to be understood in light of community, but he's the expositing of community. A cow composed of herd organism consciousness, dull in the field uniquely surface & palimpsest... Something written anew as in his prayers in devotions placed under his tongue. But defies contemplation of ubiquity interrupted--a lasting outpost for open crowd consciousness..
Subject: went to the temple tonite, maybe the 3 time in the last 12 yrs

Probably one a few earliest memory

Aside the tennis courts on IBM parkgrounds, Austin, Tx, family & I making what I thought was a rare outing, I was coming back from the coke machine which said Sprite on it--Easily remembered thinking spirit spirit spirit, "this is that word."--and I bet it's OK to say IT would taste this good was my quandry--I wasn't imbibing however. I was 6, the grass cushioning the courts was disparate but high, & wafting to recesses post-park. Up to maybe 50 yards of it to dense trees, maybe fields beyond that... Imminently intuiting luck, in this case being able to avoid snakes, was cagey, but mitigating if and when I'd traipse out in it. This day, I was almost sure my brothers confidently gave it resonance and worthy to be breached. And I stood at the approach of what was rather ungainly and boring, the courts--stilling my time won as Mom, playing tennis, says I'll give you it all, and whatever you have is good because I've vetted it: here, watch me make it "irresistably" unwell--the desperation of desire's brain!! I wouldn't in the end walk out into the wheaty grass, and that my grace wouldn't need these fears, dangers, complete thrall, to be challenged by meeting semblances for my fears. The grass was high, Texas is rife with snakes, and I saw no patience in intercessions: "you've been warned," I thought. Then I thought, "we've been warned." My mind held on to something like, It's laughable I could ever be consumed by what is rather in everyone's proximation. But to be consumed--this was immediate assurance.

**
I feel I'm asked to broker the silence. It comes to mind like a command, but yet also like an appeal--whatever volatile potentials recommend! If awakening drives observation on space then silence then nothing, this Nothingness is empty and awake as Kerouac rallies. So a plain of silence, nigh a plain of consciousness, endorsed by space. In jeopardy mayhem performs in my mind like a pulse of shuddering starlings diving in packs in the branches of a bradford pear tree: the caged bird of mind-sore's enumeration of a myriad of unhinged conscious goals. This was answer enough enough that survival was in the query of silence, because everything indicated what was beyond it.

A mt. waits for no truck or ours. Blooms sprout to attract the bee-catcher's quarry, why say it takes vital water from the loam, we sue for us? The deer imbibes water, I'm helpless to know I'm vivified in empirical burden, taking in the same if only satiate for me. My novel path, meets each step, but I'm out of door first knowing I'm summarily extinquished by what is Other. As much as I'd like to watch the pregnant surface recently-deluged, knowing its ubiquity-wealthy redemption ...its meaning makes "extent" calling an ocean full, elevating psalms of ubiquity, evident like rain bearing messages from antiquity, and plains of sea are demonstrated as that much more full. More. If the report of some fountain could be felt merely in one handful, we'd be denied the 10,000 lives leading us to its shore.

**Subject: awhile

If I could alight to a rappore with sweet Valerie that gives her a great irreverence, and if only to get back to a renown of herself to bring me there. Wondering if she can distinguish now nothing is better than her life thus, as her florid aura displays would yield even earthly wiles, so everthing is just so: her meditation--maybe a certainty, an emergent regard of self when she couldn't dither in her sincerity... In her pic (she's up in Connecticut) a ask her whom I'm looking at, as if. The one of the left, I say, not sure if I know her...but I have a litmus test, that may take awhile to be sure. ...tell her to think of it as an examination, a creative one albeit. Rather like a case of radical observation. Me looking at you, I mean her, yeah her, like lucid surfaces of reflecting watery forms. Ask her if her last name is Lakes.

Just one street light, under mothy lights in world's wealth of them, takes reins of self's pace finding proud land of any rd to take us there: the anywhere of now moment--or the keys actually found underfoot at a glance of shimmers leitmotif of its all-destined advance of night's victory, tho' you know you lost them in the alley.

G-d damn the discriminated emptiness--I mean that generally insulated in a guise without release, and still, into the distances resolving dialects between my responding to two unvaried fracturings of the self-same Light into which only under one does deign Resuming memories how light and its infinite vessel--this cosmic instruction of purity and pollution--had answers.
People be saying take-on faith even in Buddhist contexts: yet initiation, is a door w/probable assailing confidence... But why is Hope (faith?) constituent when the supposed Ascendent regards himself withOut? And still the sense of it is salient.

I woke up remonstrating in my senses that I should shake my head: the laughter of night's victors, pillow armies subdued as fanciful. In my eyes the broadcast of lighted fields in dayborn morning allowance, had the front yard tree dross in effect under a vital & esoteric sky. In thought tremors it felt and now looked as if I was scurried from underfoot of some wave-like sky nomenclature and its virile excuse to jettison me into regard of something ungraspable, was hyponotically apt for a following escalante into yet another possible chimera languishing... Cloud wave fighting splurb of dark motes stabbing (eternal) material success fundamentally reifying what immense possibilities was handing me my current repose. Only a skein in immanent vision records that reality gets no basis in life scaffolding of thread from possible vistas into the protuberance of man's built manor.
Nights wrest my friends, convocations untethered to vistas opened up to daylight, have some child in me anticipate my friend like the white thread of dawn distinguished from the black thread of starborn blue slumber. Now her identity marketed, to make mine consumable. Thought for her. Speech as to the most willing side of me, in green youth the once authorial Climate of the Greater-will is me undefeated by default. No one knows by then what was lost--the cost then is dooming us, yet to dream a kind of Becoming.
Noam Chomski had/has political concord & rhetoric to the same effect w/ E. Said. Side', its proper proununciation, is been such an uncool tho' wise Perspectives political interloper. Huge standards of etiquette to bare, seduced the while--leaving me guessing desire & diffidence, if intrigue to however critical or sensual a relationship is, is stultified with first impulse as the decisor, lacking emotional integrity. Patriarchical society must (suck &...) always receive symbolic reverence as transformative if only the miasma of honest emotions wouldn't have one defer from ordinary mundane experience: that as muse has his promisory begging for rights of access, provisons to have intercessors make his or His name beheld with Esteem.

Acquired silk paintings w/possibly Urdu calligraphy

2011-12-01T10:33:00.009-05:00

***every body knows oblivion is the 4 libations of paradise so I'm filling bottles of time with transparent dreams

I went strolling up past the old synagogue, sat on the steps facing Jersey St., entertaining a scroll ("megillah," like Queen Ester's-- *Hadassah is the Hebrew of that name) --the "one" of symbols or signs of the Hebrew Aleph-bet lodged in the scalera opaque--the whites of my eyes. Letters permutating definitely shading in the lay of the land in chromo values, will have me one day meet Illusion in the embodiment of Mara the Destroyer with his 10,000 Eyes. But the garden in our grief that history resides in instincts, futilely dispassionate, or ecstatic--hopefully observable in release, at once, made indefatigible the physical memory we apprehend of the Outward fact. (where Mara remains, vigilant, I suppose) Our identity traipsed-on can't but yield to an impossible regard for a symbol of self, brahman, personhood, existential crises purveyor of senses' crimes...
So, an end of vitality thwarted by distorted self-knowing, makes a beginning of immanent propitiation. Strangely the child--in me? gives away his heart, and by extension his name, namesake... The one called now, the Stranger "with" a Name.

All intimated, roiling thought to favor at bay, Valerie looks up at me after kissing the wound on my arm. I'm in this world--but I'm pointing to it from the door, ...a nodding east, unredeemed mendicant doesn't explain joy anymore than life decidely makes the slow yearning for it develop with the force of the entirety of existence at stake.

***If we can speak to anything--and any one thing is born of life-exquisite dust, language thus fallows inept. Dust we are, but language can do no better. Our tongue's rigeur is our senses riven with the veil of everything terrestial. On your own means precisely this place where dust-occupies and to be as alone, this single adversary to water... It is obvious water speaks like turbid relationship: look at everybody--they're riddled in liquid stars, as ribs & bones (destined for one thing) of sky scaffolding & outlining some celestial self-image.
***I have a pic with my gesturing in gait repose at my shadow. It arcs in front of me and as I remember, during that summer month, my senses picking up on the obfuscated grassy vistas of Beaumont park--the immanence of clement day blocked by my fancy that something in mind recesses anticipate Reflection rather than Absence. In my eyes--they suss, looking for advantage in light's subject, looked at a bit more than gray-shaded grasses. I knew the star tincture was phenomenal, glossy refraction, a sense of Within in a project of Without...
***People suppose their provincialism, if they're lucky.
This thing performs in my mind, acts as promised--I'm its acolyte striven to evolve in the dispatch of those temple grounds. Impulsively I ran out of hebrew school class solely in order to be circumspect. The availability of island self never called into question coarse states--but no rigor--when getting beyond is no penalty to mortality raising the bar per chance of self-knowledge. There is clearly an example of simple lair in 1000s of examples of our margins from it. And temporal palettes rationed my patience, razed it.
***Calligraphy on what I thought were my Urdu scribed silk paintings, are actually Arabic. Very close in a lot ways, yet these paintings having reclined Rajas, an elephant, or festive female acolyte, energetic from subtle contentment in Oriental prone chimeras, speak to rational senses--time, place, and community allowing no dearth of meditations availing. This tripartite perspective, at once the wealth of observable release, yields a narrative. Most say this sense at its most essential is an I'm Present contemplation, and still it would not be the only attributable prospect to the propriety consolation. Why say the deer drinks revitalizing cool water for anybody, any god, or anything other than the sated creaturely patience in its temporal reign? Succour divines presence, but mind open, light mind and step ...into its resuming throes of yearning, has no creator or necessarily no meaning for acquisitive missionizing doctrine reproven in man's complexity!
***...this place is a convene for the cult of noble pathos at its best, and at its worst, maybe just cold--so indefatigible Knowing, and less Understanding, or definitely dusty!! Antiquated! no way, it's about killing the threat of transperancy in how we are reduced to assuming, and forget to thwart everything in the way finding the dream of Existence or Waking up from it. Emancipation from pain? Or Exstinguish the pain? maybe, but suffering is relative, so perhaps Movement as is suggested from the exilic compulsion (emancipation)...always resuming and therefore getting behind us the well-being of our history, means Emancipation should be contemplated!!!! All the hagiography is about it--makes certain that Will, its expression, is in the same Place as Absolute Redeemer--whatever that sense of Ultimate Reality salves in the Mind-Sore. So the Passionate Soul as opposed to our Ends seeking social generis, our Animated self, Physical Release, making final the experienced lament of taxed impermanence. Solitarian, an enjoining that it is the least of us when reception is vacous--is an interger of Good Enough.
I'm rife with pleasure. It's a play, and the emancipated hero or heroine change their name before an eponymous ledger. The symbols and therefore semblances in glyphs from this writ are finite definitions whose backpages absorb his or transmigration (in time's digression) thru moon-soaked shade... Its obfuscation one may notice in streetlight inattention to trees' emboughering!!
***My breath appeared as habit, it had begun before I was born. Intermittant slumber, the shhhhhhh of silence in a place where body has withered, yet in this place its conditions are the experience in redeemed states of becoming... Industry of self--the mist's rainbow of her webbing!!!
***Had a standard dachsund back right before the turn of the century. In the span of time having Reubel, his companionship matriculated even in dreams. I dreamt that I was sitting on our roof's peak, on an Esso can while the dog paraded in a circular leaps over my lap, onto the roof and back again. The dream was precise in its realism strangely phenomenal to me since chimera imagery had been well radically different til then--this because of the Navane meds I was on then, I was certain. Around this time we had had a deep snow, so adventuring out in it, he could be my spirited reconnaisance out in the half-acre back yard. I chucked him into about a three/four foot drift. And here is when I gathered the news ole boy wouldn't be around in the near world-to-come. He seemed to say, It's bleak--and I gotta stay, Man. Sad, sad--he was complicit with the contagion veil of earth's comely covering--he seemed to project he had not much proud land to suss anymore. Not very long after when the weather cleared up he quit walking, then his kidneys got weird, and that was it.
***Scott Abraham- Lakes
Not all words are revelations, but all revelations are words, of worlds revealed. Things are at least thus (tat in Hindi), and at most supra-mundane, as opposed to immanent (coming from "within") (penini ruakh in Hebrew), which may not be expressed. Just sayin' heathens!!

OFF the cigs, man

2011-11-15T10:45:00.010-05:00

***12 yrs earlier on the dot from this New Yrs, I had begun smoking cigs then for just around a couple of months. I had just starting dating my lady & we were at her apt where I first met her Dad at a dinner social, so to speak. The eeking theoria I was trying to making intelligible, made painfully slow in-coming in my diversion into something strangely inverted in how I imagined translating the horizon as my bridge to self-rescue. All in the mixed up mind of mine, lapped up on the shores of despondency I knew would be this transigence, or lapse of who I needed to be. Dharma, dhri--the security & reserve for self-duty--I know Now, then was just a gravid term and no grasp of its implication other than the cluster & fiery resolve in my head "I had to live Up." In the hodge-podge of night florescence - there off of Kirklevington, Wintry clemency- I mention the Hindu Thing as if the implication would be nigh in the experiencial... It was months before I'd finish the thought. Thoughts in the late game of conversations once ensued, but solitarianly professed, to right self, and stain truth with the lacquer of efforts soundly renewed...but later, alone, and salient if release is the event of social reality at least momentarily extinguished.

***I'm an incense burner, if u must know. **If you think an immanent grandeur, self-perceiving, is monastate, I think remonstrations of burning, committing to flames, whether incense or the little smoke (think Beats!), is more likely inspirational of unselfing sentient greed to emancipate cordially this ego's impute. It would make a good book to see the implications of conscious crowd deigning libation spirits distinguished from meditations acceding per smoking herb. These dueling means of ecstatic probity have kaleidoscopic flotsam freed from larger inundated mind fields/streams but once and seen no longer objectionable: had one loss of refrain in any incarnations had dawn fade emotively, inwardly questioning the sense of expression or wind of our passionate seat, it'd be inconclusive if I'd pick the deserts or mountains in sorting out the high that-really-lasted. Meaning, you can find your mystics in another arabia, but mountains make eminent keys to renunciation. Mountains have everything to say about material-void, physical success and longevity. And deserts make relationship with cosmic incumbency (what has your back), prospective distances to halucinate over, wield plaintive outward fact in emphemeral contract.
***IF there was a SUN of Dust, a life in the expiration of physical success, creation in destruction, vitality in dissipation, thought in pieces of us left behind the doors of our past, we'd all accede to what this life has become.

thoughts on pravritti-=the advancement of addiction--and orienting toward renunciation

***I'm telling you, Find somewhere--the Place, to give-you up. There's a reason why your friend was archaic somehow and tremulous with spiritual utility. Your passport is something to stand on. Sublime ports can't merely be an escape with inconsistant symbols of time's effort. I think the typos of proud land, saying Higher-walking, to buy into Lee Scratch Perry's attention to meritable travel, transcience, Soul-adventuring, won't be enlisted once the threshold born underfoot folds under our insistance to move into fat soul of plenty, the taste of space--there memorialized--a great awe to yield to: Conscious void, volatile only in challenging its exoteric trace in mind's eye. Had we known abbreviated silence, i+ as stricture in the cult of self-reliance, makes the uncarved block scheme to deny desperation's salve of emptiness!!
Yet one knows the still waters, closely.
***'round about the mid-90s I'd take treks into Red River Gorge up thru Koomer's Ridge by myself, the last time with Kerouac's Big Sur in hand. The clayey damp sand at my feet on the final couple hundred yards up, I noticed my eyes dimming and taking in expanse to foretell as opposed to the path as it met each step. The gray skein over my eyes left me guessing at it as a supposed lens in the immediate unfurling solitarian trail, life colluding, forest unwrested and yawning, at my efforts. The sense that I'm walking upon a genie's body, a giant, some kind of body, made the trail a parchment of sorts: leaves desicated having left imprints like symbols in muddy glyphs, scroll-like, writ ready, leathery but human skin... A 4-cornered room should be as much a travelogue in convivial literate spirits, angelic tools authoring time & place. I'm observing my lair precipiticously in every shallow awakening, but in sleep had the void sought extinction, I'd dither in oblivion again.
***When I'm up, she'll be down. It'll be like that as long as and until one of us remembers to define my peak as not what is actually me. And her low, not as actually a low. A low is gotten actualized when one raises in high esteem the thing that is less a proponet of immanence, but rather is assumed as one's own emergent presence--an exoteric sigh, glance, & whisper. If Kerouac's void within seeks oblivion, a zenophenomenon is become cliche. So language is especially less willing to suffice in depiction of still-watery mind = illustrated, one is prone to emanations however symbolically poor, oriented and wanting to yield to something past this frozen sea monadic industry that is self.
***Walking down from Natural Bridge with Valerie oh say about 7-8 yrs ago, I imagined til then that cultivating relationships was about the roseate beatific scenarios. That I for one got to hold in its resonate esteem experiences that were actually subtley JUST right. But you know what, I find it was moments that were epiphenomenal for whatever! reason. Because we were cold out there, and I felt strangely bleak...but WITH her, and who else but her, and with me in contrast to the gazalle finesse easily attributed in some fair woman, just not mine, so perhaps not me? There has been strange events since, just sitting around the house before she went away to rehab. The house was palpably extruding emptiness: and we sat there wondering what the terminus was that we'd then share emotions over this bleak terraine of our domicile... But I knew it was a real low--and she was imponderably at a loss as I was... As long as one doesn't run around taking exception to the existential, taking exception like the empty morocca as if in one's chest trunk flittering within like it 'flect thing-actual--then integrity of said relationship won't be trialed, it'll be a praxis cosmogony. So, no fear of failure, just impulse and energy found in resuming higher walking.
***Words permitting, permutating "carcadia," a bloodred tea, hibiscus, drunk in Egypt, is absolutely the most satisfying imagining self as ragged "carcass," void of blood until attributable vessel without is inner-economy divulging journey into self succour in Objective Reality--the possibilities of experiencing the Other Shore. Fruition presented like its remote possibilities--its providence, are retained even in our incorporation of it.
***What I was doing when I tried to OFF myself:: ***Reading Isaac Babel's Stories of the Red Cavalry. If only I could speak to how this lit. hits home for me. (IN 1994--I think) I drank a fistful of isopropyl alcohol, then slugged down some milk, puked, and drank an 8oz Budweiser, which "makes" the terminus of my studies, namely his books, seem to be what it is, and almost as it ought to be--then--living in the house where I grew up, arcing toward nirvana--a not so terribly unpleasant Unknown-World where I was headed... The dreams Babel could induce are something I feel here at this moment as to what I know I willfully can cultivate. It's tacit, and I'm answering by name an expectation that resumes idealism in view of academicians I've known and aspire to have at least a figurative dialogue through. Man, the poison of temporal lulling sway the world thwarts me in my pacing corridors advances in its appropriating a life... The stain my contemplation makes in the airs between me and these Red Cavalry stories are just as I had looked upon them now so many yrs ago. A huge impression this author has made, even as much as Dostoevskii I'm confident to assert, and little remonstrations of his times--the early part of 20th century--are paths of descriptors I leach onto now. The peasant Jewesses with hefty bussoms, he says, seem like negroes. And it isn't entertaining deprecation, rather, it is an author who knows about the world--a world view--everyone is included.

THOUGHTS on Sarah Tilla, and other pieces

2011-10-20T15:05:00.007-04:00

***I don't think somewhere in an Ultimate Reality that it was decided to deal me a full deck. Yet, I'm inclined in every game, halfing the deck, determining the stakes etc.... My fellow players thru a haze of pollution and night circumstance, look over in the place where I've taken seat, seem to suggest an existential surprise--basically mine, I'd come from the din of an agreed concensus life of sorrow.
***THE sun is not rhetorical. In fact it demands action and reaction to the event of its rising. There's a book whose title suggests that something makes the sun cast a shadow of its own--like something everybit more bright, intense, and perhaps vivifying. If the Absolute in What is-not is shared in the approach to the sun's What-Is, certainly, the thing denied perhaps tells us where we stand, and if our living supine is its supreme identity establishes us as its quarry....
The truth is closer to a big tale, an unfurling banquet of vast resource, and sometimes we know we will never dine.
***A hypnotic refrain for me continues to be Mom's literary trove. Isaac babel was in The Jewish Caravan, as was plenty pseudepigraphic material, Scholem Aleichem, exigetical stuff like the Khazars being possibly a link to the world of Scythians in Hasdai ibn Shaprut's letter reproduced for scholarly interested Jews like I thought was in my state of Becoming... And Russian histories, with varied interpretations of dispensations--the one I query now, that of Rasputin. This dangerous character seemed like pending doom. I probably imagined him as vacuous and imminent like an opposite affect to that of gentile kids and their Santa --I've barely indulged in his conduct & influences over the Romanovs of late 19th century til now. This book given to me by Rob Olson's buddy from H.S. is a good academic work, is precisely the feel and taste of things coming out of Mom's books--but rather from his Dad, the former county attourney of Jessamine cty of almost the last 30yrs. Progressive politically, his parents, worldly folks too, and a way for me to seize demonstrations of educational standards I would assume but without the reconcilation you'd think these folks demand. I didn't make the grades, I didn't get the romansbildung, but I do get the sense that a mutually arising would occur to me like them, of the episteme from cultures' contagion--walls I'd concommitantly drape theoria in the event of mind-sore prone to their books' proffering.
***Told Mom what haznea lekhet means. Later my brother informed me Mom can't "think" like she's used to. There's no delivering him from his point, cliche or not, he's the worst person to come to any psychologic straits with. If my idea of brahmodya, meaning the employment of that which is manifest of the silent accord when fascinans is salient, is this so damn less intrusive transitive life--I'm clearly less ambitious--when is it interesting to make an appeal to him or those like him, to fully divulge my lit wick of disambiguation? The sense of other is a ready refuge---if he were any more concretized emotionally, temporally, I might start imagining a general awe that may inspire. I saw him once I suppose in my worst thrum of which life unravels with schizophrenia at his dinner table, just up the street from here on Rebel, impenetrable with my signs of constraints in hellion awakenings out of the House--the House--and his baby and he were in static gesture, him feeding it. While I whispered roseate room 'flect light and heat at the pivot of baby in beautiful worlds, worlds, I didn't let the subtlety of the vision of Jeremy at the end of an umbilical cord escape my sense of the triune of meditation, travel--however experiential, & memorialized space, I tend to want to endure. Haznea lekhet means simple and humble. Lekhet I think denotes "way."
***A ganglion of self projected in reflection over graphed streets, like infrastructure all nerve-like, and still hidden in what coves we deign subsume us: In the suburbs, looking in the dim lanes, the thing so inviting in my life as a dog, was always the edge of drives, when they're neatly bricked in and tufts of grass all solemn and dormant--its patrons gone off to work or school, leaving me there sauntering by as the claimant. Also, shadows in the dust under trees, a blur comes to my eyes that there are impossible depths testified by its negligible contagion off the road, in squirrels' repair.
***I'm telling you, in space and in time your body all sinewy in the strain of illusion, for any distance between you and any relationship--physically space schismed or orbbed emotionally conscious props, creates mapped bodies, hand to foot til "there." Now what?
***I'm more dead, than asleep. I'm less busy being born, than I'm stultified, then waning into awakening. I'm dreaming more in fields of possibilities than its renomer in subterranean mind-sore, the sub-conscious.
***I like how character divines the degree of incorporation. Being denied meaning makes all things possible, since ground of being is contagious. If tobacco is burned in in proportion to its avatar ill-concealed, in her marketing it as votive, a season is imbued as the high in vistas of immensity rendered clement.
***The cultists of self-reliance may or may not prefer to effect cause. Meaning may give well-intentions, but has nothing to do with everyone's limited access to truth. (Moving into) consciousness without is love's price, what is dear is straying consciousness (without)--how the fray contrives our transperancy. Sight the holy fool as alterior I & Is, the gray core of over-stimulating when one is unversed to say his next existential garment was he who had the bravest ornament of release. The duppy's charisma requires the acuity in our moving transformative pirs saints mrabits - these kinds of teachers, into theoria renomer, meditations soundly credible, in their intent in making ground of being poingantly tremendum & reductive.
Moroccan Jews called their saints saddik, sayyid in arabic toward their holiness-purveyor (saddhu so clearly resonates with this...but I'm in the semitic theatre, really hamitic.). Jews almost never required piety thru miraculous possible healings by frequenting a saddik's grave, would usually visit his memorium to gratify festival's relief, wine to share with sometimes the Muslims there for same holyman imbibing coexistence--and definitely expected in core-culture's certain crowd.

**THINKING ABOUT MOM::: I know that she glimpses season's change and it isn't in fact what the time of yr is actually. Just flights of thought of what the temporal heralds, in memory--recent sensitivities to the sun's wealth & flourish. I'd say meeting elemental facts, with the entrails of calendric timeliness impossible to ascertain.
***It'll work, I swore I'd prevail. No filter between me and who suffers, sustains, lets go. I'm certain I'd always been accused of "signifying"--this awe of futures, suspect because telling one makes it seem your retreat is final. But imagining the sun inciting me, knowing my problem is being late for convening season's change--rather in an apex middling the calendar's solar proximity... If I'm incited, I reconcile not being born, & womb-tomb is nigh in every verily away cove.
***
The West goes wrong with destinies of spirituality, as if we're dogged til our implicit believing "problem" has our worth projected onto Mysteries. Certainly one's pain is proportionally a state with needing restored margins--rather, distortion & urgency definitely won't placate one suffering self-abnegating origins. If religion keeps the standard of selves-profession, cosmogony illustrated in lying prone absorbing in big circles immanent star tincture, out of mouthfuls of fire she's coming straight to me. This visage in electronic ocular prayers--behind my eyelids, Ginny & I went out Frogtown Ln., driving up to some farmfield. I step out of the ride, and a skein of crisp margins echo me into gravel and turf off of the road--it was like my shadow 'pon pleroma in her ever murmur from the sky.

SLEEP

2011-10-07T10:50:00.007-04:00

***
If I've had one foe duppy (terribile & fascinans self-reflection)- it was life primatively slit open --I'm at once on the chromo miasmic thrust of Outward Fact ...outside blank sidewalk portending a vessel of blood like path, but in streams that vaguely prevail upon its banks. In poison suspense, this dream of horizonal shadows: where I stand, & where I don't! only gave me a hero's welcome - victory in graduated space, emancipated as if, since having resumed is all - cosmogony is higher-walking...

I'm no champion of the other's chance referendum of my pain.
***Gave Nanny a kiss Sunday---she was sleeping. Dire woe, the awakening--for what it is, for any or all of us, sometimes jettisons the dream.
Said No to everything, leaves me in my murk and solace. At once, I'm relieved of cooperation with mysteries. Time's ill power is exigent in its throne material procession I divulge to my imagination as paths in a walk-about, old brown in a dance of the unknown.
***It's not the context of my agonistic-race to episteme horizon, rather rt now it's content. To hear certain words make its seizing-range of what all falls into the valley of tongues, an ambush of the Rift valley, yud hey vov hey = Jah--now possibly beginning in the Negev, Is. more precisely the Sinai, and the plenitude of the Tiamat, Yemen, these environs verbed as voids... An old way of saying things!! --I don't know that Patti Smith was on to something saying she tired of a stipulate antiquity to define transcendence. Dude we can't excoriate something leaving us w/ residual confidences, it's a fact there's an ancient non-cosmetic even poesis to the pollution... I'm as confident in a survey of its voilablity on me as I am that the past belches meaning, lest thoughts become tridents of Less. Memory is recollection of dismal facts, if history is as language-is True, then expression roils in guffaws unwashed of our animals gift, a merciful compelling "statement" of predeceasing. The dust says dust, it will not traduce anything but the present.
***Everybody is a star--we are dust, star dust as ancient as the Outward Fact. Light too, as if... Life sprung, consciousness emanating, star vitae, but organic and egressing, and yet! Mouthfuls of pleroma born fire, and refugees every bit as part of neutron magnification: if we site the heavens, lift our heads in praise over awareness, then to relationship in immense distances are the project of all humanity's creativity. Gods are Creator Sky gods for anthropological reason: we counter distances, born of them. Here in temporal stewardship, why not think of ourselves as just orbiting monadic bodies. Monad, any unit of consciousness, as Madam Blavatskii in Exoteric/Esoteric Writing makes the case, imminent reality is celestial agency.
***I gathered the concept of my first book, without reading it. I walked past chthonian bookcase....and read the lay of the land. Called myself alliterative, but I was prone only to the last open page. Toting around things made of whispers and nuances, knowing it wasn't enough, I think until you think about words--their vanity & cheapness--one's thirst begins to martyr the point. Kill yourself when expression loses its vehicle, and then walk or dance images, deigning language to follow.
***In the hallway at Ohavay Zion (Love of Zion) synagogue I looked-on at this young mother with toddler collecting walkway dust dithering on the tiled floor. Our rabbi was blind and missing part of his leg from diabetes working against his vitae--he stood in the hallway, in gimple agitation about to ambulate up toward our classroom. The child hovering at adults' feet was making efforts to stand, and this mother, likely one of rabbi's pets for charity-cause, kept scooting the child's one leg so that she'd collapse again floor-supine somewhat... The integrity of Jewish morality made me realize then, it was entirely the moral compass in mind's eye, nothing of ethos I'm likely to conjure making Judaic conduct heavy & relatable in what other Jews would hand me: the rabbi was helpless doing his consumation according to the latitude folks fed him--tsedakah, charity--as he knew what in Torah was recommended. This woman, I'm realizing then, is not permanent rectitude of following days, my learning then. The folly and waste of core-culture as I watched in plastic media, til those opened doors of sheul lopped off my factoring-in profane without, & purity within, is as illusory as any motive one would establish and train toward his self-profession.
***Dreamt of my repose upon a marginal peak of a mountain, snowing comely, and the yeshiva bukrs, those students in an impression of the whole by a few souls were to hand up to me something of the Way--something doctrinaire my mind covets. The mt was made of margins, thin lines of contours, but transparent or white snowing veils, substance wont was emptiness--my orientation in a crevice -- I'm barely dormant as the silence of the remote witnesses. I reach toward the advance -- what I'm assuming is an advance, of their mitigating my studied intent. But they're not addressing me, seem verily sustained, strongly dutified, on various rocky outcrops--me left to suppose I'm as miasmic in the conjuration of my presence.

*** Thought about the irreconciling of having not conjured as much dionysiac, since the rational mind commits and rights me from solitarian escape - no trialing masks (alone with her) - whilst indulging apollonian failures, she has me strive without bionic appetence. Still is the desire (waiting for perturbment), silent is my lament--I fully believe I'd never been without
That cool air, the perfume and body's breath, spectral-glittery physical hesitancy--she's eye candy, but w/o frauding her with my sensual greed. My brother, my father's house, she's prepared...& to leave me jettisoned worse than cosmically. If the hand is an antechamber, my carnal-decor is the last thing in aural precincts that makes natural my repose in self-conscious respite, her love.
***Meditating on the doctrine of the experience of sleep: Is it a problem when naps traduce the long ends of the day? I thought catching convalescence is infact always good, but somehow I've quit marketing my perseverence. Imagining my emotional catharsis, I had at one point seen spans of months lay ahead. Now, with hopeful favorability, I see the usual day unfurl but inevitably its without me occupying a sense of evolving through it. It isn't only an impermanent record without segueways--my statement of presence has been fenced in--I barely know to give a damn. Enumeration of heady material time's control reveals less a conscious-pocket than observably solitarian idleness...
***
Intensity is the key, entrophy is a field of distrusted possibilities...how to be clever and create space in the denying factor, in my appreciating ebb? I can't anymore be the sun enriched yon of world in wakes behind me, in a certain sesshun in corner like-remote praxis--my helplessness conjured curious resolve, but my backyard started sorting itself out like dynamic lighted arbor in my eyes fixed on pools of sheen on this bedroom bric-a-brak floor in dusty exudation-- meditation in glittery glassy visuals ensues possible resonance and self-profession as if those (the yard's ) margins presume a standard--I know as far as maple tree canopy and coves of mind there in it thresh the perfunctory settled opinion: I'm true to the last breath; the arena of soul is translucent isles covering what we know from suffocating perfect ubiquity... I am in that sea, now it's framed, and forever is it frozen.
***People in transformation look all crisp & warrior-like. Taut expression prone to my wallowing in the mile--looking on, their efforts are made plain, but only unto jettisoning reasonable urban spaces, and rather they're convening the horizon - participating in netherly conduct. It'll work supposing a general awe, yet I am denied conscious crowd, clouded with propriety.
Remember you're tending to the same "gate" or bridge to awareness as ever... Your hope is the fire & prayer & communication of that hope.
A friend stated, the pond turns itself over. Maybe this is how there is some inversion in the ecosystem & so allegorically the human market place is in transformation, I'm not sure. But I responded as follows: The heart receives the blood of life, and empties as quickly. A roseate fountain, whose pondering affect, makes perfect surrender.
***My nose says nose, my feet say horiZONal yawn down 'pon the sidewalks. A go-down (warehouse) belches Zadie's furniture store and /or his garage in Kingston, Ny--like the redolent dust and forest of life, underneath me. An unlikely willow in a stunted yard off of Cedar St when I had usually walked past going to Student Cntr to read, marketing the day and its consumation of pieces of familial senses--the coves of warranted escapes somewhat denying them, my family, but giving me avenues to consider me in productive conduct like pantheoned peoples would give head-room and breadth of social clarity... Looming change, strict & prone, I'm oriented but asleep, dreaming, but lost in satori intermediation of chimerical!!!
***Too much bad weed in the garden (Rasta lyrics):
Institutions have teeth--the seizing and incorporation of identity is entreated, there are bionic rats in the garden, but the crickets shall inherit the earth.
Looking for the poesis of my come-uppance: as Whitman exclaimed of himself "I am Religion." Not something with abiding integrity--maybe, Believing in the G^d of your Nation -- and then your nation fails, then what OF your god.... We are a "becoming" not something with world-to-come scenarios...self-actualization is Now, religion as the purdah of distance strung...
**Sometimes it's just one word. It stammers in the arc of a room we ambulate. Fooled is the writing on the wall, when mindful. Pull the cold-lamp letters from white-noise vibratory properties off the wall, so prohibitive, yields like an urban facade...to something populist, painted in human schema--and lost to what is beyond anthropos, his/her spectral shore: certain skies just do not appertain... Damned is the invocation that the word creates, but as vain & cheap that they are, I'm doomed to eternal symbols, vague & flashing. And identity is what a life has become, but is no symbol!!!
***Try saying you've been doing that, and then do something else. Thinking in images, makes words coal-up, indeterminate, when I kindle Buddhist ideas. The inward and outward searing gaze of Buddhist effigies, as he looks onto, and into, makes precise a conscious prop as if beheld just to the fore. A nerve exposed, but tendered, roseate, but imminent, joy/pramudita makes me ask what candid filial thing could every be transgressed. Bob Marley quotes something I assume is biblacy, "when we laugh we pay, for the innocent blood, that gets shed everyday, Oh children mark my word..." Upon the gate's threshold, I had an urge to chortle, but the gatekeeper delayed my entry--expected the gate's guffaw as my supposed goal...sometime, when? Ahh, you'll see I thought--in his words...
***Mind-sore may reference something like urban convene point, infrastructure workers, and then the more vertex affect - front room window glowering in suburban constant, hearth behind--human-solace, & lamp yellow gloss tearing-up (weeps) the refraction, like conscious satellites. My report on the road in profane ambulation...the vehicle not biding roseate domicile blooms thirst for retiring souls. In neighborhood's reins on complacent maps in my head, some humbling muscular thought stocked the shelves with dun-colored and chocolate serpents none other than what I called resolute making gloss and material-voids of white-noise contagions its rigor appointment. Instincts inimitable of the crisp & warrior-like, I'm weary like a cave's stream, no hope like sun's genesis-fact tarrying the vitiate-denial of impermanence open-ended herald of atman as its tinder...

The world ends, but not tomorrow

2011-09-22T16:51:00.007-04:00

***Like I'm talking to her:
I'm moving in circles where I'm forgetting you. I am still having to re-remember everything. It's not fair to you, and it makes life unbearable to me. I fell in love late. I get to the house in shadows. I watch lights in my eyes solution things I have no business knowing...these lights fade, and salient life distorts its continuity--pitch resolving cosmos, this moment. It's salience lost in its latent collection: if there were this provenance, why am I risen with its compulsion? (...as in your LOVE) And deceived by its warrant of success? (meaning we wait, it'll have to unfurl like a long road, but lots of signs on this road, and plenty of "deceptive" trappings of identity taking one on strange rides)

***Laura H's dialogue, then me saying:
Subject: gravity & smoke; chalice & wooden horse-eyes

Mom: Were you impressed with that mall?
Laura: Seriously? R u seriously asking me that question?
Mom: Yes
Laura: I despise malls, and I hate shopping. No, I wasn't impressed.

....saying:
If anything has taught me something of true democracy = Porch Sittin' , it's just-hating walking around feeling like my head has to shed the roseate colors behind my eyelids, that were otherwise less precipitous, meaning I only know then--at the mall, running for the the recesses is what I ought to do.

Using language of the great Elias Canetti---exposing the conduct that has grabbing hands grabbing all that they can. Instinct & over-wrought moral compass denies the proffered hand what it's supposedly due!! The hand is an antechamber," toward the "seizing," then "incorporation" of mysterious propensities of outward fact in its contagion. The open hands of Musselmanners in devotion; the receiving cupped hands in Jewish women's votive prayers waving across shabbos candles, then availing her face; the taut grip upon the integrity of doctrines in fundamentalist throes to stave off threats to self-preservation...: a populist emerging from experience to union with it in physical or spiritual success.
Ok, a little of what I say above is the case. That I sorta infer "moving on" isn't the case--but I feel threatened by it, as if I can't object to alternatives to our thing.... But I do in fact reject the alternatives, and will until we are in each other's arms again. I am just venting the "pain." Which is a weird word, it's more just longing--and I have a long history of longing... And LONG I am--wait wait that doesn't sound right. Anyway, this has a ring to it like I'm talking about solely just us--but in the end this small writ is about other sorta existential things--that DO NOT threaten us... I LOVE YOU.
***I gathered the concept of my first book, without reading it. I walked past chthonian bookcase....and read the lay of the land. Called myself alliterative, but I was prone only to the last open page. Toting around things made of whispers and nuances, knowing it wasn't enough, I think until you think about words--their vanity & cheapness--one's thirst begins to martyr the point. Kill yourself when expression loses its vehicle, and then walk or dance images, deigning language to follow.
***Man may be existential toward excelsior humanities more usually in evolved intellectus than women (if I'm in this box). If I'm in this box--man's--my lens is this miasma of agonistic possibilities; I compete with objective alterior selves. A self-profession, potent with exiles--yet potency in the looming temporal university, it's fondest enumeration, is feminine spirt; the most toxic. (...performing on me in spires of self-actualizing covenants...) That victories are critical, machine-distorted, competition dims her salient respite that her goal is that dream-scape ( of the intercourse of soul passions, of paths of splendor & fates), this lightness of being, her charge of giving away what is dear...
***
Sometimes it's just one word. It stammers in the arc of a room we ambulate. Fooled is the writing on the wall, when mindful. Pull the cold-lamp letters from white-noise vibratory properties off the wall, so prohibitive, yields like an urban facade...to something populist, painted in human schema--and lost to what is beyond anthropos, his/her spectral shore: certain skies just do not appertain... Damned is the invocation that the word creates, but as vain & cheap that they are, I'm doomed to eternal symbols, vague & flashing. And identity is what a life has become, but is no symbol!!!

TODAY, no end of the world

2011-09-05T18:52:00.007-04:00

***Grafting my head to the floor, potential feeling almost energetic (like a cauldron conflagrated head) but without subtle presence as evident, a coffee table book on modern-astronomy, from the 60s actually, had cosmic pictures and fractal formulae for my thread to something grounded and immediate. Sounds with dispensations yawning, resound like air-conditioner units proximal and draining, my repose etching into noise cessation had that been the case. Everything echoing--all sensitivity letting blood... The meds I was on had its durations like a caterpillar metamorphosizing, pleroma skies outside this basement window made dry & heavy the day's long ends. Release was my sorrow that change was imminent--this was different for me--a phenomenon that trials (verb tense) peerless circumstance and characters in sounds-arriving advantage temporal world physical success and my submission as discomfitted loss. Oh the bitterness, no one to look to and receive my imaginary stare... The concept that authors present definitions in my path in langour suspense, must have worked--I knew sorely I gave a damn--an excellent presumption in rain-storms like ancestor's message vehicle in alliterative lightning shock, I would finesse throes of appearances...emerge as from I & Nature!!
***The Jewish atheist is a monk. A chair speaks of a thousand deaths, G*d speaks of a thousand lives. (thru a seive of unbelief, or unlived by anyone but an acolyte's conjecture of memorialized space.)
***True democracy =becoming a whisper next 700 yr old oak, just a glimpse framed out of pooled mouldered water--like that is relicky tumult into mind-patters, tho' my helpless anthropothic-trunk prone (and water ambulates in attention's margins), water-table beneath --funky, chthonian, tarrying stream its salient merciful keys...but impossibly theologized. Fountain night, pitch exhorting heavens, the new years are ringed, but arrested. This tree and that tree appreciates clime's greater-will toward treehood--neighborhood murmurs better architecture in tree tops sky-line, the flame of tree talons dispatch horizon's perfect thread... 10,000 fractured leaves weaving intentions of mind-sore from strange concealment!! Light's ultimate control, the birth of life, consciousness arising, water's ally is humanity as its vessel for light's intent.
***I found mind-relics in situ as to say images I perused showing pharonic chambers as well as some krishna blue figures, Hindu things, all coming to me in fertile glyphs. Glyphs in intrepid fiery self-profession, which made it clear to me, leaden consciousness would fall away, no sub-conscious makes wakened states any more oriented to recesses and thought primacy...it is one fluid state into the embrace of outward fact; the knowing of which may be abysmal, but thoroughly my own industry to alight the weird.
***Modeling the verity with these souls of dawn break, for me, found how I'm strung in reaction all the time: my breath extruding from guffaw of inviolable Other at once supposed, but next a yawn of day reconciles other dreams. Folks looking all possible, but remote, championing ground zero, I'm weaving throes of their superable repose. Folks look like folks in the diminutive, down in a well, with earth's lay formidable reaching us before them, they're subterranean, have already "made" habituation in the world. If we're driven into relationship, looking as into space evolving like stammers & whispers, down, down, dawn goes with Babylon falling, uncertain of the pivot to thwart the turbillon into recesses, ofcourse the fractalized self would be feared. So perhaps seeing what conscious crowd taxied-in, in a fine example of awakening--thing actual--but now, not waiting to see one's mornings get the clouds 9 dew, one may net the suspiring invocation of mutual arising of mind in constancy in bleary 5 o'clock evening's dust and torpor...
***I highly suggest reading the Closing of the Western Mind, by Charles Freeman. A great church history--critical of course in some ways, but the politics that went into deciding as upon the canon that inevitably led to why folks distinguish themselves as X-tian...makes unfalsification the primed response that beckons no opposite retort (the argument goes, life is evolvement, but our G*d started it.). The burden of evidence isn't clear til meta-physical stipulations are portent--I think it can be done, but a roseate receiver of man's worth can't be fate's quality. Karma/kama makes instincts met in trials over righting predeceased incarnations, typically not cures for our occurring in a world-to-come. So, life's meaning if there is one, is wrestling with this our exilic semi-adaptive willingness or not experience of anthropos...an immanent lens--no personal deity makes outward fact sacralize reflection to THIS inward journey, had we looked. One would look, had they a question in their nerve lit.

***I'm absolved before I barely try. Then, once the day is ensued--experiences alliterated as goal--I remember for now everyone has looked the other way, no real concern...I'm suppose to be fine the world deigns!! Starting down gutters in the lanes, I've no provenance there would be the same embrace of white noise vibratory properties of bldg's blinking eyes; I don't know any longer who has given me over to the streets again.
For fuck sake I'm rail thin--I cannot pick up a cig--I just have to remember the pale emptiness... read, and read more. Potok orients me to the "rosy colored mourn" of Yehudin sincerity, but I'm telling you Elie Wiesel, right now, talking about madness mostly in interrogatives, divines my modality in these moments--moment to moment--with immense emotional honesty; I look back a hundred-fold, something is there...I should suffer for it!!
***To heed the rave & calvacade of conscious crowd--not weighted upon as if healing needed investing in my despondency--feels like a goodconduct seeded furrow. I'm seeing agency as graviton in rational riddles like I'm likely self-profession when the center seeks oblivion. Imagine that reified self most available when kenotic matriculation alight in floes, rather than arguably a goal or presence-statement of postulating integrities... (so) rationalizing No-book condemns speaking with hands. Only inner-eye can deign memory 'flect aeries unconfessed never to be written because language has parturition underneath anything pith of mind withdraws, & acquisitive laser accurate suspiring of mind, winds of light, breaths, then exilic steps...corridors, plateaux, but to whom?

(so) rationalizing No-book condemns speaking with hands

What I mean by that, maybe suggests alliteration references tools, but fruits of hearing, the largesse maybe of books, still has the reader receive expression immediately, directly, rather than nuances of remote actions, other aims furthered!! No-book makes conscious props, symbols yet are mouthfuls of fire... conscious glyphs are libations in founts--thought is salience greed and who said one transpires without knowing something, anything at all, is redemption, from a less symbolic mediation=to empirical conduct, & less dalliance.

***A Jew courts non-belief in order to be a Believer. Take the lowest common denominator: haShoah, the Holocuast. In Auschwitz Jews, a minion, took G^d to court & found the Absolute guilty in absentsia. Giving meaning to the Unknown, is denying or being denied by the objective reality: Suffering! Particularly if "meaning" is evidence-poor. There is Nothing, Ayn-sof, outside the Known--and everything manifest in physical success, materially voidant. Wiesel mentions that in Exile, G^d experiences the attrition as well, perhaps, but the absurd has reduced hope to those with vitality as its discerning, making thought excersized in self-preservation as the prerogative for those with lives of meaning. Nothingness & essenselessness orient the sufferer to the miasma of the sticky business that G^d's word is sacralized and resourceful--unjust vestiges of Power and Victory which aren't attributable to the lowest-common-denominator. After this congregation relegates G^d to life's desperate void, they commenced w/their evening prayers.
***We have to manifest nothing, so the victim has to deny himself. Nothing gets capsulated,, it's the project of our worth, it is finding out what is empirical in the most general sense. Only that we endureth gives it meaning--sometimes the efficient cause when beginnings speak of right-ordering past-relics of lesser-exile, the suggestion is valences are poor from self-profession. At one point we have this modality that allows the world seemingly find us in our corporeal agitation. If as in a chair expiring a thousand-deaths what is implicit is a dream where something intermediary is taking-notice, then like Marley chimes, if you keep coming, then you're over... The world is good when it seems to seek us.

Travel is Meritable===MOM IN FOCUS

2011-08-24T19:40:00.010-04:00

***sa'adyah in Arabic, hazlakhah in Hebrew, felicitas in Latin, pramudita in Sanskrit, & eudamonia in Greek means happiness. The arising of compassion, Karuna in Sanskrit, under the guise of conscious void, Sunyata, make a quest for being wrested by seeking a way...a becoming. Inspired by igniting one light, technically unsuitable from weird conflagrating effort, pollution makes a standard of an Aspirant...custodial duties tally physical impugning of voluntas, I can't necessarily will lightness of being. Anything that may add to the now approaching cosmos, in its probity had grotesque gods been cartage in vestiges of man's sanity, just indicts man for the lore of his complicity.

*** I stake no claim that joy is sundering predictably, but I imagine stripes of ways to orient myself looking back like I should share in memoria of real meaning, tarrying in truth. Went over to the Episcopal church & sat under pine trees to read, smell redolent environs in its quiet currents, and mostly explore the conflict appropriation of vanquished-solidarity from the deposits of intimidating mind-sores. It's hard to imagine auspicious indictments where I restore the fools to the paths bi-secting mine. Like I'm supposed to ready myself for that weather. The present doesn't tarry as much as 2 dimensional icons/Ideas allowing refrain of similitude in suspense. Meaning's wanderlust is the product (that art) from those echos of physical success in its purport (the ICON), when our acuity to the material is emergent and becoming, and thus consigned to nothing. Because we are manifesting material void, we indulge avid concern about becoming appearances and burying essense. Essense is lit in its becoming, but this essense is suspiring, an expiration, only known in our observable release as from it.
*** I feel like I'll be skipping vast intervals of time with Valerie at the convening of our thing--a gap of exaggerated memory and brandishing a surfeit of assiduous mourn that would have me question how proscribed it is that I have gotten emptier. Fish for me I'll tell her, don't forget the unincarnated sentence I've been handed. (Like) Chagal with his apology-accepted Believer-fish, which is likely showing a clone in the aural sea: one way of divining anthropothic other-worldly possibilities who deserve one another... The Hasids believe the fish are incomplete souls, restrained in this part of transmigration. I'm a herring unfit for my school, unchallenged in the deep with the report of the Tiamot--mercurial voidant-deep, in an all-too packed fluidity of mind. The ocean is inclined to parturition--but I'm born of mean release. Prone to the immensities of temporal water, like the fountain blue horizon cosmos, the stars are just another luminescent excuse to cut me when I can't feel it.
***Pretty weird talking about life literally huh, Mom? I mean here we all are around you--it is life as you know it. I dream about you. I can't find a critical awareness of who I am to anybody...if "they" keep coming--then they're over, I tell myself. Saying energy comes from other planets is like saying we move into consciousness. Consciousness is without--G-d, if there is, is a relationship without: this is the literal horizonal truth, presuming all margins and its cost of emptiness just beyond.

I was saying to my old neighbor of 27yrs (Melinda Higgins from Cut Corner and WRFL, if you recall?)--"strange how sisterly you are--and I feel estranged even from myself. ..........An angel poked in my window soul the other day--gave me my orders. She said, "you go onnn for now onnnn alone." As real as the back of my hand. It made me breath easier, like I had forgotten. Of course, there's no denying fellow travelers and their wisdom. I would never deny that.
I had a dream sometime back, but only after Mom's sister passed, from cancer. She led me thru neighborhood backyards, into a garage, and she was barefoot. Mom & I trailed her in this dream. As I followed her I was mindful of a stark fate harassing me--so I hastened my steps, I couldn't but follow... My proclivity for self-destruction (cigs!) gives a poor self-esteem, and no sanction. When my shame makes me high, as I weep, I almost swear it off (the meaning of lament!) like why do I deserve this healing, and others haven't the plentitude of all this emotion excersized like the blood of my spirits? My good friend says, Just try! I will, or rather I'll be critically aware--intellectus needs a heart's proponet & still I reflect and meditate, coarsely--meanwhile, my will is shot."
***Problem w/religion adducing salience is that usually it's a presentation, rather than an appreciation. The variable is, is it good for meditation? (Not necessary WWJD?--I'm saying.) New agey cagey stuff, some perhaps, think what-goes-on is dispensational, and his doctrine trifles in tea leaves' symbology. There ain't no norm, so antiquity thru lens purporting the same old actors, is self-denial. The Aryans, of the Avesta and of the Vedas, believed in a god for Expression/Speech, so profiles in media for astral representatives would likely start w/script that imbues man soul rEbElling, & his petty conscript to divine relationship (kathenotheistically)...as toward creator godheads per a certain need. So he is just talking about his participation in the creative, or its cessation. It has devotion-type praxis and while sitting upon contiguous observer's manifold, and enduring statements about temporal identities, would never have us demur from a natural canon of spiritual, relicky self-profession: I and Nature is eVer the cause without too much marketing of its vertex performance...
***The 1rst Autumnal leaf, as if, fell from the eaves in front of me in the garage. The dog noticed too, and after her steak she bowed to it & chewed on it. That part of American Splendor w/the wafting paper bag in windy aeries filmed like human emotions - elements working on it, is viable & mood availing. A work-a-day haunting fodder for season's clement designs... The melancholy locked in a cell, if Winter's approach w/gray sundered skies contains us at all, produces the domicile as a bland crime to the gravid lower unpierced pleroma... Summer, Fall, & Winter dons what is apropos to habituation of calender's transition--a year like a day, a week like a valley with enumerated shadows!! My weekends have the plateau effect, and gray encumbered thoughts, are reproven w/votive candle light and the "little smoke."

***We have to manifest nothing, so the victim has to deny himself. Nothing gets capsulated,, it's the project of our worth, it is finding out what is empirical in the most general sense. Only that we endureth gives it meaning--sometimes the efficient cause when beginnings speak of right-ordering past-relics of lesser-exile, the suggestion is valences are poor from self-profession. At one point we have this modality that allows the world seemingly find us in our corporeal agitation. If as in a chair expiring a thousand-deaths what is implicit is a dream where something intermediary is taking-notice, then like Marley chimes, if you keep coming, then you're over... The world is good when it seems to seek us.
^^^Neitzsche used the term mnemotechniques, meaning the art of forgetting. So, maybe forget the norm, and homogeneity of the integrity we establish confidences over thru the elements of the Path you have found, and consider Otherness in their mutual arising. They're probably experiencing the same release as you reconciled as propriety...from Traditions soooo recommended. Stole Neitzsche's Basic Writings from the Gaines Cntr for Humanities, knowing in time's unfurling I'd end up back there to return it, only after academician resposibilities took on currents of palimpsest days. The expectations of graded episteme self-profession, only means ordering knowledge bases because exemplar student efforts say it is within me to do that. It's like taking back language technology so as to refuse the manufacture of motives that I might proffer romans bildung, or taking on identity plainly in my own wizened concerns, as opposed to having the institution determine when & how I would ever receive that.
***Working at the Co-op way back, ole Carol Davis, lanky woman - my manager, feminist replete in every step mindful--spiritually goal-oriented, told me once about staying up in the country, the mts, I think, whence toting kindling and water etc was her grace sabbatical from toiling world of investiture from individuality in throes self-encouraged. I watched in Powaqatsi, now many times--a Libra repose of man with length of limb across his back buckets on either released end of the pole, dithering on path in 3rd World reproval of where my mind extenuates. I was this man, and I am her there, then, focused and visualizing, capitalizing of serene work-a-day mechanical runnerhood--conscious of my cog-ness, alive but in empty presidio, its gradin vanished & no one to create poles in dreamtime except remotely indicating lithe demeanor, prone state no matter the distance of my visage to theirs...
***Done formulating how I market meditation. There are still old actors framed in sublime-wealthy portes--stillness and weird possibilities to find peak moments to jump, djelug, skip, as thru new expressions 'pon the countenance of maya-foed selves, freeing space knowing knows knowing, and observer reflects intimately and not from my plastic confrontation (I can't give them their certain fu manchu face). Demons threaded into physical success, body liberation has its cost, being half of something ones propitiation has restored the spirit making presence statement the space-memorialized, but ascesis: this Becoming made asking feel literal so illusion lies un-named unpierced in its depth's promise.
***Heard the name Govind recently, & Govinda was an incarnation of Krishna. (Vishnu & Krishna interplay, at any rate...) I read that in a auto-bio. of Gandhi charitably handed to me by my brother's X in the early 90s. Haven't seen that name in a long time, and at any rate midnightblue Krishna's usual visage had conjured sublime proportions...I think therapeutically and helpful to me, minus the devotion. At the time John Coltrane was the immanent mind-sore & contemplative positor, so to speak. But adducing things-spiritual in the taste of JaZZ, just how it packs it up so one believes in the musicians' selfless entreaty made the spectral insouciance of Eastern bhakti something graspable. The mystique and how all religions and spiritual attainments travel is become what-all I would cultivate.
It is clear we are denied humanity in an ant's dream. Or perhaps granted a life to live by the dreams of the Australian green ant, dreaming the lives of the children throughout the world.
Going to bed as a king--waking up as a butterfly, living slavishly, honored by prone submission. The easy part is contrite differences--they matriculate w/propriety. The human condition is as yet extremely insignificant. Sometimes however my laurels reflect Krishnamurti's idea, as I read last night, that meditation is to get control of the mind, and then go beyond--with that goal I'll have to accede to his other recommendation, that being constituant teachers who may orient me, yet are still authorial--and is one of the things also to get beyond. For all intents and purposes I submit in the end it would still be better WITH a teacher--the Talmud says BUY them! Coltrane by his saintliness and pulpit in staged delivery, gets my propitiation...I have something to tell him!
***Singularity is the consequence of Sisyphusian designs with the pivot of life's swing. On one extremis impermanence bellows self-squalor; now down in the valley, one shadow (read: Black Elk Speaks)--and opposite an appreciable arising--we are thwarted, wizened now...this pole delivered the punch of indecision, the principal executor. The most familiar of lights extinguished--refusing to yield to absurd travelogues. That we've gotten to emergent reality is a task of duppy conquering. Seeing ubiquities contagion, naming the ill-contained (you & I), which is the persistant statement to presume our primacy will level the intimating liquid sky to its influence 'pon temporal reflections. If seeing primacy threatened, presumptions about a general awe are construed in interpretations moment to moment, the places deigned as "peak" resolve.

Fanning the flames of my wakened state with dreams

2011-08-05T16:07:00.005-04:00

***I feel I've arisen last night--and not today, not this morning. My book Wanderings, the first thing I read intending to get caught up with station in life all point to reading, has those blue-gray pages smelling like newspaper, to tell me ...where memorialized spaces I would leave in troves of imagination, the tool to connect with and don new allies in time (and place). I read it back in about '94--this is the first retrieval of those expressions of sublime efforts. (In this book) The Helenism in Jewish thought what I've just now left off reading, is remarkable in that there are 3000 Greek words having made it into the Talmud. That gods (their gods) are subject to the same circumventing mistakes of something temporal--that pagans manifest, leaves what is expectant of earth bonds and its iconography, in light of Jewish theoria, the things held in higher ordeal. Meaning, a world-to-come to prevail as earth's denoument, is threading the astral hope in the weave of aural wailing as opposed to life as inverted from it and inconsistant when history's well-being is foulable with assurances of intransigence.
***One knows he has resumed, just not resuming--he's acknowledged neo-beginnings, and no path seems to prevail like emptying the one basket with kept serpent, while all other baskets try our willingness to exhort hai hai teacher father uniFORMity. We're convicted by the moment--the moment entreats us to expectations as its subject of surveillance. Certainly we're circumspect when a path eminent meets each striving step--and knowing where I was going - fluid & tacit - at once, consciousness came to me, & not necessarily as a-becoming... It was something spiritualizing me, that I had run to its passport probity--a path. Something gotten away from me & then reflecting, I concurred: it is mnemotechnical--I was trying to negotiate what wasn't news to me!! I had decided to erase what was beneath the ground of consciousness, so that something more bleak would compel me...less of me in fact, less to assume from my life, but in immense refrain forwarding the only cause life would persist with--vast distances to trod.

***Hope is luck. Hoping down from up above is deliberative over a path. The path gives life its transcendence, but it is creative--so luck as nothing to do with it. Mom's sister had cancer for over 11yrs. Dreamt suburbs, I'm padding the trapsing path she made - after she passed - I'm trailing her to the garage whose guffaw received us, which had the nomenclature of only a brief frequenting of the place I'd go & begin my day mowing, landscaping. Damnable and cursed these days, which in just one descriptor was my being innudated by two or three whirl-winds in the yard of one of our clients. Hellish, and yet now in somewhat convalescence, I see this space in thiS garage as perhaps the one unforseen in the dream. Mom was in the dream too. She and I both were following my barefoot Aunt Eleanor into idol-esque and stern intermediary dreamscape. The dream tabernacle had eternity all marred up in its inconvenience over my control at just where I grappled at the path meeting each step, quick-stepping, watching the mute persona of my Aunt.
***Lazy siesta, languid morning a couple Sundays ago, while reading Kazantzakis--his theodicy Report to Greco. Everytime my blue nod met the morning arising, a serene pleasure jettisoning the sober ego for the dreamt inner-verse, gave ego the pliant spirit that my particular brand of social fever would be fortified with everyone feeding my feeling of being Understood Through It. I'd gulp at the last calvacade of Lextown traffic, and as if these denizen vessels emanated from the quailed glance dowwwn the proximal corridor dowwwn into downtown proper, my kaleidoscopic inner-eye sorta naturally, sorta divinely watched semblance of day's constituency peel off the watch-tower half-empty cup. That some poingant designs on my ego is becoming variegated, the austere and remote rather signals folk, friends and family, drizzling into the precipitate identity cue...it was formidable that my mind, like loaded gun, shined out by its distributor thwarted an exercise in the day appreciating anything between me and anyone else mutually arising: it seemed like Nothing existed (between us) to make whiling away obscurant!!
^^^Where were those people of my historical well-being? That sociological water that flame consumes and is not deterred. They are borne aloft=black sinewy and dissolved... That need... I needed. The candle said HERE I'll appropriate it. No no I needed the candle for meditations, not tribulations...not yet one more relicked shard of self for curio in moments of release, that actually question if it is at all observerable. Is it Observable Release--the meridian of knowing we'd feel life escape, and no way to follow? Maybe not ask WHY I know I see, but just let its content distort what otherwise remained the Uncarved Block.
Go so far as to say this stela of self is the best of corner stone, and still the house stood without it...

Cornerstone rededicated: MARK, my brother. wrote

You know, I liked looking out that window because it was at ground level. It was as if I could get the perspective from the earth itself, perhaps as the little animals do, feeling part of the earth.

In my 90's respite--my room--I'd sit on the floor, basement window to my back looking out to the backyard, sometimes I'd light a candle & assert my meditations would graduate more formally. The candle presides in sentient cause like it was not only advent of my focus, but draws in favorable assent from those especially in my midnight raving who had congregated around--in pronouncements of my historical well-being. The silent assent comes from gaping gaffawed world broadcasting my ego-centricism, yet this crystal palace gets its character denied--the ego limps along: self-profession melts into smoking black sinewy smoke... At once I imagine the flame fed by factoring-in the solace of peers--it's familial, then the flame wields and flutters, throes of personae borne aloft take on new climates of exclamation... They're consumed like my eyes emptied of reservois of dire need: sociological water, and no water could put out that fire.
***A 1000 deaths in labyrinthine shadows behind me in the redoubt of place of study. One dream purporting of rivers of time, filling bottles of unseen Axial age Dispensationals--so to speak, meaning soft machines, people. 10,000 doubts occurring one & against the 10,000 things: These "things" maybe reconciled memories, figures and glyphs like 9 clouds behind "asha" (an Avestan word) = order, the world in Right Action, the Tao's version.
We all pass, but the mind's eye reflects on the inconsistancy of the impermanent record in the hesitation of a look withIN. We surrender to the inward journey, and notice refined reasons to give thanks & praises for the irony of our security

The Youth in Me contends with ex nihilo=absolute On-spirit

2011-07-19T15:56:00.009-04:00

I sight cold-creators' conscious message--they seem to have gotten somewhere. There as before me is this sort of conscious energy, a prop, and back in my vacuous space I am thwarted by their ideal. And yet there stands a sense of his or her effort as it proceeds in this yah moment. I take strides to represent it somehow, and I do, but only this man or that woman as "imminent," like mundane me: I see me, yes from that lens, and still it is only my last lumbering step that I find in my retreat. Who are they as only decisors of my self-profession? It almost doesn't take place: rather it is man and nature, his own albeit, but this most elusive of relationships, without the guise of I & Thou, or even I & I...

***Over at the creek behind the Episcopal Church a sump house sat with a bereft earthscraper. I waved Dostoevskii at the glint off of fractured glass covering gauges, wanting some token from an atmosphere at this essentially tragic timelessness. Lighted beginnings were hard knowing the array of festivals ahead pay coffers unreconciled by only disaster reduced in its effect by something as gross to topple its unfair designs. The appeal to console in self most of all, had the unpunctual sabbatical of my bridge toward wakened privy to deal with not a soul, not fucking one, whose o' plenty I admit having considered they had formidably been actually none other than the kohl in my eyes. Places given its exigency memorialized are conscious satellites, and when the deluge so spectral challenges the gloss surface to dissuade one's intercourse, truth in denouement is pathless. If I ask once whither I go--it is certain I dweet in the present.
***I look at the sky, I am donning horizontal repose. I glance at ubiquitous sidewalks, and I am vertical and pillaresque. Thinking about all the elements distorting one's demeanor, I'm reminded of an adept's life as a plant, or as an animal, or, if I knew enough about him/her--their chemical romance, in saintlike narratives, all grotesque anthropology. At once I see parts of me--the suspired expression particularly, as emerged from appearances. Certainly our "cousin" sentience is identity sources. It is not as if we are here to study the air, and the playground as light, unless we are directed to render seasons change in everyone's becoming as exhalant "liquid language awash." (Wallace Stevens)Breath in the black smoke, exhale the white - and watch how much incense can do w/o the nicotine delivery. (claiming tobacco as an incense votive) I like the pollen-messenger, and climate (aqlim *Arabic) of the greater will as something Superably Conscious. The bee-catcher in lavender high, takes mind to be entertainment of nothing other than stratigraphic of air... Tobacco: cagey high, draws maps in antiquated ways. If I could see the clung leaf on the ankle of Kaskerbeh's wife, or was it Kasturbai...? One is Gandhi's wife, the other is a Pte US aboriginy... To speak of Kaskurbeh (Kasturbhai is def. Asian Indian, I'm imagining!) I'm referring to the guy who first cultivated tobacco. Every night K's wife would ask him to go watch the stars to the edge of red rock massifs. The path to their look-out has a stream, and as this native house-maiden crosses every night, K follows her yet to her demise: she throws herself over inevitably. He takes the carcass and drags her across some meadow or field, the narrative says, and her bones in the loam produce the tobacco for the proselytic enjoyment. The high is endo-skeletal, I suggest, and is yet one more element whose sublime chaos bares out anew an extremis repose...
The shadow cast by trees next to this Lex corridor, looks like a draped bag, denying contours of the produce within. Cars are belched from the crest of hill, beyond my sight, and are tamed by the empty rapt presage of the day. If my shadow was a mirror, mouthfuls of fire would dot it.

The eaves, just before me make a linear shadow, threshold of memories, sitting in prolonged summery day's long ends, smoking cigarettes...metabolizing, as we did in agrarian circumstance. The shadows cast under those conditions were under a banana canopy. Designs on my day can be as subtle as the common peer-like striven travelogue, a flow of consciousness type read, which can all point to a retreat into some kind of chemical high--and yet I feel at my best staving off these things that are the least of me: nicotine delivery jettisoned...

My time trajectory in a kind of well-being involves a chimerical experience (dreamy), but due in part to this huge life of denial (of anything in the obstruction of mind-calvacade), the glyphs in mind, say, after having ambulated into new climes, are either proof things DO reach me, OR in fact, there is no connection from days' thresholds to the next embrace of What-Is!!! In weary walks up Nich'ville rd, after seances with cars threading the night's veil, I felt a strong impulse to anticipate the far-off mummer, all the while, then lidded auditive rush when traffic was the closest report. Kabbalah was a refrain in night's cloudy presence, and almost to Southland Dr, up in the yard of the older home giving character where it isn't otherwise expected, there is a sign in this yard: It says, Notary Public. "Notarikon" kept clacking like environs made up of more signs than just that--all of which felt tacit in synaesthete ways; notarikon is a method of mystic study -- and letter permutations are easily recommended in meditation, when a claimant feels an alliterative conduct when in fact, only drops of the ocean is administered...leaving what is toxic for another time. An invisible hand draws semblances, of this one big road w/lots of signs--to define life as a "gate." The hand is mind's nomenclature, always effective if the self promoted has one land on
a sense of the Outward fact, as opposed to self-preservation in Thoughts which establishes nothing in way of the distance strung heaving, and strewning presence in the pocket of complacency.
Are we old souls, have we just gotten here? How prolonged does the gate remain open, when life energy is acted upon by a new & timeless transitions?

The success with which efforts--physical albeit--tell us that an "impression" is made in the mind of the Actionable (those who act), that with a certain finesse this person details just how things lay--the lay of the land (or say the old man down the road appreciating his "shit-gimme!!"), something quite cathartic appeals to our minds sooo in need toward attunement. Marley says, "You speak I feel!!" And by that, one may appeal to the self-profession a wizened fellow prosecutes his or her attempt of ambulation toward our self-same resources, while viable material success is found without.
I like seeing people comport themselves like goats. Haunches all particularly high, an acuity in something physically adept, but unconsciously courted. Old people doing chores... and it isn't around the corner, rather their impermament record IS recording OUR's!!!
A man at once is an animal, comes from animal clemency, and animal ways tho' demonstrated in his appearance, are no longer superable as the distinction is made. G^d is conjured by Priests, but is no longer G^d as the Priest feels distinguished in His presence reconciled thru deeds or scripture. We emerge as from form, as from physical success...liberated and uncategorized.
In Jerusalem one of our rabbis was part of the S. African satellite community breeding these Literalists, of whom these exilic communities would tether religious causes to people like in my group--to make us good Jews?! This rabbi, in particular, had hair growing from the surface of his nose, and on the top of his ears, gave him grave sublimations because everything in these men's manner were indicators of what it is to be Believers/Righteous. The teeth the world has in his devekut* grasp--*the cleaving to stages of energies, attributes of an Absolute, his teffilin wrapped arms, meant war, and flat out the deigned response to a world unreadied for Jewish consciousness. His might in a praxis of utility, to represent something seemingly advertised as amongst this setting where no play-bill was necessary, retroactively made a World-view look reasoned and wonting of access. I ran thru that very door, baring what I thought was something responsible in a general understanding, comprising secular studies as the lens to look at this community's foundational example.

a fist curled in anger, captured in open palm, is actually unity

In opting for confusion, putting the undeliberative half-expressions in a box, jettisoning torpor, language still abides in the valley of tongues. The place of all the concommitant potentials is much like a ground of being, an empty vernacular tableau, where those in refrain from jumping into the fray only dream of the invisible hand--the decisor of the things out of our control. Louis Farakhan being interviewed one time had made a gesture like his hand designing circular descending pattern from the side of his head, as if the words in certain confidence are released out of such a guffaw. Literate thought presumes a restraint, and a volley of release from it, when language demurs from a conscious prop to a physical one...say, the poignant regard for one reservois of language in the flesh.
I just need to consider that the tools are for the simplest conjurations of the outward fact. And that being attention, is one big step toward not being expected to do much, but to favor ethereal ever-positing light. If will & memory are the tools where thoughts 'flect - and potentials are born, then the utility is that I accomodate something with no fissure in my victory in devotion, or sincerity. And yet these tools might vanquish the foe of self-assertion, ill-prepared self-profession... I could expect more, and if Himilayan memorialized space be spiritual awareness from teasing out an alternative to my self-deception as I inure it, I give it back to the first invisible hand to aright my furies kindling--then being true if only to inquiry in extinguishing self in throes of general awe, I've got nothing else to live uP to.

Apropos of a summer's night myth

2011-06-29T14:43:00.009-04:00

At the top of my street an old haggard lady sometimes came out to mow. She seemed like the grandmother--Bubby, the comely character from The Stories of the Red Calvary, who fed moldy chocolates to the young Isaac Babel in the duration of times he'd go take lessons--piano or Hebrew?--there in her little shtetl domicile. I threw an arrow of disaffection (not at her) at the red stop sign in the corner of her yard, red like my heart that truly split into two.
Just a block away out behind Louie B Nunn's house there at the bottom of his extensive backyard courses Kenton's Blue Hole--a natural spring. The Ky historical marker sign wasn't visible last time I drove past thru that Parkers Mill treed corridor adjacent. The sense that I'm taking in a recognized historical place, but never a soul to come around but me, is how I'd consort with personifying loci, a place under the sun to spiritually gain focus. Behind the church - the access point to amble in behind these estates - is where Jewish neuroses thru the writings of Isaac Babel made abstraction & absurdity oikoumene (worldly). If I could at all consider to push the limits of that inner-narrative, conceding I'd readily answer for it, would leave me prone--so nothing else to answer for...nothing. I'd finish a study program, setting intellectual goals according to MY feeling, and encant Bob Marley's Burnin' & Lootin': "yes me friend we take the streets again." Then strolling back to the house, the neighborhood becomes especially bound in a pregnant essense, while not knowing who or what would be borne from it, images of Egypt lay at my feet.
Elucidating Babylon seems generally unpalpable--giving it the "gate's" word technology, makes it less the contemptible concretized spaceship, and relays the ideal as "sublime porte."
Rasping ironic mountains, there in the West Bank, inwardly I'm assuming magical space, but these Middle-easterners are vomitted from its sure embrace: under the desert sun & traduced voidant skies, a dead rat once living in these banana canopies, gets consumed less by the elements than ubiquitous ants harvesting the carnal moshav denizen (moshav is a communal farm). Bionic Rats--the song--conducts my life charged w/Babylon falling in a symbolic way. It is plastic in my minds eye, and evidence of the rape humanity appropriated when folks get seduced by the stranger & his ackward lumber thru core-cultures.
Magdi -an Israeli Jew, rides the field manager's tractor--hauling the flatbed to unload into the lorry driven by his ill-contained neighbors, the Palestinians. Everytime we harvest, like once a week, inevitably it rains. 70lbs of bananas sawed off its mother tree stalk is the fruit hod, so to speak, we deliver to the flatbed. Rats nesting in the bunch leap to escape this frenetic jettisoning of its lair. If Babylon restrains us, demands our reliquishing of a kind of escape, then thru the semblance contrived of imminent loss, do I sing in a strange land. My feet are my bed--the dance is to downpress Babylon from its demented telos always supposed, always ego forlorned.

I have seen the voice stream. Definitely in night's chimera, but as if this mind media, tho' thoroughly reified, more than anything an elemental kind of body consciousness came out of me like breath and light thru my eyes. The context of at least a couple of dreams had Moses dwell within me, draped my countenance, with prophetic mantras, angry & unconvinced I would hear it wholly in a vertex of continuity where otherwise I should have been appopriating the suffering characterizing my demonic trials.
The trees' boughs embowered with all this precipitation create vistas of live scaffolding dripping w/mind milk. Its scrawl of their limbs is definitely the only perfect image one might conceive naturally of our mind's physical proliferation.
The sight of these trees giving these 'burbs character, their canopies wail in its remoteness, the leaves in swaying voices telling their subjects of the one place human industry won't reach. Trees look like they speak to the skies in their yawning arc up above, and these oaks with muscular trunks--now below, have housing architecture more to convene in fortitude. The pug marks of squirrels, the clawing scratches from robins, starlings et cetera--make dust on people's yard's approach clairovoyant, niche-like--the demands of my language gifted with new repositories: Seems like antiquated alliteration, but new language to me for the old & eternal!!!
Of course Buddha represents a just cause. He had respite within the King's court (his pops). He got experienced at the most acquisitive peace to suspire in days of succour--mind can't be discomfitted if learning has no tether to closed crowd. If it's just you and the rest of the world--then there's nothing really to turn off. (despite the melodrama riches were not his ambition, preponderant--ugly in its material success) He was an Egoist=his self-interest was fulminate, roiling just to be called by the report at once below the sea's frozen surface... Healing adduced. His education abideth a sabbath learning. Going out, his exiling, had been propitiated...

At one point, back in the 90s, I lost my voice. This was a symptom of intense scrutiny--self-scrutiny, and "how" I spoke was reeling and enumerating in mind's eye - the feeling was that I was serving it up for exasperating reasons, really unto a material success IN my condition downpressing my better intentions... My voice came out really high pitched, and it took a lot of good humor to see it as just one step toward knowing What Ought ever to be said--the language vehicle, my impelling motility *spontaneity, or modality *the ground from which expression is formed, in Expression couldn't any longer be handled in the same way. I needed the song in my heart and mind to come-correct. Just to say the right thing. The sense would otherwise round out a script with which everything said would have had immense consequences.
Walnuts and their fragrant tannins, this phala (broadly saying "fruit") is the rimmonim or pomegranates of a deep aside. Threaded thru psuedepigraphia the pomegranate draws one east, and is the color of splendor. Cite the Zohar here--written in the 1200s I think--meaning NOT in the 2nd century. If herb fi me wine has a libation recommended in paradise, the inside-myself florescence sees plaintive mind's wail absorbed in black fire and its white fire tabula rasa... Just senses bound to letters. I'd drink any offered, merciful milk, wine, honey, eternity's water. Good enough I see these symbols permutated, and people who actually got to clarified aeries--Orientalists--bring the east's language finessed just so. Verifying an academician's romance with IT had this given character that the ideal will get inverted anyway.
Any reading dealing w/LIGHT is a sense that we experience a proponet at our side, thru our senses--the orientation toward the Most-I. Inayat Khan, a contemporary Sufi, uses this higher ground subject, isn't showing the actionable success of theoria writing until the Ideal is represented. The light for sight, ire-ites, the countenances of energies, actually vessels, rooted to anthropos in our devotion to divulge valleys of indecision, releases us--the shadows vacous and regressed so that solarity makes one's struggle--into the field of possibilities--that it may be meditation unfoundered. If consciousness is to be deficit riddled, like a pile of gems having the beam of merely a flashlight to refract speciously, it is only that subjectivity w/o fulminate burnishing rays under the Perfect Source, which compels man to unmix the dross of its (light's) restraints that would brave restitution in the World with less meaning than its conduct we suffer.
Woke up one morning w/the still background of my room in my silent chimerical repair in all kinds of white noise vibratory properties--the walls thicker, more uniform, weirdly stultifying... Valerie in her suspiring repose looks loved and consumately halotosis wealthy--I kissed her lips anyway. The feeling from dream-scapes tacitly emptying, without this lens, without walls colorless dry & heavy, usually makes the mind have impetus (the compulsion of novel expressions, language re-emerging)---and factors-in the projected mean (=life revivified); the sense that my room became such an evident intermediary meditation pushes self-emptying into a mental-scape landmark...: I was certain that the dream of existence was unwed by anykind of awakening. My world just reified dream-time--a proliferate motive if dreams loose none of its retreat in temporal awakening!!

Before the Intifada of '87, a signifier of the devolved state of numinal examples, social expectations spited...expiring in humanity's thwarted key to enlist my rally, in Jerusalem around ben Yehuda blvd, my ego-strife got shorned of distraction, and Rob & I dosed half a blotter of A a piece. The morning after, if anything be told that liquid sky is beheld, an emblem of whose life in one well of time, just a Jew, raises my head toward the Way (halakhah), where he'd been acceding unto. Yes, I dooo ask--and what is to fulfill me in yielding to an Absolute is more a nod of a concession he allows, and I go and be received et al, particularly w/o reifying his formal meditation in the memorialized space of his Chosen* Way. Chosen is just the mythic commerce of a theodicy product worthy of anyone, yet dharma is precisely IT. He steps out of Meir She'arim--a night's day opens like fire, or lotus--the community is next to the hostel where we stayed... Sustained reverence but at the expense of anything else appreciating in my senses is critical for my repair. This next-day-after expunged the immanent retreat one can simply imagine in mind-sore psychedelia--it has to be eVer a retreat, and still mundane temporance cans something more instructive - but after, I know aFter! To reckon renewal is to take exception, but observation of what profundity my fealty to life as reliable felt like, was rightfully framed in the belched calvacade of the Religious (strict minds, strickened spirits somewhere amongst)--to this man into my immediate sphere. The sky had mouthfuls of fire, stars, and the valley of tongues is language sounding like the peal of a bell and the world stands as serene; a point at the ground of being where emanate days are wed.

Native Congregations deny National irreality

2011-06-21T12:55:00.010-04:00

Things get brighter and louder as the battle gets harder, and bottle gets hotter (everytime it is reached for). The tear of light, that very intensity, may be a light in mourning, the lament that never gives way--something solidifying integ...rity with what is only a deep aside. Senses do peak and are measurable in solitarian inquiry: for me ambling down old roads, haunting places, like the ghost-town is the last place we experience til the government comes along and pushes it down... I'm haunting myself like my alterior ghostly peer, observations within, answering to the most Self found in the deficit of self-duty demanding the necessary change. Finding OUT is one thing, tho' recompence is demanded by seeing the Outward Fact pregnant with demands for our attention AND is after, only after we hope down from up above... Finding Out references in the bridge toward transcendental awareness, make the path beckon assiduous gaits in mega-transect toward prone repose--Opened Up to chaossssssss, and its proportional gravid development.
Trees say, I am the people--do the right thing; "the health of crowd consciousness is indefinite prayers, and convincing pilgrimages with imparticular holy days." A kind of true democracy is the institute of nature's "cabala." The "reception" of land to sea, rivers bisecting universe, mother's heart as a trek to immanent release from nature to its annihilating propensity. Born of it, cycling and consciousness as its accidental excrescence, consciousness of the furtive voyager in light and chthonian reception--the trees deign man to wander its precincts with pentant slights of impermanence.
Devotion (in seasonal fading dawn!) actionable among the elect is in respiring clement days, & trees gainsay the sabbatical into waned energies, darker days, dormant or viscous sky. Walnut trees and all the bombast of black resinates proliferate around Fallon Rd in my old neighborhood. A place detracting the volition of my changes now, was the places of my Becoming then--in the certainty skies of my youth. Architecture of the trees-line tops at suburb's coalescent mean, Beaumont Park, have birds overcoming, taking to blue pleroma like smoke out of home's hearth, the philosophical thwarting of fires into heady arborial aeries... Dissipating some of the smoke's evidence in our parlor repose--white smoke exhalation (from the woody black smoke sighs) posits roads willfully bound since all that is required is a walk-about.

Castaneda's A Yaqui Way of Knowledge has a few moments of precise content, fulminate, but furtive and fluctuating from kaleidoscopic drug romance..., which has someone Experienced in advanced objective repose. The reader of such content evolves with the tide of considerable astral temptations--the canine witnessed while it lapped up water is my inquiry. How light florescences shower off of the animal, placing it in smart painted desert night as its anomaly--it is Lighting up the night! This self-same water trough across the garage from where I had lain, had obscure radiance of moon's allure--milky but neon on its comely surface, watching me watching it (the moon, the proffering water etc.), etching out the well of time: 25 minutes of life in transcendent bridge, is the conjuration of a life striven for meaning--so the sun always exigent behind, voids are becoming substance. Crowley's illicit repute never could traduce the light and shadow play in my forlorn solicitude--still his lens rapt of danger has night deliberative and judgmental, and yet I parsed qualia from his memoir (til much later when I threw it away into the recycling)--things like Buddhist contemplation never bedeviling me with raven's on gallows for shoulders, as other fiery meditations represented in the different genres, or his...

Subject: blueberries for breakfast--the fruits of hearing=my new mix: It ain't me, babe--the ethiopians--desmond Dekker--Bombino!!!-
Propositions contingent upon necessity, importance, non-importance, if "modality" is true or false (defined thusly in Websters), have to answer if the mores from social-ego paradigm is in effect the Compassionate Edifice. If in repair, that something is good for meditation, makes cessation from non-skillful grasping for modality always-in-flux, contentment and the genesis positing of answers, rather than power over necessities (and any further value statements): this being a thread to hope as it IS in a path but whose goal is negligible, since a path is all one can hope for.
Modes pedestrian in nature, man-free in dire reckoning to go far over, way over--damned goal oriented to Place, finds modality in coves of blue slumber Night purdah, physical map impressed as in subtler thresholds. In & out under deciduous boughs, the shadows impelling mind (w/lucidity) into tree's non-space in silent folds stuttered all along the "thrum of the sidewalk," (all but frayed til goal's reception is no longer the concern). But silent nod is affected-mind, apophasis rallied, and peace is made WITH whom transition can't be rallied: our "open-crowd" in the Hero's dementia of transition (his own), are yet receptacles (they are) to the inconsistant relief of his control. He'll only know to care--this compassionate edifice--in light of his considerable singularity. Shadows make him liberated in
singularity--no one else is defined by the squeeze of night's attrition!

Matter is an Efficient Cause when we suss Form (the Place, as if when speaking of the Absolute.)--matter proliferates actualization--the Observer is destined to reduce his assertions, since Form holds sway. Form requires less reason than it does a disclaimer on our aimlessness, & only after thwarting causelessness caloused misintuited Essense, Meaning meaning Form founds a Natural Congregation, as opposed to a National Cause. The pattern placed in effect from authority speaks of "security" the heathen must be ever more vigilant in appreciation. Psychological restraints are intra-mantra slavery that encourages interest in something immanent, when one rather should begin to use the cues of language as he hears them--Outwardly, rather than as he names his feelings.
Material void is Time--timeliness if What-Is sours from the misfortunate machinations of revision, always refuting authority "psychologically misapprehended," would have minds relish the shame that makes the heirophant (likeness of which he's made a nation of One) high (cleverly clinging to life undeveloped).
Listening to music with a stayed theme--bringing summer days of having been in the country-Catskill mts back to holistic emotion. The streams up in wooded D. Boone Forest ambiguation had still waters receiving wrought confessions--tarrywealthy consolation: enough ebb off of stepping stone banks... Here, in sensei fraught back room, a porch, has the same smell of my now past Aunt's house--and a making of that dialect relating to the Jewy atmosphere fulminate if only in its 0 sum rescue. Spirits are higher, vision of motives and clarity, the project of self-worth I can capture in just a couple of words "the tyrant of mind's vitae, a subtle form in solicitude, but undeniably the uncarved block."
The sigh of first moments observation of chattel mouldering, lying down--its shadow cast, shows the Joy frequently unannounced in man's. Still moonsoaked it (man's) would be and just as likely vacuously unearthed, tho' a cow sees an ally in its own! Mine is too paced, but body consciousness placed just so sky-prone, piles of stars make my margins in a pitch tone, colored like wet sand on top of dry. Ubiquitous by degrees, and present as humidity strati on summer's hillocky roads.
I stink like the black smoke respired, I mark black smudges on the pleroma from negativity invasive--Buddhist matreya-like; the white marks come with my volition thru this ground of being, and are the posit of jettisoned complacency...
Mom, just remember,it ain't news to me -or you- this place is become old.
The spiritual man is mad, I told her & the cement porch floor. And imagining absurdity/madness with sky liminal restraints, is Order enough, a vesseled prodigious carpeted sky instilling antiquity imminent but unapproachable. Rhythm bubble bouncing, depths in pitch, and home languishes remotely--with the lens of the former residents to the Place where I get received, the having-to-catch-up always in profiles from yawn in continuity: I eat what they've eaten. If the gravy-train train was public domain, it is gray water, say bio-waste, making me stink in hotel-like domicile--the first question raised! How long down the end of lonely street? Isn't love circumventing my mouldering solicit of motive to be the compassionate-dweller of another arabia's denizen?

THE "ABAD"==ornamentation w/hues of humanity *Arabic term

2011-06-13T16:10:00.006-04:00

My urine piddle is a wrinkle in time; I only want to piss on spectral shores. Next to attritioning river of time (the irony of its slow fidelity takes earth's map into one penultimate direction--the ocean is never full, takes more & more & denies all the purchase of man's alliterating paths, padding thru dust=articulating it & washed of its precise content!), memory 'flect and thought tarries like light in waves of immense magnificate days...
Matter is an Efficient Cause when we suss Form (the Place, as if when speaking of the Absolute.)--matter proliferates actualization--the Observer is destined to reduce his assertions, since Form holds sway. Form requires less reason than it does a disclaimer on our aimlessness, & only after thwarting causelessness caloused misintuited Essense, Meaning meaning Form founds a Natural Congregation, as opposed to a National Cause. The pattern placed in effect from authority speaks of "security" the heathen must be ever more vigilant in appreciation. Psychological restraints are intra-mantra slavery that encourages interest in something immanent, when one rather should begin to use the cues of language as he hears them--Outwardly, rather than as he names his feelings.
Material void is Time--timeliness if What-Is sours from the misfortunate machinations of revision, always refuting authority "psychologically misapprehended," would have minds relish the shame that makes the heirophant (likeness of which he's made a nation of One) high (cleverly clinging to life undeveloped).

Sun's corona pushes my thoughts to the blue redeemed blanket, and starwealthy possibilities!
As some mystic heathen, solitude waiting for me to brave solarity, around the mid-teens of my life, I threaded the white horizon break as companion to katan Olam, the microcosm, healing contained Within, and its Meaning elusive but indicated Without
I am there but not less than her--more. Yet she so ooother, is the beatific exigent to all that world you ever leverage voluntas to work for. Still, her promise is in semblance, and not necessarily in union. Her formal throe into all my social resource, consumes me--consumes everything more than me. She's more than muse - she gives Emotional-soul, the one associated with Mercy, to the vehicle of expression. She is Spirit chorus--the wind commentator--and I am sullied by just a feeling... Without her is one thing, without me is quite another. I am sullied by just a feeling. She's its epiphany--at least I gainsay my fealty embowering thru powerlessness.
Blood spore dissipation, mind-sore apprehension is this one's and that one's utter inept rapture with the marvel of this world notably taken for soluable sensory data. The reserve any One-other has to desire more integrity in homeward loam has all the product of imagination of my vouchsafe in cedar clarified lair--thing actual.

Language is material--martyring its potent affection may be self-duty, a way to "save" yourself from the threat that the well of time, the conscious-pocket, is a reservoir of the Other's extremis in your center from Without.

Imagine that suspended feeling,when the road transpires really very linearly. For a moment hypnotic & freed up. Either the weird security that we attend to in its moment to moment nuance is jettisoned or not--but if it is, this state of mind--similar to the attention we sight in meditation, only reveals a feeling about MORE loss of control... Rather it is much like the daoists claim about fluidity, effortlessness! The road is matched in perfect glyphs self promoting ready to be scathed--an image adduces formally a book of rules--aspirations of imagination. But how the mind codifies the Efficient Cause has Shapeless Mass = Jah--in one spectral vessel, a moment, and just a pulse that nothing any longer is hidden.
PURITY's DECISOR...In death or in life, water ought to be our exigent incarnation. It IS merciful, has all the attributes of Eternality. Heaven is thought of as a fountain..."blue, blue windows behind the stars." N Young* And what is unique upon earth is ancestor revival mischief, but thru his/her source-=-messages showering us with rainy meaning. Its flowing mysterium makes the easily defined ubiquity as it posits the air the sun the buena vista, looks gravid when, say, a stream is met with a recent deluge--a pregnant translucent surface contrives this quality.
It is the big things, we answer for, that destroy intuition. Focus on a diminutive cause. The means are always letter permutations--analytic meditation, as recommended by his Holiness the Dalai Lama, for disambiguation to allay traduced passions, and to tether one to the Truth. The doctrinaire society however bound to integrity for their success, protects it at the cost of the praxis of awakening.

Last night I came up w/ a sense that the Observer is the extinguisher of freedom. Men seem emergent from space, where as women seem to refine Time as a pilgrimage thru space. If memorialized space has convenient thresholds where the intermediary is effective in man's need for a Roof (Rastas chant I need a Roof in Old Testament verity.), just as within a dream, had we looked, Mind is always predominant behind the drawn curtains enveloping our anthropos evol!!! Man hunts the provocateur of consciousness impulses--and one usually orients himself to what is the most evident, and most accessible moment of release...
For a time I decided not to look in a mirror. Other people telling me they've done that always seemed so contrived--like a strange concern over vanity had consumed them. In Jerusalem at the yeshiva I stayed at, went to classes over-together for just a few weeks, the men had no mirrors in the lavatories. (Odd, and compelling--tho' other and unevidenciary.) Driving down my neighborhood road anticipation of my visage now after a couple of months of avoiding my rreflection would have a continguous immanent quality. Not so much the obviate readying oneself for presentation in social oevre as we project and schedule, but what occurred was a feeling that the next time I look it would be a tremulous look under the veil--a purdah of distance strung... I waited til I thought I had seduced the most revealing facade of appearance--a tacit escounced moment -- then at a precise moment, instead of holding eyes into the steady gaze toward rear-view mirror, I pulled down the visor--having no mirror--and wallah, there I look back at myself all King Crimsony as if reflection should be coiled in stillness in the looking glass... The stranger was abated--I knew the red anthropositing of I Me Mine, yet the receiver of my cadence certainly was not withOut: it was wholly within.

June & the summer road apparitions proliferate

2011-06-08T12:00:00.006-04:00

^^^^Krshnamurti's definition of meditation develops the point about attention, and not persisting on creating stronger focus. Thought content is trappings of frustrations and incomplete resignation on self-preservation--so content is not important. To reference thought w/any value statement is barbed w/his correct sense of the problem of escape unique to one's social-ego constraint. In Amongst White Clouds, a monk relates When he needs apparel--the demand of weather and health, clothes crawl upon his humble frame. Needs aren't invented, but are fulfilled precipitiously--the world, the path meet him. There is no yawn of distances to imagine relationship--instead the numinous and experiential are immanent (remains within!).

The Observer

The Observer is the extinguisher of the freedom...

occuring in mediacy, it doesn't matter according to its content.

What sublimates the Meaning of Outward Fact? What conveys our graduation (all mediate) to Awakening.

Religion?

Never flourishing in a temptor's face

Never in declination ill-contained & heavy,

prioritizing what is good for Meditation.

So, Gandhi's definition is Self-Actualization.

Dogma--this rhetoric of any intensified-transition
(we want revolution or revelation)
as it speaks to mischief abated,
just means lethargy in its legs to compel me.

I'm not typically assertive that way--ambition is only to relate, and the bread of self-knowledge has consequence and eternality to contend with.

Discipline frames nature

--nature aborts nothing

temporal=breath respiring
(waves and conditions... )

'A burning in my chest and in my lungs'

Freedom is clearly unique

--timeless--

no space in the comport between You and the Catharsist

--and stripped of its descriptors like still waters unimpressed by its deluge victim...

^#~~Reading Jack Kerouac, his first book, makes reflection--memory 'flect, things in shoals of night myth made in this case thru Trees' imagery again developing in fields of opportunity. How covetous minds are in the "million" leaves in sway, trees with a million coves to hide the ephemeral: my changes are literally nothing in the remonstrated day's long ends having only light-play to appertain tree presence--vital, observing, and earth's delivery of fractal awe. In Krshnamurti's To Himself, the underwhelm of tree's boughs but nigh in his meditation, keeps me in tight reigns that the dialect & thought transpiring goes one way...one is just appreciating the whiling arc of the sun as the lesson of other revolves within everytime, just within--it--the tree--does not congratulate its terrestrial associate.

^#~~Feeling the day's elements; languid in the garage. Summer seems the decisor at once then gone. Wish I was in the Catskills, that hideaway--those bungalows, across Casten st all up in the country by the blueberry patches--wholly regular in t...hese woods. Cool streams evading trafficked shitty city, I-man go to the mt. top!
I remember being up in NY w/your brother when we were around 15yrs old. Sitting here with only a handful of times in between brings on memoria in full effect!! My nephews and I would amble thru the forest, they'd smoke--making me feel a strange cause, even esoteric as in how consciousness narrows into semi-ecstatic contrivances. Here there's no tree boughs making umbrella canopy, sharding light and polygons obfuscating distances looking at its ground reception, but smoke philo-heady and retrieved just now makes Ky weather Other & available.

^#~~It is the big things, we answer for, that destroy intuition. Focus on a diminutive cause. The means are always letter permutations--analytic meditation, as recommended by his Holiness the Dalai Lama, for disambiguation to allay traduced passions, and to tether one to the Truth. The doctrinaire society however bound to integrity for their success, protects it at the cost of the praxis of awakening.
^#~~In death or in life, water ought to be our incarnation. It IS merciful, has all the attributes of Eternality. Heaven is thought of as a fountain..."blue, blue windows behind the stars." N Young*
And what is unique upon earth is ancestor revival mischief, but thru his/her source-=-messages showering us with rainy meaning. Its flowing mysterium makes the easily defined ubiquity as it posits the air the sun the buena vista, looks gravid when, say, a stream is met with a recent deluge--a pregnant translucent surface contrives this quality.

^#~~If one is at the peak of his/her experience, it may be when most crowd consciousness is left at bay. In R. Gere's book called Pilgrims, a Nepalese monk is asked of his perspective in light of the physical success the Outward Fact sublimates the acolyte: He says It is All Ego! Rather, what was simply asked was What is the answer in all endeavor toward self-actualization.

Last night I came up w/ a sense that the Observer is the extinguisher of freedom. Men seem emergent from space, where as women seem to refine Time as a pilgrimage thru space. If memorialized space has convenient thresholds where the intermediary is effective in man's need for a Roof (Rastas chant I need a Roof in Old Testament verity.), just as within a dream, had we looked, Mind is always predominant behind the drawn curtains enveloping our anthropos evol!!! Man hunts the provocateur of consciousness impulses--and one usually orients himself to what is the most evident, and most accessible moment of release...

Sleeping Waking Trodding Encamping............

2011-05-25T20:54:00.007-04:00

***PURITY's DECISOR...In death or in life, water ought to be our exigent incarnation. It IS merciful, has all the attributes of Eternality. Heaven is thought of as a fountain..."blue, blue windows behind the stars." N Young* And what is unique upon earth is ancestor revival mischief, but thru his/her source-=-messages showering us with rainy meaning. Its flowing mysterium makes the easily defined ubiquity as it posits the air the sun the buena vista, looks gravid when, say, a stream is met with a recent deluge--a pregnant translucent surface contrives this quality.

^^^^When anyone leaves off with a sigh, the glance is where to begin. Early one morning up at what Zadie called Kruegers, in Gardenside--all the neighborhood flak with walnut trees giving up to shopping cntr drone, I sat up on a bench, rolled some Bugler, watched as if, face obscurred, dudes presence demonstrating light of my brother. He's closest in age, somewhat violent in nature, and self-replicates in Egyptian tombs when certain coool air brightens the sublime porte, something in me somewhere in abandonment...

*****Bad Muthas Goose & the bros. Grimm, these bluesy texan rappers--pretty ugly bunch, I big up (rasta), do it in the context of a Red fly Nation practice back in the day. Hard. I sEE it az many--as pissed, man. Anyway, that to identify with coarse and "night erupting in a hot blast" (Linton Kwesi Johnson), is just lotus mind having as much repute, yeah as much repute. I don't have to step in the fire (negativity has no place--Sight!), the fire we see just baptizes, orients the bleak vista conspired with one road. --Abraham unscathed in Nimrod's cauldron--a human sacrifice aborted... should be because it is the lowest common denominator. The flames magnificate like lotus pedals. But Abraham leaves family home ascesis as his clan soughts gods in those paradisaical throes. Lekh-lekha: he got thee out. Renunciation or privation the world made disciplined a mind of this once inspired Abram (a Friend of G-d? Arabs attest, Jews picked up on...or maybeee an antecedent somewhere.) World(s) extinguished, new dawns will fade! The West wants to see G-d, the East wants suffering to cease, so his/her G*d would reflect on his/her nature. If only thru expression, his name is thwarted from the East--but the word for breath is its root in Hebrew.

##########I wondered why even ask if Kerouac--a Metatrone kind of angel--would make known to me just the right view to the transcendental media; Writing me into his proscribed Americana, its cult of self-reliance and all the rest of his universal biblacy, when I couldn't resist anymore the appreciating solitarian day--Kerouac looked as busy as gravid loam all ventrally placed...and earth mummer as distant as his captive solicit in making its foci recognizably dear. I watch private motives in vain distillation because I'd been deceived that it pulled back with equal force. That magnificate probity of certainty draws sentience nigh, but nothing of its cause. Just way over, far over this path not like that path is meeting me but only at the survey of immensity.

****A gate at the side of the house, next to the log pile, may simply be a no departure plaintive way, the gate I'd hold open toward the concourse of spectral timelessness. An image of similar slumbering Autumnal gate--meaning utility in its intent for what rabbi Cooper processes thru in his narrative-"Journey into Sufism, Buddhism, & Judaism," appears on this book's front cover exactly as I remember it on Williamsburg Rd--my crystal palace that'd been heralded for so long as the mess having to make me honest. I douse it w/exuding light and I'm guaranteed misfortune from it, tho' never does it take notice what I'm convulsed with with equal force. Kicking It Over, indeed...! The gate keeper may be holding it open toward this as terminally as a life expanse appropriates, holding it now and perhaps thEn thE End whEn I see who the cap fits.
Kafka has our victim upon his death bed, enduring nothing shadows of rescue could have provided, and sees not the mediator of his born anew awareness, as nigh, instead the stranger-anointed waves him ON from outside his window at the roof's peak of the adjacent facing neighboring house. Mara with a thousand eyes - or any of his minion - just as ill-contained, has what we know to be our destiny with self-knowledge, but only after we no longer imagine it possible. Then thru his visage, unto light and light only, the old existent garment shed, a new body is donned.

****Molasses sadness no matter my penance surrendered. Why is it a pilgrimage whenever I don't wear a wristwatch? I'm raw and cursed with nothing to blame for this attrition. "I want to bomb a church," Bob says, look for the tall trees--and I feel like a small axe. I saw this book mentioned--one written by one of Maimonides's elite, it's called The Work on the Voice of Humanity. I'm used to one word foundering in a stream of exigency, consequences enumerated from decorating the ego-list but I cut the valence from careening voluble inward projection... One word and the fire relevence cannot be anymore sublime, can't make lotus leaves in cool throne asana moment anything but a lament for Ibrahim collated in Islamic typos--a Friend of G^d, they say--steps in fire but does not get burned. What else do I lament but my proxy to material void, material nothing, unforgettable fire--not in my control? In one scrawl of my hand beckoning the night, I might discover an eternal glyph--but until then sorrow is rewarded with unknowing.

####My school portrays a strict teacher, so if silence ensues, the sand pallette-media school-paraphernalia just got handed out. And not only am I before the writ, I am yet seized upon it from behind the top of the page, in the grip of its author. Or scruple counselor, who deigns its purport more authentic. Teachers' Strange from populist thought coupled with hero's happenstance to care about much more than the conscious crowd's frozen sea of perfect lack of intent, distills psychologic passions...if studying the soul's rational health convalescence gets recommended in each instance of strife.

##########I'm upon a hill, just a talking head in dream-scape, & words like world is the companion to--a mediator of--the unfurled tongue in valleys of language strife, is that venacular of iconographic convention with no reach into another reservoir of nations' babel. Just provincial: we are doomed to convey animal appetites, because intra-mantra slavery can't be adduced.

####I'm a consequencialist. The last thing that seems opportune has the toppling effect of reason that only announces that the present IS been resumed, but is not necessarily resuming. Sight: Sam Harris here. A deification of someOne inviting his own impermanent salience, still leaves the best of what suffering has to offer with the living--speak of a living G*d Jews tout. Yet that acolyte's (a Jew's)god vitiates the regard for inward journeying in favor of social agency, if inward journeying is to court experiments into consciousness. Say doing what is best toward meditation-- well-being is convened at its behest since there are more likely possibilities that core-communities in the least of their demise have the exemplar macrobiotic intentions.

ZINDAPIR-- the mind sore ain't black, it's Green--Mr Green

2011-05-08T21:52:00.006-04:00

^^Probably the most identifiable unreconciably known smell to man & beast is dust. Exquisite dust underfoot. Molds and viroids, half-worlds, between worlds... DusT to dusT if dusK to dusK proved an ashen Sun, giving up what I need--I run to it, shadows of rescue. The dust on the soul weighting down its ascending destiny, the world's excresence wafts and is born illimitable like This One & That One.
^^^^The requirement of meditation is ones beseeching an inward journey, and the inward journey reconciled when we merely entertain the frozen sea within--before and after the retreat. Maimonides says this to the effect, but "frozen sea" is Kafka. In Maimonides' --the foremost Jewish theologian, the Book of Adoration: purity is the goal of attention and the profane cleaved into what initially Mind resolves--a world of fragmentation. I read that we Jews face east too, yet the cold rear door of the synagogue I experienced, its classroom corridor leading to the arbor, brought me to conjure all the expanse withOut, turning toward the west. If western skies had truth to verify an awakening, it's coming around. It would have to, because what I suspired in knowing was that damnable sleeping thru life's dream, and losing its intervallic cessation. There's one long ascending slumber night, encumbered, fluid even nuanced, anticipating the requisite change that has the self-same character in volition in our Exile thru these dormancy wastes.
^^Theosophical writings, a sun's deluge--irradiant but remote, marks the antiquity of watery realms in saints' propitiation--Mr Green--tendered in roiling skies. The relicky stones tarry, jump into the sky in strange Hebraic accounts of Sambatyon at rivulet's edge, prohibitive at the penultimate margins till entrance can't any longer have denied you--Shangralah emblems get notice here. Paradise sundered in Awakening--Moses' left no Exile of Self, or Nation behind. Moses who didn't accede to Promised land, was a rational choice for hagiography since he enjoyed tacit blessing to seize water's ubiquity. This victory, near The Victorious, al-Kahir, Cairo, still him in the microcosm--deigning the Macrocosm, is to be enervating, because Higher Will wasn't contiguous, now it is prohibitive. =Judgment, and still ablutional pale water is merciful, as yet (restricting *adj.) Truth would be compelling adulterated, so fluid but viscous & gravid, because it is shed of messages from antediluvial spirits hidden in fountains, sky born or earth clothed.
^^Religion reckoned! Not spirituality like folks contenting themselves w/--eVerYone dEEp down has gOOd in them, are propitiating something clearly like no-view impeding their sorry lofty gaze... Public apostasy is Religion--it's spiritual now! It's not backward anymore than the width of a coin wholly marks the dynamism of the human condition, and once-flipped doesn't reconcile whither in illusionary mind or elucidated heart. In defense had I a need to demonstrate to a Believer that No I'm not doing the same thing, & as such missionizing, I'd say where is this Received Knowledge whose proselytes entertain my initiation? A x-tian witnesses, jews pity--they both are self-annihilating, because to witness is to martyr, to pity is to empty yourself. They both judge.
If you forget life is just to die, then the sooner will you go away. Incarnations abound to the extent that we aren't distracted over authorial incantations: luckily I had a rabbi who believed in evolution and the communications from the ancients that predicted Jewish lore. Had he known I never was acquisitive over traditional terms of identity, I may have made a better student: one can only talk to g*d being amongst, otherwise we maybe dealing with his attributable vessels, like the night's moon-soaked shade (the dialect is appreciable, but indifferent. The voidant anticipation of long days gotten through, is the requiem of change on behalf of your brothers and sisters who are here to intercede 'pon the theoria that comes with silence & apophases... I'm on my way with job-1 relieved of my attention...soon. Escape? "You smoke weed, it makes your eyes sharp." is Revolution propounded by Linton Kwesi Johnson.
^^^I'm a consequencialist. The last thing that seems opportune has the toppling effect of reason that only announces that the present IS been resumed, but is not necessarily resuming. Sight: Sam Harris here. A deification of someOne inviting his own impermanent salience, still leaves the best of what suffering has to offer with the living--speak of a living G*d Jews tout. Yet that acolyte's (a Jew's)god vitiates the regard for inward journeying in favor of social agency, if inward journeying is to court experiments into consciousness. Say doing what is best toward meditation-- well-being is convened at its behest since there are more likely possibilities that core-communities in the least of their demise have the exemplar macrobiotic intentions.
^^^I feel approached by even the most benevolent of peers with the assumption they need to know if I am dawdling along -- constancy reviewed. It must mean that I get to a valley corridor, veils proliferating & folks just want to peer underneath. The guy who did the artwork on the Apples in Stereo last album cover stopped by the shop today--he's a neighbor. He deals with a sense that if he had his way he'd catch up with me or just anyone: ageist and circumspect, evolving in his interests, but missing out in the other's more free air. The same sensitivity alights in MY thinking, and I call it thought and never warrant a grasp of egoism that a friend could divulge my interests anymore convened than the irresolute defines me. It's simple and we're all getting that somewhat. I leapt to the notion in intra-mantra slavery that really I'm not going anywhere--and persisting over what I'll ever be doing next week, year, or lifetime is only focus prayers on poignant emptiness. Numinous reactions to friends get eclipsed by ocular migraines occasionally anyway--it is succour to imagine there is no way out in those moments, not even to relate over this condition in the hotch-potch of daily trials appealling to the goof that I was expected and needed to be reassured.
Buddhist's might imagine salvation as non-negotiable. If we are liberated from birth, death, and proud land trod, then this reconcile we adduce to be liberated is contingent upon suffering's noble cause. The Buddhist would say cessation is goal--and to the extent that desires are untried makes a peak experience in the outward fact the sense that nothing need be done, particularly a foundering principle on salvation's retreat. I have read that even love would be jettisoned if it performs meditation's entreaty-- I love, but am ill-contained if hope is the game= One only hopes we he is Without.

In this yah Neighborhood--the sojourn to departed person's precincts

2011-04-28T13:56:00.008-04:00

^^^Out behind my cousin's old house, rt. there on Nich'ville rd are interred bodies--grave sites exciting the possibilities that I can recommend other semi-permanent conscious crowds, something possible taking place that Observers had observed..., will detail a path in & out of these environs... Stale consecration libations were only cheap beer parties--in backyard treehouse, poured out to poor lives relieved of this Station in life--I'm presenting just then; their consideration was palpable. The sequestered field of possibilities--the little rock, fenced-in graveyard at the entrance of old people's domicile-apts, by the Burger King, by the Weiner King, by Racket Time, by my last paned threshold window, looking off to empty day's promisory: vague ablutions THESE deceased propose to meet me in Due time-my due! I believe it vehemently then--and want a similar introduction as if a sensual personae is made known.
^^The tin peal of all the sing-song rhetoric, here at its media borne moment has to make sublimation now, my sublimation--corrupting language as dogged as appearances. Once and for all there's a dialect, because I can't any longer sequester talk bound to emotion. Their emotions. It seems more oratory is stony percussion, & telegraphed. I want vox ambulating like white sands' paths meeting me, orienting me toward an opportunity of its greatest dissipation. A view to its roil. Brahmins proscribing in the aeries of air-wave graves, tableaus of What is Said and at the bridge of the day's long ends, alert like a muezzin--hundreds of thousands of Bilals, Muhammed's first crier--are only chanting Presence--& in grammars of bird song, and human dance, still only saying I'm Here, Yea! Over Here.
^^To assess perhaps a deep aside--it can't be at your center--I used to throw against the mindwall a few things: Something conceptual to develop using mantras including words like Kavvanot--Focus Meditation, Kabbalah--Received, & Enoch--the strange temporal transitions one may go thru.
A friend mentioned Enoch--this prophet for critical meditation, the kind where letter permutation is theoria in mediate happenstance. If life (eventuality) is to process, then articulating it is the dross pen lying fallow until chthonian forces brandish new tableaux. So toward Metatrone's Book of zzz Life - his agency is to enscribe the acolyte into the "transcendental bridge of awareness" - this is also Enoch, as is told, sublimating the profane, meaning the astral aeries or our cosmic interest of it, into the Microcosm. It's called Restoration. =tikkun. Words to exalt have this root. Language is the profession of prophets' ordeal, and is what strangers dream at its best when mysterium is vindicated as the totem nears...like their animicule symbols, energy vessels, bodies sentience awakening.
^^Hallucinations in Jerusalem: I was 20--but now just Watched a documentary on the first production of A, and its Mood & Mind Science, say for cluster migraines--which are, I am told, the worst...
It is Nat. Geo. doc on LSD. That it delivers the norm apostate to refuse desire... In Jerusalem Rob & I split a hit--and wandered in cooler Fall rain--light shower. I think I wanted to see emotions' procession finally laid out, but still bound to machine probity makes observable release an *immediate* pay-off--I couldn't finesse a way forward that my abysmal jump would have been a perfect compulsion: long times to contemplate. Long times to contemplate aren't in fact timely... I'm just realizing in that ambiance I still have infinitum more empty bottles to fill, with an answer the bottle-sought provides but not in its acquisition. Just my reach for it. Tea that night helped to make the mentoring of moments suspiring, suspire mercurially.
^^When I was 6yrs old at the neighboring st. in Laurel Grove Austin, Texas--I sought to be conveyed in a few moments the thoughts that constituted what was to me My lifetime. So to be articulated into something not so easily defined, I thought I should start At-the-End of the path/those thoughts/that day/This life. My query involves as follows: we tend to sort out the last 5mins in any kind of constancy, our life's totality i.e. generalities supposing some inertia that there is some Grand design to our efforts. This usually means something epiphenomenal like the image of the rabbi, in my mind, that has the dust of archetypes upon it (life's exquisite dust--the halotosis of institutions & Rabbi Schwab's weathered dross stimulation.) --rather a motivating emotion I suppose in meditation. Is this K'fitsas haderekh? Translation: "Skipping," what one does w/visions & thus the experience of presence made known. I'm here yet also and within grasp at some point in temporal elsewheres at once?
^^^There's only +he dream of existence & +hen +he exegete from +he awakening from +he dream of existence. All we have to go on. So when a sage says self-knowledge is sooo eclipsed, lapsed because now one considers that it is the valley-limned ...really long time coming--shadowy depths denied as merely a surfeit of memoria, now no different than our dearly departed days of youth, maybe intensity--as much as embraced blue slumber comfort that every bit of me is become sacrificed--I ! But it's not that now years into the lairs of conscious satelites (receiving...) we endure helplessness anew, but rather it - these empirical throes of annihilation - were remarkable right out youth's convening. Then -- blue to black, green to earth's slumbering colours--change . From just knowing who's registering our angst and then allowing real suggestions in what direction we go, to irreconciled languish in our minds lit! BUT LIT it is. Now to validate cornering even the solace expectations were met. In that corner the heathen back Yea, on the wall. Late for festival, but enjoining the same release as festivals contend--at what point does 432,000 yrs my piligrimage thru some woodlands of this passing, make 10,ooo things of what is manifest---earth nomenclature, exquisite dust 'pon clay man's hoof, at fractured trees... birds over-taking, architecture in the skyline--make Unity Unique--a garden of no path. Truth is at the dukka (conflict) da'ath (knowledge) deled (door), at the ocean margins *fountain sky above*, & no further. (?) ttttthere is No Path.

To the Extent I've become the Other Brother

2011-04-12T14:39:00.004-04:00

A black american might say in a striking excelsior bout of self-consciousness, "My G-d My G-d people just like these around us, had my nation in links and chains--"they're dressed in the same pollution" says Marley in horse trot riddim indicating the judgment before halelujah time. Even blood knowing the attendant norm as Core-Culture wouldn't naturally be as prohibitive... So, he's self conscious, not in fear, but in that which brings wisdom. And whose numina is the wealth of Identity, I-dren, Sistren...his conscious crowd? Not yours perhaps, but consider his embrace outside our loosening world-savy contentment, and consider our embrace outside that too.
***I was looking for something to do, so I came over to your house. I think then over in the vicinity where the WT Young library was put up. I know Kakie was over that way too, but you too somewhere living with Leslie, and only Leslie was at home where I ended up in that dusk of consistantly symbolic night in Lexington: one could be certain of the escape of time's efforts--the season brought me into the terminus of Autumnal tumult, while my studies in a fluid draft (like a draft horse) anchored me to music's release with the certainty that anything could be as true. You'd gone to a gig, and I see your hat on your bed's backboard. Leslie is sitting on the bed, but I'm reticent to sit around and bullshit with her, like I am invited to something beyond the given rappore. It's winter and at any rate I sit on a cold stoop at the entrance to the bedroom, wanting to light a cig. In the tale of conscious crowd in my mind I had it that folks were on healthy awareness experiments, I assumed ya'll's reserve for that then--but I had no way to verify. I consider the apposite of an event of convalescence, eating right, to have the expectation of drugged conduct beckoned, but when I'm patiently trialing consciousness--so reading awhile, taking in music otherly, whatever it may be--it's through smoking in convened moments that has a day spirited in giant leaps--so to the victory of physical liberation, a volley of power over time's reins!!

**Attention appreciating, unthwarted, wanting Dostoevskii's K bro to entreat my need to Turn-Around!!!
I'm not subdued by the fact that many of my trials were deliberative. It may mean everything is self-duty with the key to self available in loss of motive in as much as one might have been certain. Again, when the course of my life seems liminal, then at least orienting myself toward the ineffable is evidence of probabilities endless indicated right out of our reach. I know mostly *what-is* is out of my control--even the decisor mental event. But what stands out is the distance between my convulsed self and the semblance - the idea - the motive NOT to act. Things are; I'm becoming; G^d is complex, intricate, so my sense is not to justify acting in IT's behalf, but to be the convergence of time place & community. That way the narrative that says I've alone manufactured the dialect with What-Is (Immense) is not so dear that I would be damned for capturing Otherness--w/the intent to deny it's responsibility upon me adjured. Solemnity expected in my mind, not authorially placating my ignorance.
**That there would be a statute that suggests a culture can't advance because it is a vehicle for a mission, has little to do with an acolyte toward his her appreciation of what resourcefulness they have been reduced down to consider. A worthy World View, propitious self-knowledge, is not one that elaborates one's conflict w/an ambiguous claimant's surmise. No prophets typically avail an adherent were they'd most likely have had their most sober efforts staged for a fractal event. Theoria is finding In ('side the fluid thoughtlessness), the liberation of ourselves in this temporal actionable cause, is finding Out. Love Kerouac's use of The Great Awakening to the Dream of Existence--his letter, to my Mutazila's faylasuf *philosophy*: To dream thereby we exist, to deign meaning for the dream's observer is gaining access to his her teacher. The Teacher or Prophet's lives are chimera activities...
^^Theoria is finding In ('side the fluid thoughtlessness), & the liberation of ourselves in this temporal actionable cause, is finding Out. The Dao monk rations out the practical appeal toward Effortlessness. When it occurred to me that I find myself sitting, asana unpuzzled legs indian style, memorialized space is glossy unscattered, inviting me to run into it. Fluidity--thus, repentant--and no frontiers for knowledge, temporate non-self in momentum of torpor-esque persona hushing floutist nuances is the only thing held in the mirror.
**Idols are silent, but the gods are noisy***
This babel falling with it's gravity pulling us with it's reins is more like a voidant possibility. Drawing us into distances strewn with lousy promises, like food as "resolved" sustenance--Babel as what's been deficated, yet nothing in evidence that gives life strong sensory data. Bowels empty, and these lives in transformation yet out of our control--this very message from Without, fortifies nothing. Stillness achieved is just the fable of man's mind that silence is by measure & force his due. It is all so obvious to me that some little limb--divined mind shore--the silence, is in fact tacit and not auditory or sound-appreciating the hue and lack therein, because I looked at it. It is the tethered fealty to propriety of release--in our heads, yet we are indeed a collective unto experience until thru observation the fray is the won-overed motive that delivers the Commiserate to the truth that NOTHING IS IN FACT happening. Not silence, not sound in its fluid appeal to corporeal auditive phonic furniture.

Throes of mind semblance in & of descriptors

2011-04-04T15:33:00.009-04:00

throes in & of descriptors
**Ever morning canvas
Solarity--physically pure all my summers, but clement environs makes me seek the incumbent volley--the tragic space, the denouement of iconoclasm. Threw away all art--adjudged something professional. I had to throw away all art, because I lost my lightning vox. Nothing dear enough to make mind wallow deafening sorrow the wind in mantra & breath: expression. It's explanate to say letter permutations I sought quietly in a 19th century translation of Flavius Josephus histories, sounded out songs in anthropos language dopemined in bird song so I dreamt of horns. Flesh-colored like ears - like urban-suburban arising and slumbering are the ZZZs of sounds colluding in what resonates in nervous auditory vessel self. The city-scape has thrust if its presence means multiply, yet city is too hot when arbor and only sky tumults in its falling (*Babel)--language populates the fallen regime: what we hear. But the auditive suspiring even if bad (ass) music would tear up your flesh, make the abstract pug marks the animal self first grasped as alliterative oN a path. Sometimes ole brown speaks with his dance, sometime later w/his hands--and always in vision where sounds are seen on an ever morning canvas.
Pagans see G^d, Jews hear G^d, Buddhist's feel relented from meta-physics--so do Rastas... Tosh sings, "Stop that Train, I'm leaving." Hindus want their God to see them o so devotional.

**Weird phased dandelion-gone-to seed light adrift grafted my attention to some impulse that spells healing wonder, in weak teeth--still there mostly--but ridiculously guarded. Then I pulled some thready eyelash out of my face--cathartic appeal, eyes had become grabbing hands and I tooled the burnishing lamp in the half-light dream-time so that vision might be received anywhere but in the illustrated bird-book mind: pulling light out of my eyes. This ocular episteme must have graduated in stony apparitional narratives, as when I first started smoking herb, and once my sub-conscious devised symbolism for it, the white sclera became a finely twisted spliff...that could be handed out. And in a few dreams per my trod down ole farm roads, which were near my house, the hand to mouth sense in appetites mitigated, were eye(s) to respiratory mechanics, and exhalation of weird anticipation of vaporous salience.
^^^^^Since when is a community going to succeed if they atrophy from the core-communities, meaning MOST of the rest of the world? So there are new crises, resources all gone but now we have to fight over G-dly resources. See I am a Jew in exile, this dispensation IS an exile. A doctrine can help us wonder at What or Who SEEs us AND even after these lives' thresholds, incarnations into something hopefully not reductive & petty, but rather as observers of our a creative facility: maybe G-D? or scant Evidence we are to hold in High Esteem. Maybe Not G-d? Then devotion!! And just as there are no clerics in Judaism, I WILL not recognize "institutional" de'ot, but rather "knowledge" *de'ot--(the word Maimon used takes turns w/another use of the Arabic - akhlaq meaning "nature.") in places where negativity isn't established. A righteous war this is not, and people --"striving" to G-d as you & me *so to speak --want to get out of the backyard of the Violent precincts in the world. Not outa Israel dude--but bro' IT is already a 2 state solution, and must be sured up w/honor of Our G-d the exact same G-d both these communities can speak TO in and amongst our pallors and s(h)ouks.
****People want to touch a nerve. Solicit our interest. U-s-sri a word-- sounding a lot like usury-- used in north Iffriqiyyah by Jews and Muslims, likely as Europeans (as into Italy) began to acquire an appetite for (Indian) Arabic science finds this word having truck. Thru the mercantile of meritable ethos of THE traveler, numbers started adding up to permeable core cultures. So the "give and take" of the work-A-day *u-s-sri, begat the deleterious and the potent vehicle, Work makes Freedom. Still, my purpose is that the long ends of the day doesn't supply the odds against my sense of the cult of self-reliance. And folks appertain fealty every time while I loose my sense that they require recompence for the blast purchase of the taste of what they got.
^*^Amazing that some kind of hallucination whelms me in a conscious pocket, taking sticky mind funk and contorting the bracketing narrative & imagination. But I wish I could be resigned to not literally require alchemical chaos to work on me--...and instead perseverance and my sober academician life--found here by teachers not certified to imagine I've indulged in assignation. W/books called The Set Table and and its objective performed in The Tablecloth, menus are useless, just eat the sabbath's meal-- a sabbath in history, one's Retreat. Albeit the sweet ordeal of a day's entirety in a glance known in its pregnant surfac-ing is a short retreat; to cultivate it makes appetite sated not by the courage for want of victory, but victory over appetite, to be skillful (they say devoted, disciplined.). Numerologist Mendlebrot saw the need to develop formulas for irregularity -- his symbolic excelsior was the amoebic image called G^d's thumb print. Just as when reading Kerouac--particularly a dream with his repose in a chair having died there a 1000 deaths, what he has collude in the hero's path is the observer in ambulations: something like, big floats take notice. Down by a river, self-simulation keeps the alliterative fundamental, because in echolalia - life's fount mutual arises with reckoned lives led till reduced unto simplicity...it is just our world giving a niche for dream within a dream within a dream.
^^My grandma (Bubby) was from the same town as Madame Blavatskii--Ekatrinaslav, Ukraine. The town is been called something else since WW11. Blavatskii set up Jidda K. to be head of the Theosophical Society, of which he would not remain the head: Truth is a Pathless Land. My man--here, that I work with--used to sit before Krishnamurti and take in the discussions... In an attempt to tie myself within 6 degrees (looking back w/ 20-20 vision), I had written down a region name that caught my interest, now yrs ago, in Blavatskii's Esoteric/Exoteric Writings, is a place called Andrapradesh. Carved it in stone while laughing inside at the motive-that-sifted thru my grasp and was denied except for the conscious/physical map appropriated. Turns out Jidda was from there--and my friend here makes the labor of letter permutations in analytical meditation (whose suggestion I heed from Dalai Lama's discussions) seem kaleidoscopic and up to the moment--real imminence!!! A certain kind of theoria began to appreciate with my reading of her Self-Actualization writ--and I plan on those moments to convulse in thresholds in the world-to-come, in my pharonic chamber when all language is threaded into the garment of phenomenal existence. Old bodies are shed like weary veils, new bodies are donned like new garments.
**The primitives believed in Incarnations--reincarnations, but it was not a project into their future worth. Incarnations just as the media of conventional representations--animals and people, skies and rivers bisecting the earth: these things were immediate and demonstrated thru nurture of a kind that makes us call Fractal Patterns now the flame-substance of life, in all its strangeness an agency of Life's Creative sense of an Absolute. So when karma's principles has supplicants note death as handily as regret over moral compass some god demurred as his cause a priori (our fate)--we know then that instead of locked in this material world, it became the desire and folly of man to also live thru restraint in spiritual endeavor--as in the problem w/your compassion causing violence, Tolstoy essays. Hinduism developed, or rather devolved, to allow the devoted to complicate his/her life w/competition to assumed time elements... "IT soon come!!" can't be decried, it is the manifest and revolution of spirit to see the Material Void represented by conscious satellites, soft machines, & sensual bodies .
** I see Dylan in some unfurnished apartment, or taken in by someone, but solitarian occasions where the cognitive yields to the towering obsolete & it's just him & a book on the table (almost a typical scenario). He is calling himself something in the vast immediacy just to turn to his potential to see thru what he can never ally himself with, power. I'm reminded of the image of an old mendicant (wandering ascetic), in this case a Jew (*certainly Dylan's life with grandmother made him the beggardly student-of-life--I take Chagall's Smoking Jew representing), and he comes to a small room in this ghetto, or tucked away village restricted from the rest of the region. To be free from the Powers-that-Be means at first to seek out the thousand deaths he maintained only to find, in his world the even more grave conceptuality of the Bible, or Book of Ethics--Talmud--more grave than anything the authority could do to him (in his mind). So he sits in a shtibel (study room) the open book swells his head with forced thoughts, "he" is across the room and the distance is a maze of gravid time resisted now forever 'til then. And all he can know is a Seperateness called Kodesh/holy. Dylan seems to claim loyalties, calling himself "a Zionist for life," but again the world is out of balance & we are still younger than yesterday--think history & antecedents we jump from in that liminal box!! The history of G-d is replete with a context of only one conversation with the Infinite that mattered. G-d said, "Hey?" & man said, "I AM (present)."

Sight: seen!

2011-03-21T13:40:00.004-04:00

**My favorite dream in recent times is sorta a head above head look upon an astrolabe, like I was looking over my own shoulder. The astrolabe would rotate of its own volition. But if it was under my control (I just couldn't feel my hands' dexterity) then therein lies the strange phenomena of time passing with memoria expunged--nothing personal to measure; and my Free-will (voluntas) - that very awareness like pillars of consciousness collapsing because of the immensity of the staged affect from seeing moon arc and go down, then the sun glimmering somewhat like a deflated winter's sun...its light more approachable, but its remoteness denying its imminence. Over & over witnessing day in day out and crowding fluid feelings of my sense of being in a pocket of time: gut bucket weekdays, and plateau weekend in weird sabbatical reckonings--any and all pilgrimages in time like end of year, end of decade, end of any and all dispensational sensitivity...
^^^Subject: canopy vandalizes the ground with polygons
In an oak-riddled dialect with empty neighborhood:
The place my "head made-strong" was in lighted fields, aeries of light embankments--all slightly above me--being drawn up. I thought of deliberative bird song, tastes in my mouth--mantra breath, but no utterance to resume the dialect except for my drumming patter on a 12" Pearl cunga. In the garage door threshold one-drop speaking with my hands, then I lean to one side on my lawn chair, my head consoled by a gesture I see of Madame Blavatskii, her Esoteric & Exoteric Writings. Just how she has her fist as hammer quill to penetrate the frozen sea within, the very tabula rasa I was raising my eyes to...her hand holds sanctuary in a grip of something conceptual, tightness 'pon the head, her temple is grasped, theoria of my Fire brow, rebel stopping the fighting--the two threads of a horizon, white thread dark thread tethers me to anything propitiated in the fat soul of plenty!!
****Look at that adept tongue of Stevie Wonder. His music comes and my attention picks up, and then I'm brought to some equinox to meet & greet the strangely staged delivery. His delivery has language acuity--creative, but the discipline in this articulation say as compared to Farakhan has it established that the Mendicant (=Farakhan, for argument purposes) isn't anymore rife with self-profession than the (predominant) rosy colored mourn and soul of "black riddim bubble bouncing," & "black magic record speaking" (*Linton Kwesi Johnson &*Lee Perry respectively) we adduce in rock-steady and blue beat and rhythm & blues. Louis Farakhan--Nation of Islam preacher, shows something sustained in the valley of tongues which accords with the numinous, and yet shows only an existential valence--and certain colors as in an artist's cause is entirely a conflagration of language awash yet upon way different shores to receive...
****IT is all bunk to think that reading the tea leaves, or chicken innards or the trajectory of celestial bodies--tho' eminent, spectacular, and psychosomatic in the sense that IT may be helpful, has any true rational effect on the individual. Our consciousness construes our influences, our influences don't contrue US that advances evidence the Outward fact conspires for benefit or anything else. I'm deriving this from having listened to Richard Dawkins yesterday--a true breath of fresh air. This Thinker really is NOT ascerbic--he genuinely wants people to be critically aware.
**Miracles betray the last thing empirical that were the victuals of ascension. On & on to devise a dialect with moon soaked eyes, only in the valley of tongues - her taste, at my feast I'm donning plates to consume her providence. The angle bespeaks ocean's volumne of what lights the night...this blue slumber awake. Maimonides principle of Incorporeality to take a stand that Eternity is foundational & not this creation which ushers impermanence to the visage of likenesses, & revenue that beginnings are misunderstood dispensations we can't tear from antediluvian thick-with-it yawn of estates and skies. Unity is essense lept out of conscious satellites--like glowering cars dividing destinations from imminent suburban homes to fade away junctures up in blue pleroma arced from tree architecture comporting til our grasp graspes.

^^Maimon--the name is also the same word Muslims are more likely noted as in the Koran--was the Jewish theologian 800yrs ago defining Jewish ideal as reason. The Love for G-d was not a biblacy exposition, has Theoria & Meditation as man's ends (al-ghaya al-insaniyyah), so prayer & ritual is the impulse... devotion & meaning in being Present. One doesn't believe in the Absolute because there are no questions in mind! Reason Is--yet an Unknown with solitarian validity for you, isn't answer enough in resigning exile from self unto destiny, but rather being a proponet of fate's middling. This "mean" without our demur makes convention less general and shows one the Light in Night.
**In my green youth I just was found wonting--in the trough of sinewy thought what all it meant 'pon anxious cries of its reception was something I couldn't wait for. That weight in a pallet, that wait for mysteries leaving queries for anything coveting things I threw against sensual mind shores. No option to imagine myself in incidious gray days and only succumb to that. Gray mts in a Yugoslavian backdrop, looked bluer more usually til projecting forward was the imminent mt's release of you... Gray frozen ocean within, as Kafka would have it, contents halophilic, elements of its attribute to roil--blood, ebbs at the last step temporally. Complicating its liquid report... splurb, riddim, bouncing, a breath outside, aeries in the shelf-stow of its funky porridge.

Subject: blue monday people & I know there are a few
Winston Rodney (Burning Spear) lyricked IT is DRY & HEaVY... IT IT IT... and we must pull IT, like Jah's heavy load, like the Train on a collision course with the fate of a long distance journey!! The wet paint, an impressionable self is always a sense, for me, when I feel what I am being impacted with what is inopportune... Sly lyricked "If you feel it pulling back, you are going strong." Sometimes the ECLIPSE of some sense of being quite in league with an Other--for me, my brother--gets the empirical outward fact stated so BRIEFLY that I don't know any longer what it is I should grapple with, what it is I throw in with. I wondered about the line, satta massagana, in Jamaican patois... In Rockers--the Rasta movie, at one point some dude is indicated that he's "satta massagana": withal the subterfuge (w/o relying on my-own moral compass) of ghetto-ology shows this young blood sitting on the side-lines of even the minutiae of slackening-vocations from his fellow ghetto denizens, precisely his sitting-unannounced WAS what I call a denouement of something authorial. The guy is barely communicating a nod of support of some norm--and that ephemeral nod he catches from the pity of the protagonist is like he the uber-mensch is barely in line ahead of his submissive--this mon unreconciled with the give & take of goods & services . This man is THAT man, is I & I content with an imaginative narrative, the very thoughts feelings and actions as allegory to man's ends in Higher Ground.

The Purity of Soul's Release--would be in the temporal!!

2011-03-14T15:47:00.004-04:00

^^PlEAse--*something anything motivate me; my motivation is observable in a surfeit of self-duty IN MIND, not actionably! So, I really really give a damn, and I know just that modicum of the vocabulary of self-adulation, but the very real truth that mostly nothing IS in fact that dear to me, and is not in my control stammers my project of self-worth... In the morning, at dawn I am on the street out in front of my house, hoofing it a few dozen paces over here to the shop, and donut days. All around reflections from head-lights, or light posts engaged and clarifying, makes the greetings of friends in time & in place--across distances, and thru the maya of dream-scapes in their wakening eclipse, strangely a stand tall and be counted few moments, pulling me up and making my trunk seem rooted again, make things seem like the ends-of-man in primary conditions stain the only pocket of the day's tally when all things truly are possible.

^^Before huge windows--about the 3rd floor at the Lex Downtown Library, looking out toward Main St. I'm sitting scanning embowering from the prism of ideation w/meditation portents viewable in the sly look of some Buddhist practitioner. He looks way out--in the serene context captured in this Indian Artbook--seized as upon the distance & simultaneity, his Forward-I Revolution is definitely behind the sincere homunculus mask, translator-face ...translating unknown primordial first thoughts!! In gradations I'm here at the pivot: his ebb like the ground at his feet is gathering throngs of gem shaped leaves, but (this place) wholly possessed by him since my floe denies his distance-covered in sharp-eyed veils LIFTED to demonstrate what is equally assumed--that his eyes are eased into looks closer to something cosmic and within me within him--just a glance toward the journey Inside! World-view is not actual, it is instead political and manipulation of them asses, can't be cultivated, bares not fruit, a consciousness leaden but emergent from the Material Void, stagnates the promise of inner-journeys strung... Light like a feather as if he has wings-- and concommitantly, if you have legs, you know you are on the Ground--are good aphorisms for taking my leave from unredemptive world's demise expectorated from Media -- all but fiction, all truth but none of it prone to my interests!!
-----IT is my attempt only to have someone imagine themselves as BEfore the big windows at the library--wide open pleroma, the spirit of the blue dome giving me up to urban supra-mundane...
Now, please, I am not trying get past people's usual vernacular--but there are a couple of points of entry. Just imagine a Buddha whose face is either strongly at attention--really taking in a sense of vastness; Or a Buddha who appears to be looking way deep behind his/her serene austere mask of Compassion... Are we inner journeying, or are we Moving into Relationship i.e. consciousness that is without!??
^^It seems really obvious that since the mind demands order--and is frontier bound due to it, that even the confusions and complexities we deal with will get adroitly placed into stocked shelves, libraries of thought furniture, and this is all a presumption of the Supra-Mundane Laws of the Proofs of Being: LAWS. My friend--the archeologist, gave me a definition sounding much like a Greek version, and etymological bearing of my last name, Lakes. Legas (and lagos is lakes in Spanish). But the name is quite like the word for Law. I had a conversation/seance few moments w/our mutual friend the night before, I said, If only I could begin again to dream all that litigical self-assertion, and threshold mythos that of expectations as hotly sincere...!! Certainly martyred language, what we call ourselves, what it feels like to have the mummer of self-referencial thrum of silent intervals in mantra's comforts is Illegal, but Permitted....and is the best way to sanction doing whatever we want with the book of rules in our season's thought event!!
^^The purchase of that jingle jangle morning paid for thru a life surfaced of all my changes, is Resources namely like money ina pocket...and still money me a bloodclot. Glad I could spend all the existential worth: I'm here withal, a new dawn. But why ask the angels if you are starting to bleed, if bleeding me was done to save my life? JUST wake up--Ok I submit. Feeling like mind is a cumbersome 3 oranges, 1rst pacing in someplace abbreviated, then throttling their splendor across my pillow, past my head pulling the "ancient rosy colors behind my eyelids" *Kerouac, to their fate and onto dolomite-florid tile floors. I spent valuable salutory days and I can't go back. Meanwhile to quote Elias Khoury *Palestinian author I register, " I can't get the sad man to stand up in my eyes."

^^My good man at work--he used to sit in intimate park crowds and listen to Krishnamurti. In time, maybe unsettled throes corrupting sublime notions makes sowing active orthopraxy get him to the fray Unchecked now. Iconclast nicely iced anarchism leaves supreme doors just vacuous. Still, at least anyone can say therein lies the intermediary: this or that observer--in the vacous. I know its dross of mind to court certain audition impulses, but to be true to anything we can say - & every word viable stabled irreducible - the worst sense can only be the smote day of language concommitant w/ vain 2 dimensional proxy deserted road... Not just why do I have to divulge the decisor, but who am I to swallow Folly-Wholly of the unparturitioned horizon.

^^The Anointed, take your pick (Avalokiteshvara--an incarnation of Compassion, object of Attention--lyrical ever+astute, promiser Enough of Becoming outside of self), was a fisher of men=the ole soul distinguished in giving back the prodigy of self-possession. The purity of the soul is oft-physical & actionable, more usually when noted in Biblacy. It's called *salah al-nafs*--the physical soul. In Aramaic, our language bridge from Semitic language to Indo-European, has this letter in nafs, the nun an N which does mean "fish." The telling of Hasidic lore thru antecedents - folk mysterion (propitiation), way more liberating in time's yawn, hopes down from up above TO the fish whose soul likely cannot incarnate. Jesus is a Fisher of Man. Salah recognize as Selah, rt ! eternity ! FORever ! but ask a Saudi what Liberation of the Soul, salah al-nafs means in context of the Liberation of the Body (that done in Being Amongst--part of the herd; "social living is the best" says Winston Rodney--Burning Spear) called salah al-badan, he said this like clarity of the sensual body...just purity. The Saudi's word was Purity. (so I think) Perfection. As at once time place community--I & I & I. Reconciled that we are the first out the door, and at the peak of empirical Shores.
^^SPOKE WITH A FELLOW from Eritrea. Sometimes the auspices of that quality of "otherness" is rather encumbering, acquistive in my composure because of how my thought language adduces the hole I'm down in. Rather than the freed up existential ...throes I am impelled through, I am prone and almost impacted by the "strange"... AND enduring less of the common aeries of free association. Notice the passport functionaries of folks and one would see when he or she must resign themselves to our loss of face: the translator face of human awakenings, is quite looking back in the mind's breeding consoling healing, but without the attributable conscious prop. Stealthy I gather of him, he imagines not much is going on--whereas the fruits of hearing is the purchase of a silent nod East and a heart dub of Africa's utility of the bridge toward awareness... No doubt his biological demeanor is a radical survival and victory as opposed to more or less convalescence I & I was steered through in my incarnations and channels from my ancestry. Humility is the only answer to most of an irreconcilable potential!!!

Pacing myself like I live next to a river, No water can put this Fire out

2011-03-04T14:24:00.007-05:00

**My moment of release (journey inward) was a feeling I imagined about Gandhiji. And it was clearly a nod in effect into the loam and spread of my backyard. I was sitting in the computer room, with the peripheral window looking out to the summer arbor. The trafficked report of local roads and disparate birds, and heated conditions of forced thought scenarios and Valerie's murmurring chimey voice all colluded into the look of foilage, trees, bees, clement weather and Gandhi revealing (to me) I could ask anything right then--just be patient & have confidence.
Stumbling across campus some Sunday, I could have been studying a few thing then--what stands out is Rimbaud & Pilgrims which is an over-size book of images taken from Mongolia to Tibet of Buddhist appreciable moments in self-actualization. R. Gere's thing and very valuable for my tastes in what it records. The utter remote consternation with which just about anything ebbs & floes from my mind-sore IF I am wont to cease stuttering over presence of mind, usually is in the form of a question. The question and appeal to that one alterior self was finally (and un-cornered ever since) What do you want to do? And the lucid no-mind thoughts fluent in putting square pegs into rorschach excrescence answered back, Anything you want to do.
^^I'm telling this dude, whenever it seems that I rouse language say in mind's office (of said interlocutor)--it is just a big wave outside his constabulatory thought world, & I'm just following it in. So now having to deal with the ruins of babel's library, like Paul K lyricked, those papers were signed under duress--you've got nothing on me, is the tact recommended. Look at the stress, those fissures of its maintenance, therein lies his own imagination's narrative. I see & watch what I saw, but rankle to flip that switch off or on. Corporeal hulking thoughts from heated conditions of forced thought scenarios having more to do with Outward Fact than suffusing this brahmodya discussion in stanzas I alone make clear. If I deny my ego, its excrescence has the same favor stammering the fluent mind-sore back to its empty repose.
^^I call my archeologist friend who has a couple master's degrees, my dictionary punching bag. It isn't quite fair that I am reduced to drawing something fundamental in the confirming of denoted sense of words like voluntas, and the feel of the German word for world. But usually I see a reservois of what transpired as I gathered the concept of some book title-- And quite beyond that, walking in & around bookcases...usually it's Mom's because makes the corporeal hulking mass of thought thru literacy seem unbounded all the same.
Intellectus, memoria, voluntas (will)-- makes scribing oneself into the Book of Life, an actionable way to book a dream.
^^Malamud's* Pop recites a few verbs learned in nightSchool after his immigration here. Lights a cig. Melancholia is the report of his visage. Rosy-colored mourn: his progeny feels a Winter's sun every bit in its deflated ill-capacity; the three oranges of Prokofiev's symphonic delivery roll across his pillow in dull dust ridden brownstone. An ocean above making satellites into these celestial rooms emptied of our respite; noble work the give & take of places you ought to be.... My office is, my office is, a hotch-potch of prevailing motives in ambulations thru work-fields, I transverse as if its geometric pattern gives way to no perimeters. Rather I cut a path like the thrum of yarn.
*Malamud actually means "teacher" and naturally to unwilling students!
^^IF Kabbalah ought to be studied beginning at 40yrs old (the Ashkenazi view), then I aged quickly, because at 15-16 yrs old I felt compelled to make my head the event of the season. THoughtfulness is trepidacious self-preservation, try listening: your compassion causes me violence--to somewhat quote Leo Tolstoy. Self-consciousness is wisdom's impetus. Thought is Fear= because fear means you hate it, if u hate it, then you love it...where to begin?? Jews as victim: the vogue of the appeal from conscious crowd that the "wailer" hasn't the same appreciated fact that inverts *put any nation's name here* or individually on all points of the map. Some Jews market spiritually as give & play enduring tremendum & fascinans in victimhood as any other. Some religion is plastic.
^*^I get it that my friends think I am erasible: I take on forms of folks using language, that make me want to martyr the point of reference. It has to be done--otherwise we sit around watching great imagistic and educational docs -the latest and a very good one is like Enlighten Up and as we assume that their motives for harnessing the senses are made plain, perhaps it is not thru something more actively participating than a pique from an indifferent chorus. But I want my SENSE to be indicated by these passive abysmal whiling-away hrs spent taking in what I easily feel instructed over. Just picking up the language tools of ole yogins ...there (they are) extruded out thru media--astute people no doubt--and why would I ever deny self-simulation from exterior forms to a reductive more humble "becoming" that says world-view is no longer goal, but instead the tact to just know everything I possibly can about only One Thing. I asked the fellows, what about your sense of the day's entirety, what part OF it was a journey inward?
**Consciousness works every bit as propellant toward manufactured motive whether inwardly borne or Without, just THAT when consciousness is composed of the Outward Fact, appearances - materiality et al, what is subtle and substantial is being ignored.

^^Sat around the Cadilac dealer garage...
Read some of Kafka's thing there. I looked around and felt shamed for be sadder than most suspiring past me.
Upavasatha--when the god(s) dwell near. Like on the sabbath of a yr., or a mourning of someone whose lamented loss is thru praise, and self-simulation making sabbatical a "timely" renewal, rather a "turning around" in view of the departed presence-reckoned. Like we consider the prospects of being present. Another way of saying Answer (=restored, Renewed, redemption) is uncollaborated but is enough. Seeing the Buddhist concept (of sabbath) formally adduces the cavernous & mundane proponet of Jewish Lights-off, energy exertion denied, candles then lit, focus prayers called kavanot chanted *yes, like sufis. ...whose community now still has practioners of--the Yemenis, and they are the earliest still living remnant of community's originators. Meditation is feathers falling before vision visioning with a mean to survey what is quite past the present. And then in a world of slightly sublimated moments all conscious satellites becoming becoming as snow or feathers rousing in our scan of the road with head-lights in black as jet night... asserting minimal hindrance, in opaque steps.
^^Our imagination accumulates in the animal's ineffable Principal to his/her instinct. To imagine--it'd be like a conscious prop, say a vessel, or anterior of the instinctual awakening where man's consciousness illustrates the supra-mundane. Little fury things are curious of light and shadow and audition. A cat sometimes hunkers down his shadow traipsing tripping him in a venture toward some adversary. But I want the Absolute to see me, since I know we're not observing it.
Dylan offering that there is nothing really nothing really to turn off (as the country music plays soft and watching what we see Over at the opposite loft), always seemed believable to me. (things go On--he is saying) Still lately something as solid as my trod from shapeless mass to lanky shunted, bleeding stature says to in fact cease IT. And even Love in meditation's behalf means that Love to actually has a place outside, in our exile as some thing sublimated. The bleeding of presence, is the tally of body consciousness--a sense of actionable physicality tethered to every thing as manifest and cloistered. A lot of material void thwarting the ease I'd accede thru homeward environs... But things are necessarily proffered in grandmother consciousness so that they are dispatched: like our repose-meaning in shapeless mass fealty. That too can be turned off just due to its accounting. Consciousness alights to silence, but if silence is delivering w/acuity, the loading can't begin.

THE Light of Happiness Institution looked over thru SOULeyes

2011-02-24T14:05:00.003-05:00

The first time visiting my bro out near-enough to LA--in Newbury then, my self-realization vernacular was huge - I was having overstanding of THIS one life with truck. My brother, as familial and other as time's distances and loss of accord deigns, had kitchen and one room making up his apt--and little contoured paths around art--paintings and such, exercise equipment, sports paraphenalia, clothes.... On the nightstand next to his mattress - no frame, was Ginzberg's Kaddish. The rapprochement of his motive to read Ginzberg may only have been that ancient word used as title, but that he attends to the author's writ, his amaneusis was made clear as mine is to him. I strung ignorance and self-involvement and half-thoughts as across the room like a net as if his mummer and drift --a life of course-- would be made plain, somehow out of lazy queries, but mostly from the geometry milk-laden air and histories lingering and linear, but lost til palms raised and mind-vessels prepare to seize....
^^TEA IS SERVED. Served up for the morning's embellishment of the day's totality. Black tea, in its samovar, in the corner of the ablutional-hand washing part of the restroom, when I was there at the Ohr Somayakh Yeshivah (means Light of Happiness)--getting solid with just what it was these guys would never speak to--certainty overstanding. Eggs baked on a big cookie sheet with slices of green pepper, bland as that in cafeteria settings one December. I felt my attention to be sought-after in the requiem of my attention in mode of seeking. I wanted to imagine what it was the Orthodox expected of me--to do it even--maybe the words Yo Evam Veda, Sanskrit for Who is Knowing This, was good mantra to take on the priorty of empirical studious days of everything past the draw of loyalties. Easy to do that, because I got good at walking away from anything epiphenomenal--that which I'd deign with probity.

UPON my arrival at Ohr Somayach yeshivah in Jerusalem this healthy proximity to learning was something I wanted to witness. Actually, in the room where Torah and Talmudic learning commenced, I walked past, I'm on cold open-to-the-outside foyer floors, looked into the shul where the arc dominates, but only saw individual students davening (=swaying in prayer). My mnemotechnical reckoning was brandished from the thoughts of the only living Hasid I knew (then)--yet wayward and thus more-up-my-alley (he was!), who I could suppose digested these kinds of settings. He was my older brother's Arabic professor & was my Islamic Civilization professor--the same Dr Leon Zolondek at the Univ. of Ky. MEMORY is the internalizing of a procession of thought i.e. time & parallel to experience, living then in my mind--as to say--then, which is a fallacy: you are either NOW or you are in conflict, there isn't any alternative to that. This particular trip to Israel wasn't for study however--rather I was going to meet up with my friend who in a few days would deplane at Ben Gurion airport. The Moshav, communal farm, was to be our longest stay in any one place while traveling for the 2-3 months in Israel and Egypt--and Zolondek was in the survey of my mind at a poignant moment. I was out on the perimeter of the banana fields--there on Moshav Fatsa'il, facing the noon day sun, thinking w/self assertiveness that Zolondek had socialist or Zionist values not alien to what I could absorb for myself there in Israel, a calling for all Jews I'm innocently but emphatically assuming. Zolondek, raised Chasidic turned his critical eye toward Islamic studies, so my yeahs could not be in fact my yeahs, hence the distraction and what came next, which I almost interpreted as my comeuppance, though the minefield around Zolondek's "person-ality" was only a phantom assumption on my part. I'm thinking out there in the hot sun, "Yeah, Zolondek would... " but I don't know what (over & over again in my mind) & then whack, I cut my thumb with my machete, but good--leaving me the rest of the day to do nothing, and imagining the damnable stereotyped sense of a finger pressuring the earth like to your side, as if I was G-d Damning something...something, but didn't know what, .......from the infiltration of agricultural implements and dirt from G-d's green into my permeable body.
^^The world watches and waits, thinks you've done something somewhere, and you haven't Gotten done, been doing, or found your likeness in anything dire that turns to light except for two things ineffable with equal magnetic draw--on par entering thru one door is every bit the one yielding somewhere clement, & the same. Sun by day, moon by night

^^Traipsing on chaparral out near Sedona, Boynton Canyon, red rock looked all buoyant and harvested by meally mouthed adherents, awing in glimpses, but troubling these regions like travelogue disambiguation seasoned from nature's primary alienators. Every chance I got w/the knife self-same as what I had pocketed in Israel & Egypt, I used it to appropriate prickly pear fruit. Folks coming up in these scrabble paths, and once I'd get a good pace and get going I'd scheme to move by someone fluidly, but only not to (scheme), because senses were working with one and against itself--just beyond my appreciating consequence of healthful vistas. So, here's this confined ambulating course into an awaiting fellow-gawker giving way, I find my gait loosing nuance--and like your breath on a mirror, our faces slide off each others in a lurrr & nothing hesitant-- just not physically. And so the commiserate thoughts of just me met by proud land, let me land (lub) just so and again, with orange smelling sunshine as the indefinite choir of hollerin' space.

^^ If trees could speak, these trees next to Zadie's house on Lay St. in Kingston, Ny had laryngitis, or maybe worse, its sentience was sublimated from distance and distance only: the trees in their communities, and people in theirs. They may not collude to repair into dialogues unless animals become the surrogates in allowing the relevent architecture of the skyline seem met with trees' canopy making corridors, lighted and unlit, and gems of polygons at tree throne's feet....

^^1rst attempt journalling, Coltrane portrayed flames of my mind like I broke a fast. Tapas--fire in your gullet w/me made off with renunciation keys to be less abject confessing "I don't know." The kEy! the symbol of certainty - out on a limb pinned--everyone in the season its reason, changing like the tree denying his ever resilience just beneath. Grasping limbs in fray of the turn of the day & I jump from its boughs to thwart the posturing of the rest of the trifoliate pillars unfamiliar with any emanate breath. I watch just wind & spirit suspired in the roused sun eater.
Subject: americana in a kiva
^^Yum in Lakota Myth had the dharma of riding any one of his 4 brother's back as they accede to the 4 directions, making the Direction - perhaps the head cornerstone. Or memorialized space, called bamot--if I can borrow something bedu(ouin) semitic and all the rest, I think rousing a meaning in somewhere Thus. Yum's loading always begins w/Wazi the Witch. She married the comrade of the people Father Tate, and gave the interlopers the charge of her needs to hear what-is to-be found. To be in mind-sores of the warrior, thERE in evasive boundaries propriety musters sanction to brush of trappings of just one propellant of his mission--it is going, and going anywhere. Tate has the brothers back as reasons elapse of people's migrations--each in what ever direction's eponomy, each one enticed by Wazi, and each one wizened enough to demur at one point. Yum is extinguished, GETs to sit anywhere in the tent, as he wishes...

"My Memory 'flect" --

2011-02-18T11:25:00.004-05:00

It is sometimes easy to imagine an Eastern ethos, his perseverance unto mutant numina to perform this or that task. Habits are things of unadventurous patterns, still-apparitions (unmoving) but for the fluctuating mind putting the mild into esteem. Memory 'flect untimely mental apostasy, long ends of days I couldn't meditate away but for swathes of my contagion.
^^Ok, to struggle or "wrestle" with G^d, striving for G^d the definition for Israel, indicates theology, and to toil with one's theoria as it gets aggrandized thru attachments, and competing almost equally w/ a couple of assumed resolutions, is psychology. This is advancing Elie Wiesel's turn of a few words implying just this. I'm sitting here looking at G^d is not One, and when I want the challenge of its denotation to help me "feel" my way thru another day (I stole these last few words from Box of Rain--good line, anyway)--what I did here is imagine the forking path. A high road and a low road, but rather than choose as if either entail a yawn of distances unto some hidden village, I am as upon the high road & moving INTO experience thus yielding to the stretch of road taking me to some valley by the low road. The high road, yes, we move from here into experience as before us, of course, and stupendous liesure is that that relationship is receiving us gratuitously. To be blunt, if you've ever come across folk in their wasted repose -- they certainly look like they've been pondering in a wake of someplace you had otherwise taken leave, yet here you are & their grasp of you isn't unerring and rather his and her composure is relativity-collapsed in upon itself. Avalokiteshvara won't give you something with which we could dispute that people have small natures, and small comportment to frame any man's insignificance.
^^Nihilism is proscribing belief, just not your own. Is it a visage with no terminus when while on stage the artists hear the cinematic dialect as having been understood by something bigger than his/her praise of song's release? Maybe it can't be an observable release because the muse of philosophical smoke--its irony, is that nothing contains it but its furthest reaches are incalcuable.
^^Love that feeling that I am ready. Plans to get poisoned and alliterative designs is what got me intoxicated. Something figuring prominently--beggar at the vertex of blanched room's wall, the sorrow self is waving direction right as I wonder if I coulda appealed to someone somewhere more nigh. But, I am all heady, serenely eluded from the cloister of mounting apathy--just want that author, that dude who trods proud land. (& Karen Armstrong, how she writes about the Other Shore) T E Lawrence has this guy come home to his betrothed. People in the country-side not knowing him, must be gathering what the writ isn't but positing as I see paths' flight-meet-my-step the way it meets his, and anybody's... He bounds the rectitude of country lane next to their plots--and crosses plots, averred from the common pedestrian: he's familiar, the katharsis is that this land empties of inconveniences - it represents the pug marks to his quarry.
^^Some bunch of hippies--on facecrack--think I am of some evangeline about circumcision. My view is a foment from what-ever has been proximal. I SAID WHATEVER--JUST LIKE EVERYONE ELSE WITH THEIR BIASES, w/ as many consequences we can be sure. NO ONE ever took me aside said believe this or that --that I'd better off. Frankly no one can take umbrance that he or she has instructed me from the doctrinaire--it wouldn't have been a cause of some loyalty that makes me listen. And this is not a defense of being in a box. By box I mean sought-after jumping off points with a 2000yr context, an arc East furthering the fade of liminal theodicy...anyone can jump from that loam, OR the Ifrikiyya humanities' beginnings, that has festering environs, like I've seen in Egypt, and as life expectancy attests to with human historicity makes my point, circumcision is cleaner, period (if conditions BE DIRE). They ain't outa their box of something "alternative," nor anymore inspired than the apprehension of something tribal that would otherwise consume the "core-culture" imbalance any fucking way. Do you get that? It is stereotyped attitudes to imagine that it is purely warm & fuzzy religiosity to compel me to say that DOING THIS is an OK thing for a parent to choose. Or NOT--and that is fine, too. It isn't my mission that someone come on board and defend this--it is their blindness that the human condition is this big--I am holding my thumb and finger a 1/2inch apart. Anything that smacks of tradition-traduced in their view--is an evasion... these chics aren't getting Otherness, at all. And anyway, the kid has no freudian pathos he can attest to from it, and appearance means nothing...
**I have restraint by liminal imagination--& resignation ...making me feel things in glimpses, but I don't know what I yoke (the yoga sense-control tho' appreciable is usually going untallied). Fucking vulnerable (just now, dude), seeing myself in profiles guessing at the translator face askew. People that would worry the thing that ultimately is the worst for all asunder takes on religious graffitti, and leaves happier moments, more and less self-aware whispers, sad sad days, everything under the preimminent rest of our lives deigned that way IN the world, from this world, precisely is why the worst of it has no god to seek meaning forthwith, and no demiurge to vanquish.
**Our essense is victory over power in its vocabulary of self-inducement: power says, I'm rife with constancy; I'm beheld when the complacent ceases his diminution & accords with fate. Power's language is its propensity to deny being controlled thru symbols, but rather cheap words consort with eternity, and power is the pique of what forever will be said.

THE Uber-mensch & old brown as his bed

2011-02-10T15:00:00.005-05:00

^^^Let's just say, The thing that supercedes what at once we experience is in all-ways greater. BUT, ultimately the only thing prohibitive is that we (and I & I is soo befitting here) are necessarily first in line. Ego says 1rst in dukkha, 1rst in irreconcilable impermanence - anitya, 1rst in ameobic response to Non-self - anatman. (3) proofs of being deal with Intent too, that we seek sublimation. So, taking the road of the most common denominator would inform someone about individuality, just not in a way where creativity is forwarded in such prone states as he/she who tries to experience things elementally. Dreams give every stable condolence to power spots/ memorialized space: I don't know if I want to dream What-Is, or Awaken from It. Rastas say, was So, As so.
^^^In Dao thought I try to establish a sense that a Path is what I need, will avail, and that it is what defines complexity & interests--things creative, and things where my duty can match mendacity knowing its measure. Marley lyricked, "If you're hoping down from up above help the weak because you are strong." But if yoU are up-above then it's not hope you need. A relationship on whatever higher order has done solutioned the pledge verily change is at hand. And the hierophant, like a Shankarcharya--a bodisattva, who'd come to reconcile a direction, is formerly giving-Way--this path. Hope, then, is a relic--On a path what we meet isn't a hope, rather it replaced anything dithering in the valley of indecision.
I read in Isaac Asimov's Interpretations of the Old Testament that Orion Constellation is known as Kessil-the Fool. Just taking things as a hotch-potch of indications that the iconography of language technology, some repository of words, would keep reflecting as upon my spirit. Impelling my spirit and providing direction without deferring to luck-turning-around for me, is how I would hear the right thing--and manifest change because of the play of echolalia in my mind--a microcosm of symbols reducing the "university" to something I am willing to manage.
I used to read OrIoN back in the 90s--what a fantastic mag. Someone made note of Derrick Jensen mentioned in some article--he sums it up well:
"hope is a longing for a future condition over which you have no agency"

~Derrick Jensen

But, what Path is it that indicates or helps one intuit the lay of the land? In other words--IF TRUTH is a pathless land as Krishnamurti succinctly illumines--or has us learn thru his easy speak, then EVEN a path indicates the futility of our surfacing with hope. Yet, looking at the world--its corridors and "light" plateaux --and saying IF the ground beneath our feet meets us at every step, then the IDEAL path is negligible, since solipsism seems more the statement of presence...that we aren't going anywhere--it's coming to us.
^^^The blindly FELT room, earth tabernacle, was just so before me all conjured by the acuity in the impressions my cuz's X executed there with me, out at the front of her apt - actually opposite of where the Crow's Nest was occupied. At one point I thought I was going to drop my fluid like a chemist with Janna, but she rather called the cops on me--UK cops--and contact with her til this occasion was abridged. Like Ezekiel's Chariot vision--called the merkavah in Kabbalah--is the first esoteric thing in overt circumstances found in biblacy. And she drew me into a web of coloration as if traffic and its pavement report yielded me into auditive chambers. If the chariot/throne would be the symbol of nuanced distances strung, these hugely inane hot & dry contemporary conveyances still impel the courtier to a sense of the meritable for one's desire for "travel." The resounding color-field otherwise of a light (kind of) structure whose entrance was moments before and bound in the eternity of the strewn past starting with the predeceased day's earlier threshold now unaccessed, gave little time for an exit or retreat as something foundering like a denial of plans to carry the day... Looking past our precise captivity, was junky-contrived (not indicating H here) windowed gloss--relicky of urban and concrete jungle self-myth, as in a crystal palace--unredemable and ready to be kicked over, at the fore whose architecture is ungrasped like lightning, but has yet more pleroma in intermediary purple hues, since lightning at night has its preponderance in most observer's Mind.
^^^I'm a terminal case of having confessed to all my faults. Now like the atman, every blueMoon there's just a glimpse of what-all I'd blame for the context of fiery consumed hay days, substance all but yielded up in the eyes of those who had kept coming... It's embarrassing to find myself the accused whilst the mummer of folks travails mention less about me than my peop's passport functionaries sorta suppose. Thhhey don't care--and I don't know enough that the "little trouble" is self-professional, lament, and unreconciled praise...giving a damn, without subtle notice the widely esteemed is availing again.
^^^I thought it was obnoxiously surface of my cousin to write I-sraeli capitalized, and a-rab in lower case. I see the very impulse in a few moments of already-gotten-resolved in my own head. That I was to deal with folks--fucking personally--showered off the poltical animal that is soo useless to build up anyway with all the dirt of graft the integrity of one's people should have delivered to them... IN Jerusalem, I took a couple of buses to get to this Jewish neighborhood, then on foot across a no-man's land and into a tented and cinderblock precinct of Palestinians, to visit Reza Khan...Reza at any rate was part of his name. He sat me down on a two legged chair served me so exceptionally sweet mint tchai and we commenced to misunderstandings whose trappings of time and place were easily jettisoned. I was to give him some linens from Dr French here in Lextown, and honestly who knows if I had the right guy. His fellow denizens just pointed the way to him--I assumed the up & up.

Zadeh: Parkers Mill Rd: Florida during Thanksgiving

2011-02-04T11:24:00.005-05:00

~#~Just thinking about meditation was a process toward being in focus-versification, like these astute states of mind would concord w/either some asana thing, or more higher chambers are conjured. Sitting, sitting, many days and I'd become monk-self attuned. I thought sitting here indian style was sitting at the behest of a kingly court--just not at his favor. Then once sitting (sesshun) was finding myself at centeredness, the sitting for myself: I was no longer in the nomenclature of an aspirant directive. In these day in day out moments of retreat, a doctor friend of the family would come over every so often, my studies thus on trial in loquacity. Yet in the pivot of this one cold Autumnal day I headed out Parkers Mill Rd to the water tower to sit under its immensity and read Flavius Josephus. Strangely to answer for myself no threat of credulity, and to suspire in peace, the yawn of yellowed sprattling foliage covering the loam--tho' cold embittered--had body definition, and mind was the blue tower, and deflated ball sun was kundalini release, a color sorely un-noted--and as inward fact out of my grasp. The continuity was my train of no-mind desire--sitting 'pon a power spot, calling it the shuir komah (the measure of the deified body). This measure of g^d's body - one length called parasang - something infinite to contemplate, and as per MY body in repose I imagined much conscious mapping in proximation with say conscious satellites, all these things submerged in an earth vessel, not unlike hot icebergs the emergent proportion a hint of an unvain earth undecided over her presentation an observer parses out....
~#An abundance of evidence seems shared that my consciousness feels chattel-like, any animal--I thought particularly an ibex. But to consult with remonstrations, a sense of integrity that has environs sooo ultimately willful, makes no artifice the orb of inner-sensei motive.
~#Equality is not a state of mind. The last state of numinous tension I thought I was experiencing as equanimity--was sitting in pine needles, Autumnal skies--and for a second I was tasting air with an appetite for a corpse butterfly to leap back into its vital place in the warm convection currents fascinan-woods.
**"You only have yourself to choose." Not sure where I heard that, or if it was imagined from some lyrical stipulate that I took off from--leaping into my personal sojourn. For a long time the variable of edutaining-things, say music TV or books, was something driving to the peak of its threshold, a moment between myself and its portents, where necessarily I'd decide to imagine it gone--make it gone. I mean turn off the best of it, and the mediocrity too. The necessary reflection wasn't just assuaging with its liberating vibe, but as a demarcation of only a few minutes ago--and then I could wonder what piece of it was still in me, as I rode on ahead. The imperturbable thoroughness with which this one album--it was Kaya, its Running Away & Sun is Shining respectively--I think--struck at avenues convened at the sonic homunculus adept I could only imagine as my own trial, was almost at the point of dissolution, driving down Versailles Rd in a buddy's Taurus. I saw what he didn't, that I was tethered to a subtle body and calling it the norm, but getting interrupted since my appreciation had languished--IN these travelogue moments, where ideally pitching the tape out the window was a "silver seed" born in the air to bare fruition til another day... Yet another day would likely be the concurrent evening approaching--just ducking the patter of a dry & heaviness, my trafficked self, an ample destination found when blue slumber had motherNight lend her ventral warmth.
**In Florida just recently (Thanksgiving), and pictures of Mom's family up and around the house there at my aunt's--feel like the cyst once removed left an imminent catharsis, wholly undenied. This one photo of Zadie, exactly the plaino guy I remember from a thousand commiserations, had less of his musk and dithering borne of the image, his personae, than my aunt in her conviction to make her home - a home - a place to regard him, but in pure hopes, perfumed rooms, time-passing extinquished. I watched crapulent TV movies, shows etc...the Bond one w/Brosnan, the last of a cold-war relevance was actually satiate. A breakfront off to the side of the TV had Zadie scanning the room: his mind in bald essense, complex & blah old man, was easily subsumed like my brothers from huge persistance-and-then-petering-out lept from his brow--very believable, quiescence as thus.
**Reading the bio of the author for The Natural. Really boring--and I love this guy. The same exact enthusiasm of hearing the call of the game, like Kerouac out on Desolation Peak, is capturing that 50s times & place. Potok in the simple book The Chosen, deals with this similar espoused bridge of physical opportunity, and competitive lauding. In my Zadie's chair, dimmed orangy feel from the carpet, dark filtrating eve thru our porch's broad windows--I watched a game play, but thru its audition, and not the distraction of visual media.
## Wilderness of Mirrors=documentary about Paul K. There's image & likeness, in man's rappore with what he'd want with the Absolute. Image is good enough, since it'd be impossible to verify we were anything like a creator being. I see people thru their efforts--it makes sense for a minute--but I'm devoured by karmic, that no-decision is recommended, arising but at the impetus of a similar convergence. Still, to be with it, say your "black magic record speaking" (L. Perry) that PK isn't dissauded from the absurd, makes the pallet of my meddle a broader context to achieve. This music, as Patty Smith uses assuaging some other condition, is "a forest of life underfoot." And it's the give & play of it's marketing self-reflecting in strong ether: Dylan's "I have nothing to live up to" is how one administers just what IS outside the known...that Nothing IS, and IS an encounter with a proof of Being--that no-self is contrived... It takes strong art to proove it. Listening to PK's stuff at the backdoor of his old domicile--where CommonGrounds is--some mirror where I am looking at father-brother and not considerately myself, but consciously organic, because I kept projecting his convalescence there--was appreciating... Told a bunch of folks--"hey, this music is dude who lived upstairs there" and the "whiteNoise vibratory properties" (Jack) was the vocal scrape of his presence undenied... panoramic I dare say, and he seemed very patient with our distraction!!
#*In Kabbalah there has been some yet original & perhaps coarse thought given to what ego is. The impulse of good (yetzer haTov), and the impulse of evil (yetzer haRa). Impulse comes from Yetzer--a going forth, like where the word for exodus comes from. With the ego one asks what about some-aspect of self that gets enlisted into the self-cause; with an exodus, one asks what had come along in our exile?
**aggressed certainty, primarily stricken of graft's late return**
#*I'm telling you I had to window shop & live life's currency--that bloodclot--and purchase peace of mind. Literally sit up & meditate at what would reasonably be release. Just like a #2 pencil I pick up from a school commissary, sketching urban profiles with no fence & contiguous quarters--its streets like mind corridors converging on me, intramantra slavery telling me in a seat of resolve there's no place other to be.
Thought about the purpose of a koan tonight. The one I like is--what I thought--What war is the electric spanking of war-babies (perhaps baby boomers) fighting if the slacker's war seem as accessed & intruded upon as in the theatre of man's agressed certainty...the more usual impulse?
!#Or rather just late, but inevitably met, then the wash of thought is the shame that make you high. Objectivity is always in negation, whether we meant to or not. For instance, I practically never make reference to a current event like nation against nation disconsonance. And it just takes one flimmer of the persisting half-thought somehow an Israeli can speak for me--making me see the heights of something perfect (my apathy, & natural disaffection)--an affliction of having become the convergence of something that is entirely supramundane--and it's at my feet.
#!Is Weisel's Williamsburg in that presinct, township? Alfred Kazin gave me a view...Potok definitely does it in In the Beginning--the most complex of the core-culture in a presentiment of diffident impact upon its sublimated communities, kind of narrative. Really subtle chimera from a precise twilight yawn of "sigh glances & whispers" and hints at microcosms thru incantations of Ostyuden (E. European Jewry), self-reproach for ugly irresolute self-Ness til pictures speak and tree canopies consume.
If my little sentient pets with that ancient deftness & acuity in seeking shadows underfoot are to tell me the detritus of well-being gets propitiated, then this katharis (Grk.) is had from ebullience of the vital norm: A "forest-of-life-undefoot" (P. Smith) is just as well as life's exquisite dust. These animals that express a trace of persons in a past awakened, seem to be therapy like the skies shedding messages from the ancient-ones.

Obediah, Abdullah, Abdu, Mawalli, subjugated self-agency

2011-01-31T12:26:00.006-05:00

**The paring of the blackPurple skies humming down I-75 was Cincinati vaudevillian-- had caught a ride with some incarnate of my oldest brother--now the sky as before me droning in my face buried in the antique car's back floorboard. It is like the sky was on stage in my mind's theater and the stars were the courting of figures with meanings of city-states announcing denizens in one stream of color sheen audience-observer, upon the shore-edge of roads' peripheries. I saw punk hair cuts like a dragon whip, and stellar pompous makeUp as if the future-spectacle had been interceded taking people's temporal floor and inverting it. The eyes looking back occasionally into the floorboard were not ocular, but shunts of fluid-bearing soul funk in cosmic luminescence. The driver's back had pretensions to my receding into road report resonance. His back was ocular, as if all these conscious bodies were thrwarted by wards of consciousness sortee's-- the fray of which he and everyone else could have--I was standing still--sitting perfectly still!!
**My cousin's chimey voice somehow gets even-flow in Val's---like really enumerated. I told her (my cuz) as much around Thanksgiving, just because. The vertex that her audition easy speak emotes from me is really I am getting to hear lavender-mood--something really climate. The opposite of talk-embarrass when vox mundi collapses and reckoning of passion ends...the APposite of which would rather have language fragmented and liminal poesis - a white fire taking the whole of our subtle body, glory having been left behind... Her rosy colored mourn (I think I got that from Kerouac) is rapt and uncomplaining. Someone draining in cosmopolitianism (her, kithe & kin)--g^d I can tell ya' I'm happier than most.
**Like a dog carrying a paper, inky chemicals contrive my brain, in as much as I was master and National Geographics were the broadcasted outward fact come to the fore, and under a lamp with milky white light in its pretense that all colors were heralded. I saw the fireplace from this repose in a dream--it is next to the ottoman, a good enough seat of a 1000deaths, without its exterior wall there--and the vista made plain was in the snow wake, out toward the neighbor's RunJoeRun fence -- the one I watched the german shepherd Missy jump over on so many alerted to occasions... Fire with a crystaline visage frozen intermediary conflagrations not obviated--and yet a hot callalou in letters in my upsetter melancholy that if only it wasn't in proportion of just that one corner of my mind--I'd go w/a content chimera albeit.
**To the extent that someone is an answer--for me it was those in the beggardly squalor these Egyptians lived in in Dahab (then just barely a village, yet w/one bldg w/electric, there on the Red Sea), as well as the actual beggar laying in the strolling boulevard (Ben Yehuda Blvd.) in Jerusalem, I feel any archetypal mystic is thing-actual. With the strange economy of spirit & survival --what I imagined as NOT what I need to be interupting, the vessel for his/her mitigation of those factors playing out their sentient little selves, makes every shown orifice look ringed with bLACK within: shadows behind his guffaw, pinched eyelids, olfactory forebearance of unenchanting odors. My G^d they live this way, & perhaps gather silent hedges, walkways into ubiquity, just elemental facts, like a buddha experiencing the denial of the Destroyer Mara in visions ultimately more tangible than the fight of self-worth in killing ego's bland instruction--those few words of obscene deterance --its excrescence, my trial.
**I don't have any friends in high places. Not even myself. If man is suppose to have a kingly self with which to adjure life in one's magnificence, then perhaps a good slave heralding remote land's resources, as no one else could make the decision to live so distantly would be my lot.
**It's all ego says a Himalayan monk. He was interviewed in this buddhist preachy photo coffee table book of R. Gere's--called pilgrims. But taking the varnasrama-dharma doctrine --the thing about our agency, as opposed to our vocation, a monk is what Siddhartha became. Then he finds the great awakening from the dream of existence, to use Kerouac's assignation. So this monk living so remotely--in a cave perhaps solitarian, still is in the crowd of I & Thou & I & Nature...while mitigating I & We: it's all ego. Where the hell is I & I? Because socially actionable creatures that humanity is instructed this guy to leave the rest at arm's length. So his reaching for a glass of water has Varuna (Uranus) with messages from the ancients, and so-that water won't deluge us in the next incarnation, we speak to it, give it praise at its cloy: it is trying our patience at oUr behest!
**I intend on innundating myself in mania--a conscious pocket, mind economy--money ina pocket ...Leaving things out in the tidal pools like exposing my leprosy to sungods and water deserts. That insanity is a force of calvacades exemplar, it's invited--not really cultivated. But absurd enough in vaporous looming the mendicant in me is "a" peasant " walking to the road, to return all that is old," is a spiritual memory that I'd 'flect.
I love the village--say smoking Jew--with certain places (it's Dostoevskian parlors if I can hack it with me) where he'd resign his need to learn: go to a shtiblech. I shtibl is a studyhall, a shtiblech maybe more like an office, but courted by kinda heirophants to engage in pilpul=argument! Language is the victor, vehemence would be vanquished--insanity is redemption whose meaning in hebrew concerns this assertion: redemption, an answer, and restoration, IS our "turning-around."
**Throwing newspapers--barely maintaining a residence myself--imagining the sentience projected from the small minds of nephews I hear as I jump & skip around Cardinal Valley while I volley my route... It was like I was having to swear to these angels that I'd agree to watch over--"asking the angels"--I was "starting to bleed." (P. Smith) Runny consciousness, solitude as the advent of non-stylin' and un-pompousness, still makes a career of that self-effacement that the rest of relationship--the weird I & We--says much has been said in way of these places I haunt. The sense that my nephews were crowding me struck dharma in my heart, self-duty, and I teared up. With Jenny then some, her excelsior-izing Olds 98 coming up and I try the realness and effect of all this upon her receiving mind. Jenny just reacts motherly--and I see just what it is that circumvents weariness. As she & I stand out in my front, I mention my nephew to her--(he actually just walked up on me as I deliberate this) and she affirms, nods, spits and those angels still are in the abject air in my steps behind, just touching earth.
**take aim--she patters around more OUTside, than the purchase of her gait at home evinces home as memorialized space
I get these ocular migraines. As it comes on devolves recklessly and lessens in the concern it causes, I have not uncertain feelings of strict impermanence. Things like I'm as good as buried--it won't be long now; Mom hasn't barely another day amongst; the business would be sacrificed for the once comely necessary distraction it has become; death, that's it. The lion's share of self-consciousness-tho' gets looked at like there's a promise. These black & white stases in the concourse of star tincture and light intensity, makes me ASK of this receptacle, mind, but I'm used to having no answer on ground's consciousness (pocket) and still I observe -- like give & take here makes even the worst of my attention a trek into clarity...& there is no break like the norm IS stricken.

The shanty shtetl of my mind's eye glance

2011-01-16T22:05:00.010-05:00

**THE SHADOW OF g^D, AND THE pitch of night, are the studied observation of excavated space before me, sun at my back--with substance the contrary standard, a blue slumber--to use Rimbaud's language. A jaunt across Beaumont Park was boundary-made enough that thresholds borne of time passing was in the measure of distance strung before me and a "great awakening from the dream of existence." * Kerouac. I wanted the space absolute & the IN of where I was remitted entirely of a place I couldn't otherwise fathom ontologically. Looked at emptiness as I graduated across the hillocky field--looked at flaps of perimeter-made shadowy self invert & perversely shout in reflexion that-wasn't-enumerated but by my eyes shutting out burning summery grass.
**Felt strange green-night shadows across my pillows, street lights thru my windows--something Dylan says about a kinda tinker on the streets, and we'd paint pictures under our sheets, and my room may as well be an amphora, like I am the pharonic guts in dusty reproach of flat-lined time filling bottles with empty eternity. In Sufferin Ny, where I stayed a night w/Orthodox cousin and her rabbi husband before flying to Israel, the consuming night seemed rather that it was served up to yet some other sentient body--just not mine. And lying there in the guest room I had to recall what it was imagining living slow fidelity next to a river (of life). The intervallic seance of cars passing by, and conscious map appearing, kept stunting my awareness of time & place. I plainly was unfamiliar with the neighborhood, so the vehicular trajectory was voidant and not met. The pavement w/its rubber report was New York-ish, but no empirical plate was set so the victuals of centeredness could be assessed. I braced for a dissolved attention of where I will ever beeee.
**WORDS make us high--or rather the voice drUnk. Tho' I don't mean from something imbibed, but just how thu expression what one says, is nuanced with what gets built upon that edifice & conscious prop. And since we tend to really give a damn ...to be identified thru what it is that conveys us--it is just as likely the folly of solitude 'pon the mt. of abbreviated thought--thru language--is the place from which we jump abysmally...because language is vain, vapors to vapors, as King Solomon saith.-----------The ego tells me everything and sometimes anything true, or at least realistic. I gave every extremis resolve the heat of a gratuitous climb into its furthest range--just because. Language collapsing in upon it itself, is ego rounded out in my leisure due in part that expression is a foundering boat constabulary of self-effacement. The lightning vox adventuring thought having the yawn of concept wretch consciousness, is still in fact liminal--measured, and an allowance of mind restraint from the incorrigible long day's end receding like I LIKE it. It shall pass. Language is NOT set in stone: it's cheap.
Anyway, anyone of us who may get into a stream of consciousness, makes the motive a priori a consumate rush and relevent self-respecting adulation as per this Beat author's excellent way of doing just this--meaning Kerouac. Seriously. And this book (Big Sur) is about his demise into alcoholism which eventually killed him--but not in this book, unless we are speaking in terms of karmic death, in which case I am leaving this NOTE to dead men/women as I conjure this relativity... The book should be relatively cheap, and has "our" brand of release in it so that we can know that Hunter S Thompson was indeed an asshole, but Kerouac was a saint, yet they looked thru the same glass darkly--and that being a factoring-IN of what it is as common denominator for this americana minus any any any authorial body lest we speak of G^D. I'm reading "about" his book On The ROAD, and someone asks him, Do you write about Jesus? And he said, if I were a crazy man and only wrote about Jesus and I come to your house and say Jesus has nothing to do with my "alliterative artifice," *(my words) then you can be sure anyone who says they never speak of Jesus is lying and is crazy. I am interpretive here, but I think he means--no one has a choice, we are all writing about G^d. The above language subject rant I wrote this morning--this paragraph is ahappenin' as of Now, I mean now---no no no NOW....

^^Kickin it w/my nephew today, really relating to something about BMW and release, and a horsefarm by my house where my changes took place... And particularly this time in the late 90s up in the Catskills when boy was about 15 or 16. He'd want to smoke, --I was done bitchin' about the waste of time that that was, so we'd wander out to the forest and Steven would light up. We walk down to the stream, pregnant translucent & damn if I didn't reconcile an empty trove that begs for spiritual content, because of the Jewish thing in presumptive less than magnetic draw upon me...there...& then. Yet, the advantage that the distance even in a remote quality that had self-actualization waiting for me, was now sooo close up, in that creek, mosquitos in a hot callalou/ whatever the Rasta meant by that (actually it may be an allegorical soup reference)/ burning a campfire before heading back up the bungalows, was fealty under no control of mine... Just tossed the motive that I was stuck with my reckoning about day & age--but stuck I was!!
**In Rushdie's book Midnight's Children, these youths across India were born with extra-sensory powers at the inception of the birth of modern India. One youth can enter into the vehicle of imagery of some one's past and be the observer of even times antediluvian--so to speak, I'm saying, before their birth. The presage of ideation, that I would use/choose an image in some kind of intuitive capacity--is entirely by definition of something I can see--as upon a spectral shore--whose message is remote, and in a sense that I've gathered it even in proximal distance... One part of Rushdie's book deals with the bodhisattva Shankarcharya, in N. India. The higher plateaux, the finesse that my inner-eye borrows from a coarser view of the world, and somehow stages mind's perimeter, like I can accede to limits of rational hard-fought for thought, is taking imagination from frayed narratives and acceptable release, to a constancy and becoming a self-proponet, like an arhat. That I need someone is one thing-- that they'd have answered for things for me, is adjudged as body-liberation--is folly jettisoned. In our solitude we may get to just what identity borrowed out of theoria, has as the warrant in solitarian examples for finding ourselves.
~~The train is to reggae, as the sundarbans are to the sitar. Rastas live redeemed even into ghost-towns, Babylon's expellent, til the government comes along and pushes them down. Shudras (Pariahs), on village vocations' margins, live lives' shadows the floe of surface, an erasing of what-is beneath, ultimate transition, utilitarian benevolence...in life as we know it.
~~When was the last long distance pedestrian transect--a kind of ambulating pilgrimage have you undertaken? An interesting trod was taken by me & my buddy once on the road from Rachel's Tomb to Tiberias. We only ended up walking a few hrs. But the grapefruit we apropriated was a measure of magnificate skies. Closer to the lament memorial/ Rachel's Tomb, but never acTuaLLy knowing our proximity there, stood right off the road a UN school, Palestinian of course there, and the custodians were none too availed of comradeship to us strangers. And I just leapt from my imagination that Arabesque epicurean super sweetened tea/chai wouldst be on offer. A crush of world village & rather jettisoning the cramp of fenced off deadly propriety.***One way that TURNED the darkness to light, a probable trajectory if we assume meaning will avail, was thru strenuous activity as the following discusses.:: Here in Lexington seems like a long walk in the offing was a way to gather the disparate elements of myself. I do call it a pilgrimage. It's been a couple of decades but hoofing it from the Univ of Ky up a few miles to my neighborhood--now where I live again--made the presentiment of things like the patternic traffic lights flashing, and then also the in & out trod under street lights, corridor plateau corridor plateau--a symbolic tarry which I could then anticipate in dreams. I was so weary at one time from my hike, that it came to me only certain things may occur in dream-time, and that I might determine there & then what would be the imagery vehicle. The sense of it IT gave me was a view to an ascending path, as opposed to resignation of a lost night and a meandering into its looming shadowy forgetfulness.

JUst Judgment or Unjust Beatific Epiphenomenon

2010-12-30T10:59:00.006-05:00

#~# I look over to this prescious woman, disrobed- suspiring* (I saw Kerouac use), perhaps expectant like I'd draw some formal map to these moments, this creative thing we thought we retrieved like no other...! I look at her back and see a man's back. Not just any man, but MINE. Now how deeply ensconced in my own flesh-felt rapt lost on whatever I could say someone should understand me through? Moldering like hay on fire within--feeling kundalini detached. How through with toxic talk-sick confused spittle belched laughable sublime bridge to the Other's heart, whose heart is but a trough of blood, that I throw body and mind to its banks til I am pulsing freely, reckoned, sweetly, lair convened, did this prison mind cease language-liberation thence attributable?
#~#On Who do you Think You are? I watched an actress--Jewish heritage--find the memorialized places whence her family trod (I suppose that's grammatically correct...) in eastern Europe, and then kin who survived haShoah=the Holocaust. I think ...to look across time into those images, see face's sheen, dogs terrorize, humor is illegitimate-- An inner voice arcs, "I'm sorry--I could have done something--I think on you now--what you leave w/me in this vacuum of of self-serving, would make me give that away, because it's just that I'll know I wouldn't give up on you, give up ever at any rate... ever." I see film footage - a child, a girl, one tremor of expression in a momentary glance out of her pale shelter...and fucking clearly it is the only vestige of what sadness mEANT. Just of a sense that Yeah, she willing to cry again, "please let me cry," she wonders. the tremor is indeed a rarified event; there's not enough spirit left in her mind-body for her to realize the still waters she'd beckon. Just give her the bread.
#~#Like I am the principal, I tell myself what we all endure - the work-a-day scholarly student of life, are the means to the ends of how I look at myself as before the same books. The books are fateful, I am the grim reaper, and the harvest is defined by the commencement of fruition furrows clueing me in from some house maiden in her spring rites, whose warnings are about just how long we have til we starve. This is information I hear from the lips of her sublimated earth denizens. I hear my bros & sisters and they tell me without authorial realization that she's condemned them. I receive their comeuppance plaintive cry, I realize the implications. I wonder how it is I got to know what it is that sues the sufferer of their vital norm.
^^My confrontation with letters--the deepest cuts now furthering comely acceptance of self, has impelled me to want radically One thing and only One thing to stamp my need to define transcendence once and for all. I keep anticipating this One thing as if my will would be triumvirated--spiritualized by authorial bodies of mind, body & soul-- by the Climate of the Greater Will.

^^IN regard to the world in its dormancy--the following is my take on a mind delivered to the first step up to the dream-scape::: I LIKE READING when my weary repose is getting the "better" of me. This feeling of sliding off the fly wheel rat......her than sticking to it, is quite an interesting box of rules to adjust to if only without the certainty of our measure of effort to make the conceptual feeling the author imparts actually last. So, I find I have an impulse of being negligent, or rather that the task is negligible so why persist? But, the pith of mind is still prepared to be manifest if I'd only look. Something like the sofa striking the bat rather than a thwack of the bat with its gratuitous purpose to land upon the dull animal of "the chair of thousands of deaths." I instigate the conduit thought-field and where it leads as if losing my way from exhaustion is part of the multiplied direction... THe new yr in a few days, a so called Yr's end sabbath might be a direction to be severely adduced!!
^^*If there's hell below we are all gonna go... But really there is a tangent concept here. Hellish albeit. Just been reading the author for The Last Temptation of Christ. His auto-bio in fact, called Report to Greco. Dude it is beautiful. He considers himself to be X-tian, Communist, Buddhist (or did.). He was writing about these communities of monks on Mt Athos--somewhere in Turkey I think. Greek Orthodoxy enclave--Europe's first I believe. These guys believed--many of them I mean, in the cruxifiction, as opposed to the Resurrection. SAying: LIFE is Cruxifiction. Really bitter old Christian aescetics. But that they were so devout and believed in Stern Judgment was to my mind instructive. Thinking that mankind is on the road to hell, well in fact creates huge visuals for me--that seems like a thing to cultivate. So by doing that limits the veracity of the conception WE all may go there--X-tians are asked to Witness, to be Initiated--not merely believe--and Jes didn't say that, 'cept in the King James version. So I don't have to go to the vertex of a world of displeasure just because there is such a world, or absence of this one that I can imagine. Right? And instead compels me to imagine a reprieve as only the relics of experience may have us do (endure).
*^*Reincarnation or Channeling? Seems reincarnation is the samsara vehicle of what happens presently. We know we incarnate in this life, that there is one world, we live on the threshold of this imminence front--so I am as much Barack as perhaps Saddam Hussein only a few years ago. But not those who have died in this life of so many more years ago that their tidal wave has content but no form--has color but can't be said to exist... You die an existence, you don't die there again--doors close.

the blah-terraneans!!

2010-12-27T12:15:00.004-05:00

I like these few band names just in their plausible open-community sound of it. The Soul Syndicate singing King's Highway, who are Dready because Times are irreconcileable to deal with tribally (hypothetically)--and so these acolytes say I-man is More Dread than that. Peoples just called the People--reducing their self-emulation to farce in one way, and in another way in a place without anywhere else to turn. Soul Vendors or The Israelites--Christofarians, name whose definition means Those who Struggle with G^d. Strive for G^d=Yisro'el. Names imparting being found as the millionth of a million souls, like there are more opportunities than soul resigning us to obeisance=soul seeking that which has no concept or word, so that is to say an Unknown--a thing that we can't say would exist. And the fascinans is utter musterion that one feel compelled to act in behalf of mention of the Absolute--The Provenance of said community, but never having asked for its prohibitive restoration. Prohibative in knowing that This is imminent is liminal, and motive a priori.

^!^Left my Korean Buddha at Alison's apt, back in the day. She was my second, but really the first. I parted ways with her, remonstrating the intuition of her lasting with me, as I knew the same for the collegiate thang too--I'd leave out and knew I'd not have these things followed thru like the world doing and going by me, people meeting goals & each other, moving forward....
I lived on Rebel Rd. eponymous in a way that I'd call it--soul rebel, because "the sun shall not smite I by day, nor the moon by night." (B. Marley is where I heard that--suppose it's biblacy) I woke up coming down from the sincere mountain of the life - 3yrs of it, I spent with Alison - & the tally of where I'd come from dissipates just as the availing path forward was ackwardly precipitous. Ackward, bound by momentum, but contrition in my heart that I wasn't deciding. In the basement barely looking out to the backyard--here on Rebel, the morning of the dubious past and irrelevant future, grappling with the tether of dream-time, I got punished in receiving the day's beginning--light brandishing an awe in my face, too ill-consuming, and literally I heard bird calls emanating from my bird gullet. Freaked me out--not even laughable now--but will be after I read this here in a few days...
I was reading about the Indian girl, in The Subterraneans=Kerouac enthusing motive.

You seed your soul - that's what you shall reap. The coldest varietal of denizenship--me in this habitat--had Valerie sitting there as unassuming as my being innoculated in more desperate climes. Nothing to speak on around us, only glossy fracturing light that I wanted to cut me. If I'd been to hell, the static-dust and cold coming on to this Winter, had colors just so, and Valerie sitting right in the midst of hell's declination. I saw her there waiting--seemingly saying as bad as I found things now or as a mark against my fate, she is THere alas.
::
If someone's doctrine for self-actualization be answer enough, we may also infer I want to recognize that it isn't OF just one condition that you meant to share it with me. The answer here is not that well thIS OR THAT gospel is dynamic, and you would have never supposed only one door to that Light. You may, but under the sacrosanctity that Self-Actualization goals are shared is like the dust in our hair never washed til we change our hearts, and passion & praise has what is dear in its clutches because its content demand approprotion...give it more where it is lacking. So, I wanted the mechanics of your belief's letters to What-up & scatter but as star splendor, --the dust at our feet, however is as upon a well-trod land, we fill up every available precinct of space memorialized with our martyrdom of time--its dispensational floe yielding to effort's recompence: our feeling received in the LIGHT of Actionable Cause. You have One, sir--I want to observe that as I can, in my way, perhaps...lazily too, but in moments that allude to spiritual endeavor so that Compassion is our vehicle and is arguably thru our episteme exchange in weirder moments than that, so to speak if notions about the Light-Fantastic are complex and are observably releasing the dross rendered patterns in our more self-serving mind back to its source. Not all of which I can capture--lazily man...too bad perhaps or really a languid pattern to listen as my response becomes hopefully more eloquent, or rather just in hopes to respond: I & I & I got to fulfill the Book--and there are G^D-Fearers, People of the Book etc with different ledgers with which we feel G^d may finally oBserve us in prescient awakening thusly, knowing & assuming it happens ALL of the time...evolving.

I look back and sense having been ejected from one 10yr span of life into the next that has no even mellow steady flow like my incarnation previously. Sitting in a bookstore there in Fl. over the T.giving holiday the academician personas I've trusted like yellow withery pages in its throes of hero-protags, are actually gray pulp matter and still I am seeing every other color thru some convenient lens. I sometimes have to be reminded that I give myself over to a life of study. Images are fluent by this convention, and I gather them so that when my body is in agreement with my yawn of effort--it won't otherwise surprise me...

^^^Falling falling in the seconds a feeling elapses like I am being pulled aboard some foyer, a chamber perhaps--stone deaf but sensorily felt like a pure auditive allusion to the present line of jive. Sound-scapes are interupting any authorial body, because the presumption of having been called to stake my presence. **Neighbors dog arguing with the sounds of my mower in my mind's eye--an interlude of grass cut which I want it to go like that, but it is like that. He doesn't achieve toil with me, but snaps at my finger--I let him bite me. I knew he was frantic from grass-cutting blades whirling mischief, and my hand was not its provenance... Clamped on my finger for a second but in a toothy kiss.

!#! I love some strange equinox when I fish for just how wrong I am. My own worst critic--I am not. Rather I look to hear someone deny my verity. In that flight of concept denied, it's hopeless to meet my own motive anyway. Their vehemence is enough--makes my yeah's yeahs. Mundane bridge to awareness.

!#! If you say you have a life, you are miles ahead of me. But in my self-professed insignificance, I get a full-spectrum bird's eye view. AND: in memorium, many we have lost--I am thankful for a flimmer of hope that possibly we are still only talking about ONE world.

BURN your books you've written-+-in the Himalayas

2010-12-19T22:03:00.011-05:00

Folks get all incredulous that we may make room for them at all. The sense of it is that now perhaps they would likely need to do the same for you. Up near Ellenville NY, Catskill Mts where my aunt's bungalow colony thrived, then later nose dived, I spent 3-4 weeks hanging out in a sorta seclusion, but w/minimal familial interaction. Visiting w/Didra my Orthodox cousin seems only to anticipate a certain "in" with which Jewishness would be made the point of reference--as she sees it. Anything else is non-negotiable. I had this movie's CD soundtrack--the movie is called Little Odessa. Has Tim Roth, Maximillian Schell, Edward Furlong and two others we'd recognize. Anyway, the soundtrack has Judeo-Russian themes, opera, folk music, somewhat klezmer sounding in one or two songs. I tried, yet succeeded to give this music to my cousin. On her part that she finds herself giving out Jewish persona, to vaguely imagine this sense coming from the other direction was only apropos because her starting point was her propriety--a view to higher ground without the surfeit of nuances that any unreligious person could consign. Her look distantly to warranted purity was deliberate enough that I could meet it. To be the target of that--would actually be disconcerting, and something I had avoided...

~~
The thought flourish from Kerouac--maybe more like homunculus languid reality floe--that there is "snow" around this preponderant image in iconographic setting--he says snow!--his now departed-from the earth's melancholy locked in this atom-ic cell--a picture not delivering his friend's essence, like, static unsustaining the currency of that love **THAT LOVE INDEED is the point--is taking place in Mexico City. And in similar ways that having read Patti Smith's liner notes in Radio Ethiopia, is the "undoing" of contemporary unwelcoming from all identity having become a commodity there/or anywhere and leaving very few memorialized spaces where I could accede to--to run around imagining...the intensity behind the slumber of perverted godly images--but rather as magnificate! This intensity is one thing--his proliferate consignation where mostly most of us can belong is thus!!

If you burn a book, it shoUld be your own....feel a meaningful restraint than to shadowy & hearty thought--in the valley of the tongues tonite. An expectation is realized, but by this tableau-bound author where his intent is provident. And my opinion that I wouldn't have Dostoevskii's dank student or dispossessed doing-what-one-wilt man becoming demon of his self road written in certainty for me head-scaped in his studies back-when IN my grasp now & again & anew, is been rebuffed. (so, again I am appreciating Fydor D.) Myth --as the layers of alliteration bespeak of hand in hand transcriptional freedom IS not time & place, but is practiced reason. The spiritual narratives of the Alteros Yamomamo Natives in S. America are indeed myth--but at variance from the west's convenient false measure of its import-- to me--it is not myth's ploy to expunge lesser cultural acumen as the sarcastic poets froth over, but only they the myth-teller's lives are exemplar at its vertex (peak). The Yamomamo haven't that media to afford such breathless spittle. That earth denizen speaks of his world on-going--myth paints every day grasping for a lunar (painting the heavens spiritually truth-baring) sabbath of generations uniquely accomplished of eternality, as his gods deign succor.
~*~You better get out yer grave. Your friends don't fuck around, 'cause they as dead as you. You better reconcile to be brave, getting it together in any kind of weather is a leap into the sighs glances & whisper of the climate of the greater Will. Bukowski said he was in better co. waking up in a cemetery every morning--the night had been strangled by duppies (doppelganger). If more than one it could be reason enough to feign interest in a mind of multiplicity. The first observation is that we are fragmented--the mind is. So faced with (1) doppleganger--it might cold I Up, 'pon that bridge... If G^d is oNe (not 1 of, but unique!), I want to fall abysmally thru the wilderness tabernacle ......since the proud land is merely trying to meet each step as we expand across, lumber onward, it does my gait like giant leaps are imminent yet progressively. The following is with a sense of what this entry may mean. **Bukowski seems - thru the eyes of his frustrated hero - to be chased by a doppleganger. And it is his fault perhaps, but he really... is compelled to face that part of himself--the distorted look in the mirror which is a pain very close to the bone... Maybe a serene showroom dummie, Foool on the hilll transparency making him validate the least of his self---meaning "appearances." There is something lovely about disappearing if only into The Good or The Beautiful (or as he did into the Unknown mystery of the hereafter), because usually the problem is we see ourselves too clearly and it is without our knowledge of self intact.

**Zazen=sesshun=sitting=asana...Dude told me that he wasn't willing to change something he had well recently relished written. I said language is transformative, not that we aren't vessels for the only thing given away, but if "liquid language (is) awash" the speak easy breath of word is water w/undeniable attribute of mercy, and water is the vehicle for incarnations of everything seeking time's relevance. Showered of the thrill that we capture relevance, language to measure adulating over its supine lethargy, is language in the surmise of the Other.

**Being restored to a state of knowing: any author, my words your words, media flurries--like it is a vomitorium only to go relish again the victuals of my sensory greed... Even subtle appetite fulfilled like tea-head, dust in a cup--"forest of life underfoot" to quote Patti Smith. The village quorum at precinct edge sifting loamy thoughts, dust kicked up, indecision where silence is resumed. Blood silence & the medium is sand--letters drawn from learning in school ledgers written with tree-sap and charcoal.
~~kAFKA says, It's still OK just living at home. And perhaps his feeling of denied anthropomorphism, but rather as an insect, or in a letter he wrote as becoming bodily like a snake with finesse enough to slide past and into wall crevices, had the absolute consignation living-with-father & family as a necessary escape. His embrace of diaspora ideology and Jewish insignificance, may have sacrifice of self at one's father's hand--like Abraham and Isaac (the akeidah, meaning the binding of Isaac) prescient in view of the melancholy reality that has transcendence out of man's accord... Abraham's Get Thee Out verity, when he left home, trappings of identity et al, and family may have an implication more conventional than thoughts over self and self-annihilation kAFKA otherwise convened. Obviously things in the industrial complex and sweep of history as before him may have subsumed exile as the apropos alternative.
~* Is the spectral shore, meaning mind's furniture, symbolic? If thoughts feelings and actions are allegory to higher ground, whatever that-that sense of peace may be called, so if we FEEL that at our seat of awareness that it is the chair where we have died a 1000deaths, then certainly we become more sincere about the regard for consciousness= ours or anything's!! But symbolic life is the only contending of truth with which we suffer... if we put down the menu and just eat, then how do we reconcile suffering w/o enjoining relationship with the fEElings of its conspiring, expiring, whatever IT does TO us???

A yoga interested fellow says the following in quotes "...self inquiry (?) it may be pertinent to learn to ignore feelings and detach or become numb..." My response was: Well, to this I'd say we move into consciousness and into relationship and when this is not possible or the price is too high, we might have a view to what it is that we can't control: LIfe is out of our control, even as much as it is a transcendental bridge to awareness. It is the material void, 3/4 of what we see seems submerged, like hot icebergs...the essence eludes us. The mind wants an actionable cause, it is the hardest thing to do to compartmentalize "emptiness." To court the benumbing of our condition. Abso--fucking--lutely.

#~#Lepids entombed in crystalis underneath a bridge--two communities sundered by the divide. Or on a veranda door jamb, (Nabakov...) and recognition of parent's concern to have prodigy survey such happiness. Mom on one side, father at the other, a door antediluvian - the wherefore of mom & dad's historicity mind current as entrance to the new day...and the exiting door yet as Unknown and as locked with which samsara keeps us guessing if meaning will avail ! "Vapors to vapors," even the least of ourselves in the wake of exemplars to good enough or not Identity cosmogony, all is vanity--as Solomon calls it... The orchards of Jerusalem, the 6 yrs in the deerpark where Sidhartha attains the name Shakyamuni denoting his "seeking." The knowledge of relationship as relics of impressions that clearly aren't the ends of man.... If immortality is our becoming appearance--mind appearance, didn't the riven parent's tenure deny our exile as iconoclasts sometimes with which presence-ceased is the report of idols destroyed...

Subject: I don't see one religion thru the lens of another

I don't see one religion thru the lens of another. Being a Buddha is not saying emulate a Christ figure. In Buddhism you want the Greater Will to witness you, see you in reverence and sorrow, propitiation. Messiah is to intercede, be a witness, suffer your consequences. One would observe Him. In Hinduism gods are subject to impermanence as any acolyte would--I wonder what they think of my path's disappearance?
Rob & I got bit part jobs for a movie filming in the Sinai desert, in Israel's southern most region. Dressed as bedouin enduring pretty cold middle-eastern Winter's night, in inappropriate dress, we just swilled coffee from early evening on & not getting much in the way of supper. Rob scored some scant hashish pieces and I rolled it up with some tobacco--what a ruinous high especially as observer of a crowd of whitenecks, so to speak--feeling every bit as out of it, I guess I'd call these British street urchins--a bunch of slackers then literally stuck in Israel, lots of street hassle standing on corners making trouble. Seeing these boys crawl out of doorways, no shoes & sometimes a rucksack, but usually not, we all converged on the Peace Cafe, where we had come to get hired.

The Present line of Thinking is interrogative from Jazz's list/tilt Prone

2010-12-05T17:02:00.010-05:00

~~*Malamud's* Pop recites a few verbs learned in nightSchool after his immigration here. Lights a cig. Melancholia is the report of his visage. Rosy-colored mourn: his progeny feels a Winter's sun every bit in its deflated ill-capacity; the three oranges of Prokofiev's symphonic delivery roll across his pillow in dull dust ridden brownstone. An ocean above making satellites into these celestial rooms emptied of our respite; noble work the give & take of places you ought to be.... My office is, my office is, a hotch-potch of prevailing motives in ambulations thru work-fields, I transverse as if its geometric pattern gives way to no perimeters. Rather I cut a path like the thrum of yarn.
*Malamud actually means "teacher" and naturally to unwilling students
**^**This native american dude (part N. A.) hanging around Common Grounds flipped out one night, not on drugs, but very lost in his wooden eyes in his manner--thusly out of relationship, most formidably the one of I & We...--his I & Thou is likely quite profound. I spoke to him earlier that night in that cooler evening of this Fall/fall coming on. Literally he disappeared from my periphery, and to turn on him & to suppose why seemed utterly the wrong thing to do. Then. But, next time--as I gainsay weirdness--so a thing like this will happen again I'm willing to bet, then, like I say next time I'll watch the pillars of consciousness=his, & mine as I dissipate in the mirror, yield to the magnetic draw I otherwise withdrew from in this occasion. A friend characterized this guy's mindblow-out just right. He was speaking his inner-dialogue, rather than translating it to deny the remoteness one so easily recognizes as the distance qualifying relationship. His eyes are currently before me--they're welcome, have no foreboding...he was taken to Eastern State after a few weeks jail time for observation, probably took it for what it is=stricken w/unfamiliar self-adulation. Kerouac untethered my eyes sharp rapt vista tree canopied moment from sight's unrest otherwise under streetlights, for me. This the untranslateable retreat to lightning vox fiery abdomen, the Dharma people's tApAs, is the sHsHsh of making a fire, which is unlit when symbolic currency feels dear. Now he's out on his own recognizance.
Probably won't see 'em again.

^*^I'm strong, but I want to be weak. I'm the yr's sabbath, but I want to be the week. I want to awaken, but losing vague accounts of affirmation. I want to be a fern, but stand in extreme clime as acacia. I stand against pillow army invasion, but can't haunt memorialized space occasion. Don't like spirited nationality demarcation, most are Eurasian. This is sad, I'm felicitas & thank G^d for making me mad. Anything smacks of consciousness awry, my body tells me everything that's true. The measure of physical soul, the mediate surfeit of angst, is mind's recourse into strewn anthropos; her lavender key in every hill's loom, maternal episteme to laud--she's Kerouac's broom.

~*~don't know how useful this may be, nothing really to turn off
I've seen both of tHem, and there is only one of me now. I have some friends and they don't fuck around, tho'. I thought you knew how inclined you were to suffer me and appreciate how much better you'd know them-- The flash of big Os always portends colors, and colors are the content of form. If eternal forms were present, I'd thank Valerie to look thru me with wooden eyes, because her trees are the people, she's the denied sky with the turning out of earth. I am a wanderer not wanting to find her anymore than wanting to seek with her. Firth's perimeter moldering makes excellent proud land to transect to determine origins or to change fate. She's the climate of the greater will, and the liminal starting point is imagination listing like transcriptional nonexistence (think the allusion anything mechanical provides=spokes going in the opposite direction; the valley below looking escalante' because an outcrop segregates your view from quickest way down--before you, and what is lost in its distance strung). The wave up, that color form portrays, my reflecting on the still water with which we sit nigh, makes the voidant compassionate body the consciousness the Other Shore/Ultimate Reality or G^d met.

*~*The back of my mind looks like a crumpled grocery bag--brown, multifoliated, pregnant. The proffer of Mom's domestic profile is just like a sweet savor of chocolate eaten when the day's long ends are exposed. I carry the bags in, the supper eternality lurches forward a sense of purpose corrupting the sheen on my tiled basement bedroom floor. The digestion of NPR articles, Salman Rushdie books, & Potok books about core-cultures explicating the drift toward apologist values (like the doldrums in watering down--those values--to the contrabearing Other) about my non-orthopraxy is my dispensational whiling away days then. Those Others doing a community's biding, me with no authorial self-responsibility--no one to make complex the promise of spiritual actualization--like we'd integrate witnessing the mean of spirituality with no chimera makes my security an Acculturation of the Attainment of the Other Shore...perhaps in a glimpse, but weirdly temporally. I'd want that much more: the broken bridge AND the dream.
***Askin' the angels in my youth, was permissed because I suppose I got to ask for a reason. The angels around now thru lens of magnified spaces with meaning that elude, but merely giving me deference to ask, only ask--that entering the interrogative, would render angels' wisdom always the same acquiescence, just submit to the weary Doest thou love the Fog? Because if u fear, you hate it-- And if u hate it, you love it...
**‎10,000points of light: read this in a Jewish/Buddhist book. Sitting in the field of self-discovery: as close to touching the earth as haunches on the ground permits, I thought of a weird exile from the heavens, like people tear themselves from the limbs of star tincture, just to see who else came along for the ride. Seeing faces in chandeliers, everyone crowned in lights. The idea that we all are stars, is seen uniformally, yet one's light may have been emitted from a point of its progress light-years prior to the mediate engaged point at which their relevant presence is adduced. The shapeless mass as g^d's being may be defined seems every bit the consignment of inner-space conflagrations--it is considerably apposite to imagine that nothing evades being exposed to wholeness undenied...
**It is just that I am believing it entirely possible this chic knows when a dialogue ensues so late at night, and from across water, I'd have to defy the times when we pass-by & meet the sense that the normative presences are becoming the truck of a deeper aside. Seeing her is as sweet as the feminine flourish yet on my dreary sounding board, and what I want from her isn't accelerating. Not really my business because I know I show her the floors of consciousness that my pondering mind is acquisitive over til the closed crowd of selves personified need its vehemence, and my carrot reward demands that I'm the first out the door. She's not my woman, but rains down like the message from ancients--and I have to tell her I regard her present status as my career of my lessened persistence. The night we met when saying to her if thou wert as my sister is becoming languid blue slumber--I would've kissed her cheek, as I did, but at the more precise moment. G^d damn, I have a sister, and she's been coming, now she's over (this threshold)--I can't get enough, and I can't know to want more...
**I wish that this one self-expression, kind of asserted-knowing just why I know verbiage out of theophanic mind's vent in some other trumpet than voice's truck with my body vehicle could be heard. As in the convening of silent segue-way from one song (the songs generally are interoperable w/Coltrane's stuff), definitely something ridiculously numinous, where I find I am finishing the thought of the last syllable and lightning-vox note, with a precise cause. A be-causality--a causality--a casual reality I & Thou-flourish, me to the friend present & all the heights of minds clung unto that high chamber. A chamber of the just-so language of selflessness & identity kindly clearly but radically dispelled. It is self-utterance out of dream-body thus eluding, evasive, aquatic, and ultimately perfectly sustaining had I found the limb extruded from my center where "liquid language awash" -Wallace Stevens, was bowing off of the bough and reach of compassion in bloom...
**Have you ever woken up next to barren railroad tracks, endlessly prevailing of time's sequester over your dire need for convalescence? The other night, similarly, I thought it must have been someone out in the street as if I'd migrated there among them, but with the bird's eye view from my bed next to the window--looking out... and they were all the emitted thought energy surrounding the train-ing thru train-rail-rumbling my mind begins to follow and anticipate. The feeling was a sense of pink or lavender shimmering lamp light shone on my face, and the weird wakened feeling like someone standing over you as you sleep is the self-consciousness I can't otherwise steep in the conscious pocket, because since I am the one doing that--it is an especially compelling reason to wonder at the light then personified. Mummers thread thru my brow, and even in this surfacing, I deny not knowing just what is being said like it comes from Without--saying what is conveyed & having the complete script of chimera corrupted - putting words where otherwise just sighs had gotten my mind's lingua franca in the common denominator of thought's impute, as loss of my interlocutor is dawning.

Kafka-esque & the floor of consciousness

2010-11-15T20:02:00.007-05:00

Big fat Adel was the first Egyptian I ever carried on with--the polymath dude in 7th grade biology class doesn't count. His 3rd world body stench is an insensed memory impression which I do actually want to conjure. It has the frank persuasion of death somehow, yet contrite Thought- mine- that was my ascending momentum circa 1987, was vital and Yes alive. His diabetes and obesity is plaintive and dispensational of some era-mythos in my sentient greed re-enlivening the empath notion that most of whom I knew at this time were the mettle of kaleidoscopic Certainty. I can only abide by these familial presences looking back at pieces of me Then, as opposed to weird equanimity and habitual levity things are recorded with Now. Death certainly has taken Adel, but the open book where his life is narrated remains unfulfilled. And he, like my rabbi with stale bookish breath, together in every other solemn occasion, gives me a paper cut on the finger of the mind after grabbing the book of rules and resigning their oblivion to my shapeless mass & mind-sore.

^^This may sound strange, at first, but stick to it til this paragraph's end, and you'll see it place us back on our feet w/no constraint or depraved moral compass:
In Dao thought it is called "shu"--a kind of self-scrutiny, self-analysis to enter your lowest common denominator and be transformative. I have had thoughts of aggression, as if I was the one thing between someone & his doing harm to an innocent. I even compulse like I am physically stopping them.... On the flip side, I've imagined someone trying to elicit from me something that he'd use toward deletorious advantage--& again I hesitate or shutter as if I am violated against somehow. Like he's Hitting me, cutting me (general themes of suffering & torture I have only read about)--all the while in the sanctimony that I ought to hold in high esteem a supposed reprieve from a state of dis-ease. The strange discerning is a huge body conscious type endeavor. Feeling heat here and there, incredulous at the numbness maybe that would have otherwise just been temporate, or normative. I avoid this psychic incursion now, but it was strangely informative on the odd occasion. Like the shifting around of leaden consciousness, just to catch ourselves on a different limb, pinned but as a part of the tree-community...an extremity way to disabuse certain attributes in their mutual arising, as the example of Mercy and Judgment are. To mitigate judgment, and fall abysmally into mercy.

I remember something tonite. I've dreamt about you. You were one of the 4 souls peopling the profound 4 cornered room--to call it the inner-temple is too reverent. Because it is the ghetto of the mind that one sifts thru before blood is blood's truth, and I want to paint my sister, you and all the earth's agencies of benevolence w/the kindest least of myself...diminutive selves! Somehow I thought that there was little that I could do for my person, these animicule apparitions needing to breathe sentience in the light I'd forgotten about. Thou wert as my sister, and in temporate moments I look forward into that mirror. You're there in a capacity that begs no adulation that I am top-ranking (in BMW's Survival album's sense). I would imagine turning out of the blue of her personality's shade like I am soul-sublimated by a wisdom creed so familial, but mouldering and dumb too as if I can't make the decision to have courage my mind is proliferating on the same conditions she is wont to lead me thru. But, it's my room I saw her in...or is it?

Subject: thinking about a book called Burnt Books, about Kafka&Rabbi Nakhman
I want to believe, but not tote it around in a wheelbarrow. I want to be initiated thru the gate of light, unto the Opening of Truth/Ultimate Law, but as Kafka had in his parabal, rather than the door closed behind us, I'd want it left open after I've entered. Because equivocating the condition in this yah dispensation, is fulfilling the expectation of our usual fare: The door is ultimately closed on us here too. Yet finding oneself in the yawn of release from the clutches of symbolic life, into Infinitude, necessarily locked the temporal reality outside of the equation whence we adduced relationship. Law or Truth, then necessarily--a destiny w/ astral existentialism--plays a cruel joke... We enter thru the frontdoor where we have just exited thru the last hallway meandering on the margins of the cosmic house.

"My body tells me anything, everything that's true." What a great line in a Fleet Foxes song. This would be praise easily and lament as motive. I use it the lyric below, but referencing the lavender mood, and climate of the chimerical slumber in repose when Valerie is delivered to this man's first cause: Beauty.I just give up...submit. Someone says your in, in the door--and I just what door? "Your feet are on the ground, you have legs." And I see myself pinned in the tree, don't know how I'm hanging. This sweet Italian woman tonite, she looked up, caught my sighs whispers glances, and I just fade in fear of vanity. Her name is Valeria, & I'm stark-ridden, Valerie--my lady--whose eponymous name had foundering starts with this woman and the last one I came onto the last time at the pub. The other chic's middle-name is Valerie's, and her girl-friend showed up with the same name as my first long term girl-friend's name. That particular night Howie & I went up past the skateboard punk hangout to piss, and Valentine's Day was on a flyer, jumping out at me. If she's insinuating herself into my sight-seen it is just as well to believe tHat as it is that I solicit the project of my worth, and give myself up to seeing her bedroom eyes in the mummer of star tincture and tell myself that she's anything, everything that's true.

This below I am trying to piece together in a sorta bird's eye view of selfhood/self & body as I am rendering unto maybe even a sleepy blue slumber of you & I as we would lie in bed--and that damned TV would play into the wee hrs, making me get up and turn it off.

Awakened to presense is usually a top heavy exposure of my whole body--more dreamy breathless and fearful views were of a face, but for content and unrarified air seeing the measure of trunk, limbs, cup is reifying enough to call it victory. Anthropos for the vehicle of conversant lapse into apophasis (silent oracle and negation of distraction), has perhaps a quick shutter, and bones are the last presinct. Bone valence thru propitiating Pte Indian gods, were drug in a field, vernal trfoliate life over-coming and the earth's gesture is new life, in a way that makes Native American plant hallucenigenics easily supposed even w/o inducing them. When doing Salvia Divinorum, the 40x product, then at home with Valerie, made me hope to contravene in the norm (w/o this sage herb) that I had cemented a sense that waking up meant petting her and then getting ready and breaking those morning thresholds. The sorta "wakened" state in a repetitive motion as she sat across the room as I was tripping for an interval of 10-20 minutes, made me wonder if I could arrest that same sense--coming out of a dream into her arms. But of course the affected thought patterns, and her looking at me like I was a mad man - I guess I was laughing uncontrollable - wouldn't artificially let my caprice prevail. Just a stale high, lugubrious like the dust in the house was catching up with me. I tend to insinuate a downward trend on these occasions, and naturally think that whatever happens would be anticipated, and thus having foreknowledge means I could have done something different, to make it work. Maybe, maybe not...I'm only looking forward now, and adamantly macrobiotic in the present vibe and love thru our distance but in a kind of osmoses anyway.

LIGHTwaves ~~MOSES' grave's oPen

2010-11-02T21:16:00.005-04:00

The Book of Ethics, Talmud, in Jewish canon says a sticky point that one should pay for his teachers/friends as such. Literally doing this has the appeal to my warrant of not having steered toward them and then formidably not being found-amongst so worthy--but I burn that down soon enough. Dude is is is off & on on the street--now w/another friend and having to come up w/125.oo dollars to stay there. (I'm giving him a 100.oo) No contention that he is a good dude--never exploiting our goodwill. I relate unwaveringly to resourceless long days...cold-lampin' (sic--meaning my definition may not be ebonic). Meaning, coolin' it somewhere, a lighted room, nothing beckoning without, nothing sustaining the hunger within---sitting convulsed in meditation. It woUlD seem possible that I am right outa this situation, maybe right out of desperation at any rate. I'd tell ya', I've never left it! I can't say I have ever wasted my time, tho'-- Brahmodya in Hindu thought is the "parlor" social thing, and finding the silence resuming after words aren't any longer martyred, our sense is that "electricity comes from other planets" (Lou). I'll have my brother around as long as that is the appeal, there is a lot to be said for whiling away (Paul says as much--can't remember the precise lyric... Blue Sun??).

When rastas say someday we'll walk these streets forever---I loved the denouement of an Orchard/Garden/Paradise maybe because formlessness is There. But man trod fully like a mega-transect. Determined to imagine the material void, & the path meets him--stays conflagrative. Form is liberated since wisdom --a masculine principal of the godhead--arises with "knowing" sooo w/self-realization--the maternal womb of binah and now man can't any longer seek the mt tops, 'cause city too hot... Pretty soon he can't, but live entirely conceiving of his power spot as good enough. His path meets him, the Himalayas are moving.

I have a techni-color thought. I have this image of "a sad man wanting to stand up in my eyes" from Elias Khoury, a Palestinian author contemporary with Amos Oz--the Israeli author/Peace Now activist. The sad man is the sand's collapse like "ancient rosy colors behind my eyelids" (Kerouac) where something called Mine sought oblivion.
Momma home in a empty house, son is gone to the Himalayas, just out of the IDF--she wanders the house now at night listening to an umbrella of peace, sounds like "narayme, narayme" the call of a particular bird. From Amos Oz's book The Same Sea, and similarly my aunt, having endured as long as she did, had a sense of theophany as if she pressed her ear to the wall of temporal and flat mortal denial. The message crossed water, watching elders ambulate concertedly, pointedly, leaves no excuse for me to languish: they could tip over like a top heavy glass of milk, but at the same ttime what seems evident is that they are long distant runners, and have been living next to a extolling river, scribing the message of slow fidelity.

The reproach of unrevealed resolve, musterion--like now suddenly it is on the line, is only less victorious if I think so. Tending to resolve the need to think, bodes for rather well for listening instead. Sounds arrive in shallow water, and yet seem synaesthetic in the spectral aircell a room takes on. Just like the appeal pitch shadows & depth are - filling us up w/every languid goal to look again under the street light for the key we lost in the alley, I'm comfortable saying I don't know (or am willing to think how fire/tapas was light of the quality that only my heart fuels), the light seemed good enough. Since cosmic significant light demands just what ought to douse the heavens with now this season a deflated ball/Winter's Sun, light rays ensuing anything Of me or by extension is the Climate of the Greater Will.

Subject: lazy, or maybe actually kinda decisive--derived past stuff--but added, edited

Train comin' 'round the bend...like 3 times a night, sometimes more. Last night, I didn't notice tho'. Living proximal to the long distance traveler (literally), is a symbol of life in all its impermanence=the journey & the journey-made. Tracks running thru skin-scapes moist and with soul-force, has my thoughts revolve around Ben Kingsley's flight out of character like he was on a 6 Flags ride (in Gandhi), just affably surveying India's Bharata-varna, this World as it proceedth in its ancient quality.*** Old garments are shed, new bodies are donned like new garments... Humankind's path is earth, the temporal kingdom, tho' he/she has the freedom to stop inertia, & the Celestial Bodies don't. So our path may be more dynamic, a so-called Conscious-Being. *(P.K., my varietal with some of your language) We see the Sun, but the Sun is turning out of blue, but our reason does not surmount. Our dialogue w/the cosmos is yet impermanent--therein do we live the ontological record. This is the self-hypnoses sung about--I have heard: the ground is magnificate & I am at the top of the world. In our theoria, the thing about dreams is your having perceived that the world is moving around you, you are a quiet-static moment, & you'll sense THAT when looking at the observer in that moment as things move in flux--Kerouac says, big floats take notice, which is the Observer in the dream, everything else lives in the demand of the fray! The content of my goal is only the elements I gather from this trail, and I'll know my destiny as long as my first step remains the singular advantage it purports itself to be: "Forest of life underfoot"**.Patti Smith's words from R. Gere's book Pilgrims.
In a dream your path meets you, feathers falling like perpetual acquiescence to the epiphenomenal...looking up & in, looking up & in, until the requiem of change tho' confused aerial sight-thrum, is compartmentalized in torpid vessels we opt for rather than an Unknown having been diagrammed in the dream's end!
Sorting out having slipped into days dispensational just not on my watch, the enumeration media thru an exile from eclipsed cosmogony bares the fruits of hearing. I hear an acolyte beware of an extinguished norm, like sign-posts in his retreat from solitarian pleading for days end. Get off the path, "Truth is a pathless Land." Krishnamurti's observation of truth concealing reality.

G^d O' Propitiation

2010-10-26T13:54:00.005-04:00

At the house where I grew up, out in front of the garage door I'd play the cunga. With no percussion theory, one lesson from Tingo Lee, and radicalized from observation, then until I thought neighbors were paying attention, I'd take to the neighborhood to sit in Beaumont Park. Rhythms just dust-like in my head, I learned how resolved and acquiesced visualization was to what needed to be moved around, sitting right down in my favorite place. Thus telegraphed beats hung, its valence undeniable, unassailable as old brown meeting streets no more...the day erased as below the current of the imminent fact. --that's not meant to sound defeatist!
Life as I knew it was superable--I ran around imagining life. Now I sit here and imagine life after death. The death would take place in much the same repose, as upon a lawn chair or likely a 5 gallon water bottle cask, just dreaming of acorn trees/oaks like their tannins were swathed across my skin. Then something draws me out & I take to the air, and the suggestion that I ought not any longer remark over the simple dwelling having made my time & place is strictly adhered to. Mnemotechniques as this term I read in Nietzsche's Writings, would be method for absolution into the new dynamic...the born anew day only reconciled if I do the recommended thing--getting good at forgetting! Tho' forgetting may seem to be like burying my head in tufts of bluegrass, the chthonian earth as it receives my face is yet a perspective toward the material void, and not denial but positting myself there, and so rank and file my march into the "recesses" of I & Nature...even when she speaks thru an indefinite chorus.

He started to call myself "in" as opposed to "him." Couldn't hear Mem, the letter root of mayan meaning fountain, or mayim meaning water. But I'm not IN like a fish unreincarnated. Nun is the word for fish in Aramaic, its number is 50. Medium #, and still I think inundation. I'm in the world, it before me & not below it; so few thresholds to keep me on strode road, I cross the proud land like I know it, home in the distance & what needs to be crossed is appropriated to get there, permissed at my yawning gait of twice the half-step. Emergent, meandering, in mendicant-ation... the intra-mantra slavery is being subsumed like Obediah/Abdullah doing just what G^d tarried in the stream o' propitiation we have agency within. Fields of the sea, a sure vista toward Oneness, Wakefulness, & the Other Shore.

Remembering the sense that I wouldn't imagine studying for my bar mitzvah as opportune, Kabbalah, meaning what is Received, is become an expression for my cleaving to theoria as a yoke (think yoga) to permiss my imaginative limits. At 15 and reading Gershom Scholem texts had ideas like the Absolute portend a Result... A corresponding visualization inhered because sounds arrive from without and my complexion would be a center with expanding peripheries. Skein over my eyes at once making this one morning when I'd arise have dreamt antecedents of the physical space I was used to, now embellished by glossier proximity to it all. I clearly saw a stairway lead off from the middle of the backyard into the blue of the dome. Maybe 2 people upon on it, and then otherly just glistening figments of iconography / apparitional things in my mind's conscious map thither and giving distance its tangibility. From the middle of the yard where the pyramidal log pile was stacked--a place convened by me so many times under Winter's sky..., by the plum tree & the sink-hole. Zadie lowering his hands down upon the kitchen table--abra-cadabra--has the heatherly skies of agriculture and horse farms assert a new ideal sense of just these domaines, no other place to trod...home is evidently an imminent front!! Personified, painted, a Pasteur of feeling diminutive, this large backyard of ours has a name, and all its guests are in a vigil -- I only feel out of its magnetic principal if I adulterate it with denouement.

The Tzaddik in what his affluence can't deny, the Saddik the same shaman-esque Pious man on the core-community's side, arabs and jews in a convergent past have one and the same principal for a Saint. Whatever can be said, it plainly feels weird that I'm in a community sublimated by the progress jews owe from islamic merit. I think that is why the gesture it is to speak of feeling higher spirit, is placing your hand as if reaching outward off of your brow. And is as islamic cryptic as it is the jews' efficient Cause.

Pot to cook, the yood nah 'nuf--or in my case food is plenty, but the pot that it is served out of is the dialect from Val's promise to me that I should feel this comforted... But tho' she is comforting me (in my mind)--her sweet womanly archetype and as the lens I looked through, is love as I've ever known & now it is time to try a different serving vessel, so evasive, aquatic... my longing to be fulfilled. Something macrobiotic had been my goal. She & I would attend to diet consciousness, the victuals being something of an empirical nature and of course actual food is just the lust for a deficit in our second mind--the stomach, to quit defeating us. Kill the appetite (the excuses for our ignorance, the over-wrought escape into desire) by diet consciousness makes sense... It had taken me a long time into our thing to fall in love her: didn't feel it, wouldn't have said it much..., so now I see our life together (as it was) in discordant days spent, and love always slightly unfulfilled. The lavender mood and climate of the greater will, is her bee-catcher sentient sweet song-bird life creative in my long sought after consciousness in getting it together in any kind of weather!
In the mixed up mind of me: Oxford 1987, at the youth hostel about 8-9 o clock at night, I was preparing--or wanted to prepare for class the following morning, but couldn't. JUst sitting on the floor matriculating clumsy paths people were making around me, indian style with book on my lap, I am desperately trying to pick up a thread to the Yiddish language (mama loshn) before me. A tripartite path to me was rather the core-culture obsolete, at arm's length--dissuading me Euro-ethos was as good than instead looking in its east (the Islamic wisdom bridge), & it--the Sferadic faylasuf/philosophy & Golden Age had to mean more in its renaissance as mysticism became tantric. Secondly, my assumed root culture--and thirdly, the first two as wholly unrecognizable. Yiddishkeit/culture is construed/assumed and possibly not demeaned at my lapse in scholasticism--and still I wanted to add to it. Israel soon enough would have thoughts of my running a parallel path as if "culture culture swooping down like a vulture" *H.R. from Bad Brains, would be foundation enough to steady my gaze into Jewish whatever. So, yeahs need to be yeahs--I wanted to pick up the black fire off of the white fire, the print and page before me...but my mission was not possible. Like a sieve that I might unadulterate the leaden Oxford Jewish studies before me, what spilled onto the pages of my Yiddish dictionary was torpor, leaving confusion as an option toward something much worse and that being voidance, leaving very little to seek. The talons of the environs had the evident bubble of experience around me on trial.
Met up with a Jamaican dude --Norman, and he hooked me up with a dime bag, but I musta paid 15 pounds for it. That release was momentary, but at least I was wizened from the mottled discomfort inevitably to be bridged in the stain in the brain and my blood flow...ascending!!

Zadie--Egypt--Fresh Translator Face--Stephanie

2010-10-14T08:45:00.001-04:00

Zadie said make lists: my rebbitzin cousin (a wife of a rabbi) in her husband's attendance of study was who I met in a dream. He read Arabic, however my mind contrives to hear the youngest & most sophisticated of Semitic languages, out of my prayer book. I didn't realize I would collude Judeo-Arabic thru the filter of a kehilla (Jewish community) as if I answered to one, resolved to call asceticism any humility by anyone who'd submit...

Within generations' dialogue , the field where everyone's change took place, right now is Americana. Agreed material gratification is been smote if you are lucky, but the tidal pool having traced our steps upon it, gets interesting when language is in reference to alliteration paths. Landing on language. Etymology, because it felt right to say: words sometimes as context, yet no concept, because the word-feeling thing-magnified has as much of an impulse as what the tool acts upon. The semblance we connive out of our senses, these images--IKONS, cannot be what we know beauty to be, because saying "beautiful" doesn't deign why its grotesque at once, or really just beautiful. Language is cheap, is vain because it talks about inward things--itself, and outward things as if! But responding without is where the least of us is sacrificed--the consciousness relay into which we descend is relationship with our nature. To thwart what traps identity in plain view of indefinite choruses whose verbiage is imagery, arights flesh in language awash - its current swept into emotion and spirit.

Fresh faces--remember this face. Whatever veil lifted in my dream looked entirely consumable. An expression (on this face) thru the geometric Amish sign in the Catskill Mts on Casten Rd. above a barn's door, by my Aunt's bungalow colony, had enough color, some verdant opaque green, flat, with something intermediate about it so I wasn't eliciting an omen. In Buddhist Thought the face is a translator. Dreamt these faces, it is as looking thru a glass darkly. Eat the glass. The mask had cranberry glass vase-like quality, not chandelier like--like a King presenting his magnificense--but a vessel w/candy in it maybe. Biting something from a perfect surface, as this glass! & then harvesting blueberries out of conscious clouds.

On may way and going past my x-girlfriend girlfriend's house, some out of mind sense that the thing eluding me was that I woulda presented a figure of Stephanie just her, like she'd been faffing about all her live long day, as anyone, because I was proximal to her domicile--struck dully, oddly, finitely. IT didn't strike me the way a convivial soul contrives his spirited pantheon of friends. Marley's Don't Rock My Boat from Kaya was some music I was tuned into in those moments: this album has a clear bravado of something mystic and timelessness--I seek something esoteric just hearing how " feels so good in his own neighborhood" and " feels so high, can even touch the sky" Just like college, just like my x, I was well aware they--school and my thing w/her wouldn't last, yet the persisting of academia and her mutual arising to be sure is to remain in the air... So, then here's Stephanie--and yes I knew! That one may think I celebrate my own exile is entirely the efficient cause from loss and its certifiable new day when it is pain that indicates me in my morose langor--so celebrate? No, but establishing "nobody above " ("there ain't nobody above you!"--P.K's lyrics) represents victory. I thought she wouldn't make it into the world-to-come. No, indeed, as I live this pedestrian life, the maps I draw are thru the features of bodies liberated LIKE mine, ...and if somehow I sense the grim reaper is my sanctimony in the dispensation unavailed by my peer, my guess in these moment has been THEY were not going to make it... Sweet woman, if only had I only known her better!!

SMACK in the middle of my garage floor

2010-10-06T15:38:00.000-04:00

Remember Papillion, that he had skewered insects for sup, under the only remaining light, the tether to material success...that map he'd trod! Just like as I had lain in the parent's garage, my parents--mind appearance, scraping down to the bottom of the barrel. Laying in the dog blankets, trying to sleep, smoking cigs off of the electric heater... she sparks, decays to ashes too quickly-- The moon edges closer, reminds me that life better seem a little more dear. My mettle is in the perusal of Crowley's Confessions in my life of denial of purpose, but I think hard about reteats. The Sitting. The 25yr span they can take. In Crowley's Book 4, dhyana developing in my mind that results were succored-by-everyone...whoa the potential, whoa my union past the transperancy of walls. The angel of the room, devatas in Hindu, guardian angels called ophan in Judaism, makes the white noise vibratory properties emanating therein a refuge..., but things around me like the work bench soaked in motor-oil, car parked w/front bumper at my back, a bike or two, a basketball, the moon and purple sky looking all glossy, glowering even, are all in the way and I am prone to falling into its agency. To the extent that I was using tobacco and psycho-tropics, an unhealthy unknowing would not subside--I thought I was bumping into things. The same white dot throat pain, an image that wouldn't go away before my eyes, made introducing any new moments to imbibe release rather full of languish and w/nothing restored...to milk blood would no longer have an encouraging result. Alternatively I mused over the third and last times I had tried to shoot up. Green dreams in my weary mind, still were green of vital proponets in belief of my having turned self into a demon--singular and stereotypical/ new yet old terra-firma in sentient greed. Danielle sat across the room from me--this occasion, Rob spiked me twice, missed twice. And tho' I felt my body atrophy from what I wanted to do to it, this retension was movement enough that my visualization acumen seemed credible, worthy of the rapport I could imagine with some inner-antagonist & my response to self-guilt. The mantra, I'm Not Going Anywhere, and all the certainty it preserved in the question of finding oneself in the fray, had lessened value...almost done, verily I'm concerned, my attitude also seems too light for the edutainment I expected in my reckless behavior. Hard to laugh at myself then and there, so I receded back into a chair of a thousand deaths. The garage would subdue me this way, too--as public an event as the intimations of family would get--my languish was impossible to penetrate. And all things are possible when you are really unable.

Thoughts on otherwise un-Realistic Eternity

2010-10-05T14:28:00.000-04:00

On campus I'd go and read stuff like Gandhi's history, Elie Weisel's Jewish episteme, Dostoevskii, certain looks at the Eastern philosophies, and then on the occasion when orange lights lining sidewalks around M I King glowering with a bhakti cadence (devotional), Rimbaud finding [his] "mystics in another Arabia" *as Kerouac had said in his own view, had my bro's voice in my head saying, "Do what you want to do." My thoughts were lessened in its fiery impact, because residual voices with their cross current in my translator-face, weren't the call I expected & wanted out of a remote sensation--hearing a voice. The academician my brother was, a professional student, is my example -- how I hold out to a life of study--eternal study, like Chagall's The Jew of Vitebsk, his smoking Jew, my gut bucket moldering goal. What reminds me of school-life intruding upon a better school of life requiem, really is Rimbaud's thinking the "blue slumber of a moon-soaked shade." And all the yellow-orange lighted paths had animicules dormant and prone just out of eyes' reach--in shadows, harboring no ill-will, yet heralding a lightning bolt and a thunder crash.
Voices in its arc, like synesthetic appetites, halloo'd a taste of stale consecrated bread in Eastern European churches, my taunt of core-culture identity/rejection of identity... the edifice unreflective of culture more likely intimated: Russian literature was in the main just the kind of world's conscious map I kept embellishing. So, spirituality is a rational choice, ultimately an academic choice, but our feelings of "finding" one's self in Time Place and Community, like a pilgrimage thru time, holding those moments in high esteem; place as power spot/memorialized space--just being in the right light; and community, this nation of one being united in University as Rastas call Universiality... This is the imaginative narrative, our dialogue with the old throats of dusty antiquity.

Upon the approach to purity as some goal with no ill consequence to attain when its met--like the problem w/assuaging what is profane, take collectively some proto-semitic word, maybe the ONe of a # of deities--a LOrd, that filters into a recognizable term where it is meant to sacrifice the adherent's atomic self. "Kaddish" is the "furthest," the sense of Other--the "separate," and the existential - as in how we define being on, an On spirit--encouraging Holiness. Arabs use this language, as in al-Quds= K-D-S!! The temple High Priest preserves the emoting of seasons' change--how social living is the best here. And Him (just for convenience sake, let's not worry about gender) as the Originator of the Festival's inauguration, imagine Him as every bit answered for, the peak of social rapport--and the Priest's only agony is that he can't be lost to this example he sets down, to glorify his G^d. In the temple chamber, the silence that ensues makes thought imagery give him insight into experienced-forms as some conscious prop, more vital than, than maybe the Way he had set out toward renunciation of anything intermediate with his "objects" in ritual. So knowledge of self is effectively turning out self, sacrificing it, so that we are utterly compelled submit to the KNown. Hannah Arendt calls these bits of self Semblances. It is certainly known that we hold in high regard these things we can't control--the Mystery. So an object at hand that represents the awesome Forces whose subject we are, is the compelling rhythm of ritual, prayers of vigil, lament, praise & so forth. Religion meaning self-actualization, has created a narrative of imagination--these are Thoughts Feelings & Actions, the allegory to Higher Ground. Moses had imagined discourse with tremendum et fascinans--tho' we reference his efforts as cold strictures, these laws were yet the terminus of what he was quite imagining. What was beyond his adjudged reasons for a people's exiles, was an Unknown...therein lies his awe. The awe to which acolyte or an-other has nothing within the Mosaic covenant to deny, necessarily. Rastas, in their Old Testament perspective, lament, Man shall not be Mindful of his Covenant... So, NO-one may speak for our Path of exile, but oneself.

I affected my thinking that new days were not set off into an unknown future, but rather the fact that I had had no thread to the balance of weeks & months etc til then in my 4 cornered bedroom...everything I thought fit this sensibility, that what lied beneath was being erased, & meditating on no one thing in particular, was a kind of sentient greed in itself... If we ever think what we do is indeed a departure from our norm, I'd have to say, the surprise in store for you is walking in the footsteps of another. My eyes in its gaze seem more tired than the phenomenon of the lighted field lifting up from the reflections off of my broken tiled floor, as predeceased as the settling house, and beggardly as the drift of thought pulling me back to the wheel of my mind.
Marley's Kaya was a constant companion--the On spirit's light switch, the lighted field that I saw clearly as a staticky projection of what had been absorbed for so long by my body... now a wall with its proximity an enumerated sense of just what places I haunted daily. I see it closer up, on this occasion, viable because I saw it upon my casual air & in not so conscious space.
"Running Away" had everything chthonian with which I'd answer for, these phantoms from earthly emanations, subtle bodies in their crypt surrounding me like silence abject in corners with more magnetism than the splash and plurb of media. Great thing to opt for, but its antecedent was the glitter/gold of senses feeling over-wrought. If torpor would be an advantage, it only is in an arising from confusion, because one ought to jettison the valley of indecision.

No fire on top, the book of rules rather what I am supposing should be On Top, actually traduces my mind's event in my pre-occupation. The book in question is Kerouac's Big Sur. And I took it out to a rocky bluff out in Red River Gorge at a place called Koomer's Ridge. I'm denied the sense that I OUGHT to be lining this frenetic wooded sensory burial out in the wilds--my sense of it--with a narrative that draws my voluntas, Latin for impulse, will--psychological & philosophical term, into the train of this fertile abundance. Sounds arrive, arriving stinging my face, mostly just noticing my sweating, but all senses ultimately is me taking notice of what is entirely not auditive, yet interpreted as such, not visual but visually bridged so that I may "feel" as remote as my hike had taken me, et cetera. Kerouac should've would've been colluding in the glazey, weary looks into the world seemingly entirely present... with nothing that I'd rather persist in getting past--nothing was irreconcileable!!
Strange little ferret came up to me once in the Swift Camp Creek area, while camping with my oldest brother. We were eating Zadie's rye bread with that loamy tasting freshly ground peanut-butter from the Co-op. It is comparable to xleb, the black bread of Russian diet, & as musterion-induced from Zadie's hand in it as were the little pieces of organic material being dropped on us while we lain meditatively below the tree-tops. They were the droppings of centipedes up in the leafy boughs, what these bugs were eating and digesting, making us consider for a moment that rain was ensuing.

TRAVELING: If our self-realization was orthodoxy we'd be turning toward something rather than away. The void within sought to obliterate itself. In ON THE ROAD Kerouac relates: "for just a moment I had reached the pt. of ecstacy that I always wanted to reach, which was the complete step across chronological time into timeless shadows, & wonderment in the bleakness of the mortal realm, & the sensation of death kicking at my heels to move on, w/a phantom dogging its own heels, & myself hurrying to a plank where all the angels dove off & flew into the holy void of uncreated emptiness, the potent & inconceivable radiancies shining in bright mind essense.... I was too young to know what happened." This conscious void into which he and or the angels lept? Where is that? Entirely visible, for him at least--me too, but it is an enquiry over distance and the relationship throughwhich we conceive to travel only so far. And I'm telling you we people that distance. It'll be the yawn of mind--yes--but it will have the map deliberate as an arm stretching unto another arm, a body heel to head with another body.......or just one body yielding to hill and valley of the discerned physical goal where we would dwell. We see this world thru the anthropomorphic lens. And that lens, our potentcy is the availing al salah al badan - liberation of the body, its purification in denying anything to stop its access to where we would have presence announced...

The HOUSE of THE GATE of LIGHT

2010-10-04T09:18:00.001-04:00

Hallucinating on a stela announcing Beaumont Park. Stale libations succor the winter-scape. Just coming across a hillock, grass showing in the warmer stratum. I suppose my shadow just like a hunkered down cat pacing his in neighborhood streets. I look at it and see stars, it clearly wasn't an absence of light, but had clusters of sheen & I hear the blue of the dome say, "You'll be up here tonite... Laying in the floor-board coming back from Jimmy Cliff's show in Cinci, everytime I painted on "ancient rosy colors" *Kerouac again, behind my eyelids, all that intelligent energy in star's blanket and its light-report kept making imminent facts just a pretense for midnight sky. As opposed to sounds arriving from Cliff's reggae (he's Rasta as much as he's Muslim, by the way). So, leaden thought, this nomenclature of numina, may as well be traded for seats of awareness that a familial body instructs us to enjoin. Get out of the house, the floor of consciousness needs your tracks leading to it, not on it... No place to go, in medius res, so just move this star instead--that one, the one taking notice, the one like it's a result. Thought is plastic, a vehicle for self-preservation, or to foment fear. Clearly not an end. The conscious satellite=this is an end. Innundate by the sky's fountain, I'll move it into discourse.
So, consider the best thing we'd ever realize is a mutual arising. Like usually that "Other" does her thing, has a silent holy path, not unlike yours, maybe unillustrated, yet yes we know she did--it's there. So, if we were comfortable with ego's decisive consolation that we are not alone... if if, then we see her before she pierced you w/the offering of identity--credibly identity--that we sound out as our intuition they'd be met. I dream of folks before meeting them, for one thing, it may be my intention, but I didn't will it, I feel they did. Or something numinous over both of us did.
...because I'm certain ad absurdum reigns, I don't control the climate of the greater will! I like the Hindu prescription for Brahman. He can only manifest what is, and there is nothing outside the known. So, Nothing IS. I'm certain not much is going on around here. Most folks would agree. War War & rumors of war. Not much I can do about it. (a whole lotta of nothing, boohoo!) I'm certainly not going to dream my insight into a political animal's mind. That may mean it would get in the way by imagining, like in the Song of Songs, this Orchard (think paradisiacal new day) where beauty is courted was instead abridged by Authorial fuckers. This place comes to be a ghost town til the government comes along and pushes it down. *Marley slightly paraphrased. Ghost equals spirit, and my spirit is in the material, I can't control the material void. It controls me. If the white man is destined to wander the forest alone, and the "People" are the trees, I have to thank G^d I ain't that white man. Just an endless cycle of tree birth, a total product of sweet sun, the extinquishing hush of fires, air, and water's mercy.

Maybe neutrinos are throughly space pervasive
because it has an emanator. Its easy to see light as emanated, why
not everything else.The sun's shadow, the thing that may cast
its impression on to some other piece of cosmic pallet, means that
the stuff of space is as abundant as the light of reason. It's reason w/its place lording over energy. Observing the allure
of singularity--the sun, makes it supernal. Reason, the modus a priori, must in fact be more illuminated than the life insulating solarity.
Shadows in tall trees: the trees look wrought upon our approach when its space is conjured by the sun's pre-eminence. The tree will necessarily look more devoted to its reach toward us, because its presence is dependent upon colors and specifically in its absence of space. Krishnamurti depicts observation of a tree in its unmovable eternity--my desciptor, while the day heralds our transience. As the tree fills with apposite negative space, rather than imagine a dialect with it from its liminal architecture, indeed we are only anticipating the emanating space heralding its absence. It looks closer than the wit it takes to imagine our extremes as upon one of its limbs.
A couple of yrs ago--EXPANDED, editted:
The other night, profiles in the constancy of having seen Howie, as long as we have known each other, then-yielded to neon-like perimeters surrounding him. Memories of looking thru the banana leaved canopy, in Israel--the West bank w/ his partner (Rob Olson) w/whom he grew up & me converging then in those few moments into their group, we had looked at the polygons of light coming into the ground where we stood, always dismissed & assumed--lest it matters that I imagine them now. And this looking would be toward people when we gather after a while only presence & gratuitous image... as that has changed too! It was like I had looked up into that light--on this occasion, a practical remonstration of personal history now opening up--during an episode of Salvia Divinorum effects. The cult of personality, yours mine anyone's, seemed to become an objective cause: consciousness now ironic because mental space becomes obviated--a discreet sharing of adventurous prowess of psychic drama; killing the norm together! (vexation and something chimerical after smoking S.D. w/ Howie) This looking up into light interests me. At the laundro-mat the day before the last day of the year--and about a day after smoking Salvia D., I had an intuitive homeward feeling because I sensed time & place contained in the sheen of lights in there, as I immersed myself in an Israeli author's biography (Amos Oz). Now I am back the other direction, because everything is a "before and after" with my occasional thoughts on my travels in the Middle-East, and the hellion of light intensity, which at times has humbled me, making me turn off & tune out. These moments were a layering of brightness stewing above me.
The showroom quality of stiff agents in the pharoah's chamber (looking at these Mexican housewives, & their whitebread counter-parts) is more my castle of eternity--a great journey--home is perhaps the goal, but as the light blinds and while I'm getting ever closer to formidable unplacated inner-sensei, I realize I am more about how it feels to be on-my-way. Nothing to plead in defense of having been captured in emptiness, sweet nothing, on these streets a ghost-town lastly "til the government comes along and pushes it down." Marley's language

My goals made me, when I stepped to the path--I looked down. Never knew the distance strung.

Imagine no Majesties in society, crystalis under bridges linking others together, lepids in metamorphosis beneath reaching for soon to be florid forests... Two communities in conflict on opposite sides and eternity in the whisper of a creature in the sabbatical of that which has become what it is when everyone is answered for: the Sabbath of lives in their yrs' beginning and lives ending...! In all Beginnings all things are Possible. And all things are possible when you are really unable. I am unable to imagine, or have ego do anything but supplicate social awareness. The inability of my intuitive capacity to take on solitarian days--as I once did--and as Kerouac notes of the hipsters behaving like 12th century monks, is yet refining the example... tho' I don't go into exile. Watching folks get lost in the resistance of my sight of them, disappearing from across I & I. His/her (the monks) example of gathering elements, dear to themselves, may be what I relish in the recesses of day's long ends. Sitting til the loading is imminent--if I dream thereby I exist, then the Principal to existence is somehow Cosmic and ultimately received by me sooo in my Subjective/Efficient Cause. CAREFULLY, I suggest to myself that my floor, ground zero, floor of consciousness, is restorative. A tinny radio in my ear--I'm closely listening to it. The gentle static makes a SHHHH sound, air being released to combust and have a fire feed fertile truths. Lastly, truth is denied ministration--it is found in the furthest reaches from the Transcendant. In dross matter, dross existence, equal to it but w/one thing on its side: fire and how it cauterizes our wounds, how we sit in it but never get burned. How I watched the licks of self-effacement consume everything around me...while I begged for anything to say Yes to, to submit to, to sublimate for me personally what ought to have been sacrificed, except that it was and I never knew the proselyte. Because ITS not NEW, Right?

You ARE MAGNIFICATE!!!!!

2010-09-23T13:55:00.001-04:00

LAW of ATTRACTION or Future INSIGHT...

So, consider the best thing we'd ever realize is a mutual arising. Like usually that "Other" does her thing, has a silent holy path, not unlike yours, maybe unillustrated, yet yes we know she did--it's there. So, if we were comfortable with ego's decisive consolation that we are not alone... If If, then we see her before she pierced you w/the offering of identity credibly identity that we sound out as our intuition they'd be met. I dream of folks before meeting them, for one thing, it may be my intention, but I didn't will it, but they did. Or something numinous over both of us did.
...because I'm certain ad absurdum reigns, I don't control the climate of the greater will! I like the Hindu prescription for Brahman. He can only manifest what is, and there is nothing outside the known. So, Nothing IS. I'm certain not much is going on around here. Most folks would agree. War War & rumors of war. Not much I can do about it. (a whole lotta of nothing, boohoo!) I'm certainly not going to dream my insight into a POlitical animal's mind. That may mean it would get in the way by imagining, like in the Song of Songs, this Orchard (think paradisiacal new day) where beauty is courted was instead abridged by Authorial fuckers. "This place comes to be a ghost town til the government comes along and pushes it down." *Marley. Ghost equals spirit, and my spirit is in the material, I can't control the material void. It controls me. If the white man is destined to wander the forest alone, and the "People" are the trees, I have to thank G^d I ain't that white man. Just an endless cycle of tree birth, a total product of sweet sun, the extinquishing hush of fires, air, and water's mercy.

In Israel met up with Ellister, this man from Sud Afrique who had fought in the South African army fighting Cubans in Angola. He told us a story that'd be bleak if not for his stout delivery, incorruptable--deliberative as Saharan wastes and our reprieve. I think about his mention of interogations, but the prescient moment is actually the "terrorist's" self-scrutiny and my window on it was irrespective of Ellister's intent, perhaps, yet to actively say honor someone's own personal struggle--I give him all due credit.
An African man is bathing in a stream--this "terrorist" in fact. He could've been certain the sky is the limit, so much more space his developing world would then on out graduate to. In the stream thoughts like tarrying stones are engrossed by a surface struggle, shimmering awhile like his lucidity, he is seeing flotsum as if the overstanding sky would still be obfuscated by distance.
This flotsum coalesces around his guffaw, a smile recorded as if, but the sky-line now so apparent on the plastic surface of cool stream, is close, very close--the imminent threat was almost known, the world squeezing in on him now. Violence will ensue, no time for familial goals to make his head the event of the season. My impulse is to lash out, and languishing motives to compare my compassion and its warrant to spread something convalescent around has never been as negotiable as this thing making Ellister's struggle more apart of the real world--awe was self-defeating...
Just above me, and I seem to only look before me, yet something so liminal--a conscious satellite, intermediary space, nobody On-High, I reckon I need a roof, as Rastas theosophize... I want to paint on it. I thought to draw from eternality, not from veils & maya/illusion. I thought dim recesses would make my occupied-room have sky-boundaried limits, yet only just above is the last thing I can reach!

Because it is just language til we're extinguishing the last thing drowning in dross matter--truth at its depths, language would be a ladder til expression means precisely the One, & the one thing right past symbolic living (our only key) is that which suffocates vivification in Truth. (meaning I & I live, but only thru the definition of impermanence, as opposed to defining to Live--'cause I can't...) And truth redeems, but denies us the valley of indecision, where happily we while away to endure all our values in the horde of truths meaning a devastating weapon against stimulation from the exhaustive answers, with no query concommitant. I taste my broken tiled basement floor, a sheen on it defying the ever sleep-inducing aloof attribute that somehow I can step lightly and not awaken anew a responsibility for this floor of consciousness. Window sometimes at my back, while I meditate & look at the projection of radiating season's day, what comes on top is going on down--just surmising the backyard like I was turned to it, and yet I drew thoughts into the radon enthused fore.

Seen, like darshana, the dust off my feet never washed

2010-09-09T08:50:00.002-04:00

Thinking about Art Shaw, Dave Brubeck... jazz w/such exultation that my thanks and praises now get its parallel canticle if only in my sole ululation of the word peace going thru my mind. Wrote a letter to my baby today. She's lept to the recesses waiting for the loading to begin, her pollution hiding should have been keenly understood by me soliciting quiet. The pregnant moments is say Coltrane's sounds arriving, is definitely a "silent" accord, because now in listening and receiving his art, it is so subtle something akin to quietude is the fulmination.
All that lash of transparency collected her troubled-cycle and self-denial, and I have to wonder when is our ethical standard mimicking beauty as we see it, just as in the music we listen to... Doesn't want to be seen like that (in her transperancy), wants to persist answering for malaise. "Old Brown" as in Marley's cultural nuance is baby's symbol for the rat race she runs now. He says Old Brown was my Bed Last Night. It's a terrible lament I feeel thinking about this. All I've seen in my view, is my shoes getting more proud land to trod, yet environs change as people deliver themselves an anitiquated pedestrian path. There's is no where to go if you decide on appearances over reality--I need this veil of our existing's illusion as nothing short of an Orchard where civilty bred peace from order, eudaemonia, the sought after nirvana's predeased last hurrah, and a fountain that I so badly want to approach. A fountain is a resource, coming from message music, and the conscious message received is rarely with language having an understood meaning behind it, but rather has form like bird song. Birds of Paradise brings on DReams, and dreams are made of our call & response with chaos placed in context as in mind-vessels so that our senses can be oh so subtley stroked and forgiven for having made us over-wrought...
~~What are the dimensions concerning I-tal (vital) living? A bridge to awareness. Beauty too, like a deep well, but too short of a rope to gather it, so it remains mere emanations. Beyond that some river, river in sight, suggests One thing's better because it's prolific, unreserved, continuous, bisecting the world until the ocean is full. Walk to its edge, feel the report of the whole, but we cannot enter. Seemingly the passing away of things necessarily has proof that we exist. I dreamt about an astrolabe. If we dream, thereby we Exist. Objectivity about impermanence ensued. Hypothetically, friends say he's amiss, expiring like his lovedONE. If only for a moment, the rotation of our time instrument left me aloft: looking at it, sun graduated then found its terrestrial berth, the moon spiritually true turned my glimpse to the blue of the dome. My friend there is only now.
~~I try to lie near in supplication. I throw coffers in the river for propitiation. I render my G^d unto the earth's evolution. I stand clear of the digression of revolution. I'm lighting a fire from my humiliation. I rent my mind, like wu hsin in Dao philosophization. I burned every bridge looking for substanciation, denied all institutionalization. I ended this fight with a conflagration. Losing our inhibitions only sometimes tarnishes the filter... ~~I'm so not trying to make friends just to be congratulated that I'm expiring just like he or she. But as much, I love anyone in the herd. If you live you love, & giving away light-provoked days I never imagined would pass, conflagrations. Like reading in Beaumont prk I was received so much later than when I let go. The sky & trees colluded, I'm sitting in snow, & the world took its stale libations. Just watching the auditive Universe like a splash & plurb in the event of our minds. I really get a sense of waking up in a dream. Sometimes diminutively, minutely, but awakened IS the feeling. My nephew watched Ravi play and thought it was a strange feeling like he wanted to merge w/the beatific sounds. It was like his heart opened up, he said. We want to find the objective reality so bad, that we are ultimately inundated w/the voidant conscious concern...drowned and saved at once.
~~Step into 1 part of the ocean, & feel the report of the whole: an allegory to The Book of Ethics, Talmud. Under the shade, across the road from the blueberry patch, I'd sit and rifle thru some of these ancient scribings. I was up in the Catskills mts, sand at my feet, the Other Shore seems apropriate in light of the temporal yet spectral space I attended to, languidly furthering the alliterative path. As here, similarly, when I bent over to wipe the plum off in the grass, a thousand lives spent went thru my head. My brother and I sharing blueberries up in the Catskills, or sharing at least those environs--many lives spent and relived. Definitely eating prickley pear fruit from the cacti in Boynton canyon, near Sedona is becoming a constant narrative. I never realize til I'm there, but the utility of nature worship is my sole reason to be and to become an example of a good student of life.
In Jewish thought no fantasy, angel, person, or saint can intercede in our need to enter into dialogue with the Transcendent. If meditation or theoria = contemplation! is the ends of man, then "lament" to whatever it is to that which is greater than yourself, thus not of your assertions about the World, now IS the World's assertion over You.
Imagine a circle within a circle. In the middle is G^d, in the one surrounding is Jesus. X-tians would freely ambulate, relate and coalesce between the two--so that there would be no obstacle, or need for supposing thresholds like intercessors anew. Jews, as with anyone's Free Will, may choose to remain within the inner-circle. Does that make sense?
**Mind furniture in array, and nowhere to sit: if our numinous selves demanded order, feng shui would indicate the imminent door toward oblivion, but no direction home is the norm. My head is a jungle anyway--and dreams are the animal denizens. The likelyhood that I find cool waters to sit by, is when stones tarry, like thoughts on the surface glad and reflecting.

Backyard view in my contentment's collapse

2010-07-12T15:53:00.004-04:00

Humans get that we are other--there are Others. At any point in the day I think
that someone also resolved existential crisis as I just did. The lower animals
jump from the cosmic plank into the abysmal empirical momentum of its life
force, never just following the subjective self unto the Objective Other.
This youth--I say youth, I was yet 21-22 yrs old then, while we worked as extras on a movie set in Israel (It was called Riding the Edge.), had been abusing the stereotypical recalcitrant mule--there riding him into the encampment where we all stood dressed as bedouine. This part of my trip to Israel and Egypt, was the Israel leg after the magic of secreting away hashish up my bum and bringing it into Eilot Israel. Turns out they didn't search our stuff anyway.
~~But the high (Winter's) sun of Egypt was fully embraced precisely during the day of the trip to Luxor, outa Cairo. Night of the red-bulb seemed below the surface. On the train, this young boy stared at me--eyes searing, from the fore for the handful of hours it took to meet the Valley of Kings' and Queens' destination. Off the train, in Luxor, my life assessed in some surface moment--palimpsest, no controling Americana vibe, the desert skies shared with me, but I was clouded with little apprehension of my trodding. I'm hidden while there--but the sky is the limit.

If one were to realize the negligence of memory, maybe as an animal quickly loses the impulse of mistrust had it started out that way, when DO you experience the perfect MIND? A tree in its sprawl, like architecture over-coming the skyline? Wu hsin, no-mind, is mind enough, like the Daoists? Like an artist's profile demurred, preoccupied, effortless? IN Neil Young's MIND, a fine mind, as he lyricked? When do you sense your condition, and at its peak?
Seeing the lighted field of all the impressions folks have made on me, and reducing those ideal circumstance of perchance a meet and greet again toward just that image of light as high as my lifted chin, just before me, as I peered to my forgiving backyard out of my bedroom on the second floor, it's clear Hell isn't half as bad as what it took to get there. But dude--I am clear in mind when I tell you--It is______& I have been there.
Turning off and tuning in, something monastic, sitting sitting in lament controls me. Seems that spirits unabiding laugh that in my loss of religion or culture--or something about self-realization, I forget to laugh with them. Still, my purpose is stalwart and bidden.
"Sitting" in the meditational sense is a Retreat--experiencing it for moments sometimes yrs. This Rabbi takes my ridicule of herioc's past--wars and rumors of wars, and says that 25yrs in a cave was to thwart the Romans authorial destructive body. If he was threatened at all--the heights he will have obtained in scribing The Book of Splendor (Zohar--the primary and seminal book of Jewish mysticism) was man clearly desolved into and elation within social poverty. I want to be all about that. No mind, wu hsin in Dao Thought, means no norm, no request of me to die in a river of sight, til absurdum makes my head the event of the season...all I see is ancient rosy colors behind eyelids, and image is language enough.
~*When ASked about Religious Affliation, a good FRiend said Love above All!!*~
"Love above all?" Ok. But I have a thought: Amidst some sense that all results, like the thoughts, feelings, and actions--all these allegories to higher ground, may be sensed and draw us into saying I am. So "I am" can be rent from that center of awareness when LOVE starts its career into me being responsible for someone when IN THAT moment they can't be other (it's the movement of your emotion!); other than the thoughtful RESULT of mind dealing with what Hannah Arendt denotes as semblances. Just dealing with symbols--which would be our only statement about TRanscendence, just that it isn't transcendence (maybe)/or even love, but just BEING... In Jewish thought, no fantasy, angel, person, or saint can intercede in our need to enter into dialogue with the Transcendent. If meditation or theoria = contemplation! is the ends of man, then lament to whatever it is that would be that which is greater than yourself, thus not of your assertions about the World, but the World's assertion over You.
~Our mind, like an ambulating wheel on an endless track is potent, truly but merely a potential, and only when it is exercised from the little trouble of our self-worth do we know that we've been indicated in an I & I sense of relationship. That is love in its peak moment, but more than that, all attributes are called off when the Candle is Blown Out.

The Flow into my Unknown: ending w/ the Reed Sea here.

2010-06-30T13:17:00.003-04:00

The place of all my changes: In my sabbatical from the world, in the throes of schizophrenia social disaffection, I hoofed it around that neighborhood a lot. I'd go down to the church rightt there to the right of the end of Lane Allen Rd. and on Parkers Mill Rd., sit or lie under a one of the pine trees in the parking lot and read. Did so in spittles of rain--it was vehemently the best thing I could've been doing for myself at the time. My heart is at the very center of my being imagining my education in those moments of reprieve. Pines all around, woodchucks scrabbling into the hillock, upon whose peak I was lying in repose.
I'd also go to Beaumont park, to the pit--a sinkhole, and sit within the confines of the fencing, to read and meditate. I was seeking a backdoor to get find a way into a social requiem that had normalcy's vantage point--and clearly ascetic, historical studies were my venue!! ...for me, it worked!
Like Kerouac's rendevous in a stand of trees on the way to the shore's edge,
Ancient rosy colors in my eyes (using Kerouac's imagery), as I sit in theoria repose, has me realize all my power-spots have been well-worn, and now I am trying to find the eye of the needle, so that I may compound what necessarily is my advantage --the need for results.
Lee Scratch Perry is very instrumental in redefining where like the sands blowing over me from Salvador Dali's The Broken Bridge and the Dream, tent-poles of consciousness are the prodigy of self-possession, in pillaresque and unbroken shadows throughout morning's arrival on a desert plain. The desert was the blanketing atmosphere, and reduced characterizations I could ever imagine in a glance at the somehow dynamic "me!"

Papillion's hell, makes heat (in this desert's life) the demon, and the coolness of dreams is still the lure of his agni-mind, whilst skewering insects to dine on: this stark circumstance, pained and monk-like abbreviates an on-going memory reflection I have when I felt this dynamic selflessness was my loosing personae...slowly reduced to more subtle soft-machine "bodies," and less able to be borne unto anything that could show me an exercise in self-worth. There is no woe worth my lament now, I think.
But here's what Anselm of Cantebury said a thousand yrs ago. One can conceive of a being that which nothing greater can be conceived. Eternity maybe, yet I am emanating that quality of Our awareness...OK? So, that which nothing greater can be conceived is the end-game: Impermanence is the rule, for every quality of these 10,000 things we enjoin, if not now, maybe not ever--evidently we can know as much!
My good friend says in a raga ryddim (sic) that of 10 or more dimensions of which we can't SPEAK, but that we KNOW of, makes me respond as follows: The caged monkey is my interpretation of that; the mind which keeps us in the throes unknowns, doesn't necessarily indicate realities, just semblances.
**Meditation upon nothingness, is merely DOING something about Nothing--giving substance to what otherwise was the result of our SENSE of emptiness, beautiful vast emptiness. My interlocuttor seemed to support an awareness on Nothingness, yet then turn around and say it's tedious, uncomfortable. I am not saying meditating on nothing is anything but a result--space the "final" frontier where things go away or not. But once we develop what at once is the absolute, the all or nothing PrinciPAL, we then can reduce our presumptious, strenuously fulminate/foolish selves, that ecstatic mind and soul of ours, in a way for answering for LESS OF it. Less of our life's fulmination, the mischievious mind... THe best way to be. Remember the Use of the Word, Absolute--it is the most supreme value in our vain symbolic language that we'd use to call G^D, Ayn-sof...the Endless, Eternal. But pivoting upon awareness, always a KNown, never an Unknown.
**I know when I have/am conscious of half-thoughts, or have a whole idea. I'm fully aware of deficits in my "education" over the Transcendent...so I'm merely defining what it is to Question, rather than assume there's an Answer in relishing an Unknown.
~~I can tell you the other day sitting in the public square reading intently I looked up and felt subscribed to a real silence. Then I realized from whence it came...inside of me, the very object and nomenclature of impulse in my mind. It was a bit of a warning, like don't chime away with it until I've overcome its effect--you'll need this. Yet sweeter than that, you know.
~~Churchill said, "giants are bowed in anxious thought." On the filth ridden Egyptian shore of the Yam Suf, Reed Sea--we know as the Red one, without comparing my fractious life to tethered-huge-political-events as government industries have made all the world's govs complicit in the advancement in war-winning, sitting at the feet of giants makes it laughable that it could be anything other the celestial events. Not being a positivist means precisely that, that my refrain from some social vehicle is mission enough to ruin any authorities' measure of me. Had it been convenient to do that, truth wouldn't have been found in a pathless arising--my arising, never comfortable saying it was Meant, thru the triune of memoria, intellectus, and voluntas. The ultimate symbol seems inwardly available if having allowed for some folly, that I have eternity fooled. The ultimate symbol for the self is NOT.
In Dahab, on its shore we stayed in a cement hut, I believed clearly in a pleroma to meet was that evening's midnight sky as we were doddling twigs in embers on the perimeter of the bedouin village there. The peopled pantheon of these crossroads were comfortable steps to rejoin. And if anything I wanted to think myself into this world as meditations dissolved the unfair line between dream and reality. There is a seam between me and the outward fact, but I'll never meet it and only just all this sTuFf that may be the climate of this room, in its silent corners. Waiting for any call, nothings seems so dear, I can't say I'm anything other than what I can't control anyway. The showroom quality of stiff agents in the pharoah's chamber, is more my castle of eternity. Nothing to plead in defense of having been captured in emptiness, sweet nothing, on these streets a ghost-town lastly "til the government comes along and pushes it down." Marley's language.

^^^Spare me on to Another YEAR^^^

2010-06-09T15:37:00.003-04:00

Yellow matter custard in the pup's last look. Down by the creek, I was 6--like NOW looking back, coulda been Dharma, Arjuna's dog. Yet IT had already met its peace, and mine still eludes me! I throttled the continiuity that meant momentum and I'd grow old. All we will ever know is One World, can't be defined by anything but what is. I'd wander Quail Creek in Austin Texas, go to its liminal point, next to the field and what we called the Ant Tree, because of those hordes of ants that inhabited it. Looking off to the savannah tall grasses and treed area out in the blue of the unknown--I was you know pre-teen--I thought about just that feeling of not seeing imminently as far as I wanted. I took this as entirely an image in the vocabulary of spirituality--feeding my spirit, this much I knew! ****
This remembrance is as vivid in my mind as sitting in front of my 800pg book called The Hindus, last night. I was certain that consciousness was barely me, and actually MORE of what I'd consort with in vast swathes of impressions, spectacle, and spectral shore-like. I thought G^d where is its furthest reaches. No doubt!
Saw where my friend from H.S. Rob's Mom put a pic up for his bro Sean. I'm telling you, I see that boy "remaining in light" so to speak. I hear his laugh. He wanted to beat me up the last time I saw him--I was wayward then, knowing, just knowing I'd never see those folks again--but Sean was the foci of those thoughts although Rob and family were in the tell-tale in spirit of MY leaving their hearth and home behind. This is as I saw things deeply with a lot of situations then in my life. A kind of You can never go Home again thing, that I was intuiting. And well had I not thought it, it would have been unusual that Sean's passing has soooo poignantly and sadly made us resigned, only to live up and for his memory, as for others of course.

Told my brother, Dreamt about Zadie recently. We were over to what WAS the Russian House on Aylesford one DREAM before, which I want to figure out. He dropped keys in the tall grass standing past the frontporch. I found 'em. His posture was just like a picture I drew of myself of the old man I would be. We have an outstretched hand, we are, but in my representative image I was letting a bird take flight. I feel I am ever looking for the right question to ask 'em. Usually in dreams I have no conversation imparted, this one was only me kind of in awe, and trying to be casual because well obviously his presence isn't on this normative physical plain. The death and dying of man, man--this is our impermanent record, these words this life and its rich pageant.

THE ADVANTAGE OF LIGHTNING THOUGHTS:
I've worked myself into a credible weird sadness as if I were at the depths of good-byes to my family. Seemed so believable, I thought I had a reason to cry except for the fact it was over myself... Then I was, well "I'd never know, selah." The project of my self-worth is sometimes only in light of immense generalizations these patterns saying communication is imminent. It is almost non-anthropos except for the fact that iconography of our minds is of course entirely self-mythologized. So, when I say I am in proximity to Us, self-understanding is captured.
I dated this really buxom generation-next or X woman, and she all but punched my cigarette, a really demanding woman. Getting out of her car not long before I lived in this what was to me like a bungalow, but actually was a treehouse, I was then living with three of my closest family members. In this dispensation I just was at a disadvantage from telling everyone why I was trying to cultivate something else. I looked to move around enough that a sense of responsibility would have been obvious to me, while mitigating these expectant employers--like staying at Pizza Hut very much longer or any job. My girl, then, is giving me a ride home after some late night thing after work. So, looking at some Kessil the Fool in the sky--the Jewish name for the stars Orion, not even close enough to precipitate some Hebraic like-like light at the end of this condiut room earth tabernacle, the astrology had no value but just my body as THAT--some starry night, and no mind but some anxiety that is a blanket draping the heaven, only just above me. Inclined toward Sisyphus, in that I can't quite find my feet any more than boughs proffer Sabbath--while tikkun, restoration is clarified from without, the limbs almost reach...yet did not. I suppose this was some kind of karmic death, and indeed I am merely a block away from this vision's loci, and the pleroma of something we call liminal and sky-bound is as encumbering and beckoning now as it will ever be... Then dusk will be dawn, and the new day will be the green of space fading in my dream-scape, turning thoughts to reality.

My debate with a Biblical-Thumping Myopic INDIVIDUAL

2010-06-01T07:32:00.003-04:00

Now what if I said I CAN'T GIVE my X-tian friend GOOD KARMA, because he can't receive it, as he says. Just doesn't seem right THAT I CAN'T. ANYBODY see irony in that? LIke "SORRY, don't give me your view of the compassionate edifice this LIFE portends, because I DON"T SEE IT THAT WAY. YOUR WAY. ANY OTHER WAY THAN THE CONCRETIZED MONOLITH of MY own VIEW." NOW NOW WAIT A MINUTE. IN THAT my friend BELIEVES TRULY IN ONE LOVE OF HIS SAVIOR AND OUR promise therein--on the face of it, is fine. HE SAYS HE CARES. I JUST CAN'T FIND where that has become liminal in anybody else's tradition. Sorry, I find that sad, if not misinformed to imagine that it ought to be.

WEll, I am just going with the fact that my X-tian friend would not accept alternatives to Higher Ground. Meaning, he may interpret my goal for something Transcendent as lacking the Truth/ Jesus. I mean, that is the case isn't it? He feels I for one and Dalai Lama and an extenuating list of folks all are MISSING the boat. That may be hard for him to defend and meanwhile it may seem I would be mad at you for that sense of cultural resolve, but I am just trying to be as critically aware of how it is people generally dismiss the quality of the Other's view toward Compassion. It seems he has said as much. The Dalai Lama has mISSED the boat--so to speak, I have heard him say. I just think it's misinformed about the beauty of what one could get out of his / her own trad if it is at the expense of marginalizing the mutual arising of another community. You see, I am being rational. I am using an idea you yourself have noted about the LIMITS of everyone else, til they have found Jesus. There shouldn't be any thing angry/volatile here coming across. I would never say Jesus was anything but a beautiful Path. It may not be mine, but that must be my perogative, not now the job of X-tians to start a conflagration of missionizing, because they can't accept I haven't reckoned apostasy.
So, I am asked about Sin. I think by sin he may mean behavior that is misguided: actively pursuing concupiscence--self-indulgence.
Yeah, I call that escapism. For instance assuming we have the ultimate tool for catharsis, and discovery of our failings, sin makes for suffering of self and others. But considering people want to define things impermanently by imagining there is a World Here-after, because they feel better that the instinct of one's own demise shall BE answered for, IS what I call escapism. Because Jesus didn't REALLY say (as evinced in Karen Armstrong's wisdom seeking research) to believe in him, but to have faith--the root of which is termed Initiated. And as that initiation isn't our perfection, but only gratifying, albeit strongly having become better acquainted with our World in all its myriad forms, still, the tool only portrays an approximation about Creation. SO IT'S FLAWED, as we are even in the writing of said Scripture, tho' inspired in its relevance. SO AGREE--and quit running from the POTENTIAL beauty and relevance with the Dalai Lama that his Path must be as certain,--relevance being the actionable word. Because he has as flawed a tool as the bible, and equally inspired.

Next I was asked about resurrection: Sorry I find it strange that you'd think THE QUESTION for me is whether or not Jesus was raised from the dead. Because my friend that doesn't phase me. I am not answering THRU the biblacy lens--as you do. So, you'd get no verity from my sense of the super-natural assertion of scripture. Anyway, as far as discovery of TRUTH--the way, I'd say TRUTH is a PATHLESS land.**Krishnamurti reference. Truth is an obstacle to our sense of relevance. For instance, we are certain that we are bound by time, even timelessness, yet we transition, making the case for a strong TRUTH about the impermanence of things.
***I know that people come and go, this truth suggests I may as well reckon my solitarian life and imagine that ONLY my condition has significance. But tho' this sense of eternality and its corruption thru space, ignorance and desire, is a true observation (the fragmented lives we lead!)--it takes getting over EGO to realize that other person feels just as I do.--feeling solitarian I mean. THAT's KARMA. WE both are mutually arising. Seemingly having nothing to do with each other, yet we would learn from each other--not make him or her believe as I do, but accept that their world has conditions seriously different than mine and must be given its due respect. There is nothing but disipline that would make me "give a care" about other communities' IDEAL in their struggle with Transcendence. And disipline is not merely a path--actually it is sincerely OBSERVING WE ARE ALL DIFFERENT--just observing, NOT ACTING necessarily over abstract points like pie in the sky, and a world to come. There is one world--agreed--heaven and or hell before us, why deny the fine details of our various interpretations in how to live AMONGST?
Dude, youre welcome to go with odds, why would I accept the same proposition, since X-tianity is your religious antecedent, and not mine. So by way of answering your question--I could always climb over the wall rather than run into it, or I could sit before it in contemplation of the thing liminal. The uber-mensch, as discussed in Dostoevskii's Underground Man, so to speak topples the effect of even his own reprieve if only to maintain OBJECTIVITY. Whose alternative is delusion when we become complacent and imagine we have all that material control, as well as control over spiritual resources. Which isn't ABOUT DOCTRINE singularly, or if I accept then I'll-be-saved equations. I don't give away anything I'd ever need in the end. The thing you'd ask me to give away is the sense of identity I derive, as fleeting as it is, to a political institution: pick your religion--they all are! I'll be clear about the "IDENTITY" thing. The only thing, and the most noble thing TO ggive away IS identity. But, if I do, as I wear the cloak of aphorisms in light of the X-tian Ideal, then X-tians must also seek wisdom in what otherwise is not conventional to them. Because in the end convention means NOTHING, there is no normative to which I will create a life of unvarying habit. Constant revolution--if only in thought. Laying my salvation at the foot of an institution, as the gospel of John asks one to do, is foolish--the Gospel of Thomas says the Light of the Lord is within. Why accept a church conflict about what was accepted as canon, and what ought not be, while denying access to any other wisdom religion?

The last time I fell from Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds

2010-05-27T10:58:00.001-04:00

The last time I did Acid I was 25yrs old. I remember thinking how well over I felt from the compunction to do that again--yet I did. It was with my buddy Jimmy. Had a dream he tried to get me to do LSD, 3 tabs. I demurred, as I saw the next 12 hrs open up like a lit valley. Things opened up as if I could intuit what small statement of presence the mind sore would elicit... upon me as objectively as say intellectual anguish would report. The house and room we occupied was in some European city, and wine and cheese was served. Just watched Albert Hoffman's Delysid product--the first commercial supposed use and product, as it was discussed in a documentary about origins of this drug, circa like 1943.
Seems from having used "A" I take some kind of recommendation from anything my mind alights to that may indicate "the organ of consciousness working with one and against itself." *To borrow Neitzsche's word for something relating to the dionysian reality. So I heard voices upon laying my head down--and this is a perfect peak observable fact. Dialogue from the day, maybe, but more like pulses, echos. Ego says I'm here, and understood, someone tells me so. Obligation to I & Thou, or We, says NO expectation, and courageously half-thoughts is become a clear first breath, 1rst step into light. I'm not obliged to relate to shadowy identity, I feel. Half-light, jettisoning self-preservation. As all belief, say in what an Other would do to make me part of the Open Crowd, is the promise of Security, so unwillingly we are driven to conceive that that goes away. The question is Why Indulge? As the ego is a surfeit of layers upon layers of compromise, to homogenous self-security: like saying, well, we do it because it has another's precedent. There's a pattern there that should be graver, is the moral of this tale. It it isn't community's ideal that we may reduce ourselves to.

For so long we've said life was hard. Now what has made you show that humilty, is this belief, that is life as we know it. And belief curries no favor. It's hard to believe in as much as it is hard to be humble before this compassion edifice. This is a lament, not anything dour.

YAM SUF; but rowing on the Nile came later!

2010-04-26T12:25:00.001-04:00

Our poverty was nothing like a poverty, which we saw in the then Bedouin village (Dahab) just getting its only second establishment (!?) wiTh electric. No amenities to us were the things used for the basics of ablutions performed in some kind of order these Bedouin saw fit; as in who would go to the well first, who eats first etc. Rob seemed to neglect an affinity maybe with anyone who dared to make themselves presentable, i.e. natives there, or people back home. The stylee I feel I catch too, looking at the pre-occupied countenance of just anyone=she or he so comfortable, yet unknowing they look to inner-attention--is that knowing we are fully what we want in such short spans. Spans luckily in enough of a pitch, the mask we wear betrays nothing about the tent-poles of consciousness collapsing in upon itself--upon the statement of presence having become two-dimensional, tells us the mind is the real G-d behind the praise of universal suns as its beginning as reason. Around the time the twelve year old girl showed up selling cheap scarves and us realizing she was really selling something else, Rob was squinting in a side door mirror of a car trying to shave. The reflection I imagine as my eyes' blind spot, are the paces I stepped past looking like power-spots gone awry--I want my eyes' sight to fall like a turbillion, til thru sheer momentum the world will seem to collude in our lost selves in the under-housed hot icebergs that is all this life of experienced-forms. Take don Juan's Yaqui profession, its beginning has the reader follow an ill-disposed protagonist considering a room as the microcosm. In the desert, next to an infinite Red Sea (read REd as actually its rightful name the Reed Sea.), has something less gratifying yet wholly necessary making us feel it is incumbent upon us the voidance-denizen to stand unitarian & solitarian (say, collusion supposed).

Churchill said, "giants are bowed in anxious thought." On the filth ridden Egyptian shore of the Yam Suf, Reed Sea, without comparing my fractious life to tethered-huge-political-events as government industries have made all the world's govs complicit in the advancement in war-winning, sitting at the feet of giants makes it laughable that it could be anything other the celestial events. Not being a positivist means precisely that, that my refrain from some social vehicle is mission enough to ruin any authorities' measure of me. Had it been convenient to do that, truth wouldn't have been found in a pathless arising--my arising, never comfortable saying it was Meant, thru the triune of memoria, intellectus, and voluntas. The ultimate symbol seems inwardly available if having allowed for some folly, that I have eternity fooled. The ultimate symbol for the self is NOT.
In Dahab, on its shore we stayed in a cement hut, I believed clearly in a pleroma to meet was that evening's midnight sky as we were doddling twigs in embers on the perimeter of the bedouin village there. The peopled pantheon of these crossroads were comfortable steps to rejoin. And if anything I wanted to think myself into this world as meditations dissolved the unfair line between dream and reality. There is a seam between me and the outward fact, but I'll never meet it and only just all this sTuFf that may be the climate of this room, in its silent corners. Waiting for any call, nothings seems so dear, I can't say I'm anything other than what I can't control anyway. The showroom quality of stiff agents in the pharoah's chamber, is more my castle of eternity.
**The seance like sense that we are being followed by an orb which witnesses us, is the feeling I would have had like when I was 14-15 and some connection was being made with my peers. TV may be the vain pretense to voiding more meaningful dialogue, but that language albeit over inane things, may still have a mysterion I would have felt...since it had been natural for me to imagine conscious satellites=so many people prone, laid prone, to this medium spectacle. Nothing to plead in defense of having been captured in emptiness, sweet nothing, on these streets a ghost-town lastly "til the government comes along and pushes it down." --to use Marley's language.

Farmland & Death: Potok and Renunciate Egoism

2010-04-20T12:16:00.002-04:00

Walked in the park, yesterday -- Thinking about Chaim Potok's protagonist who says to his little bro over the bird's corpse, "Daddy says they just make dirt." THe kids, both pre-teens in sophisticated remonstrations of WW2 yrs, are trailing parents into a clearing/ picnic. Dad's war yrs as apposite for the family reunion--WW1, when he was a Polish partisan and names like Khemeilnitskii still burn from his misdeeds against Jews who had fought for his Nationalist cause/ Polish zenophobia, if I remember correctly in the 1600s. The protag. David sees things captured in geometrics: architectural skyline projected above canopy. Making sense of absurdum transcendental bridge to awareness, things go away. A book. A newspaper vending machine. A window, out of which his pet canary took leave. My cause in the wooded path is the loam that I easily imagine cools my ocular preoccupation. I want to look away from the confusion of gnarled tree trunks and swathes of ivy, but it also is as inviting as a blue pool...all in my spectral peak moment till I tend to alliterative inner-feuds that a book is been concluded and I was supposed to move on...and on.
A "tribe" chic was talking about sitting with her deceased mother for 6 hrs, while they waited for their brother to show. The mother passed away sitting in her easy-chair, very peaceful... I don't know why other than I am just a human cog in this wheel of transmigration, and somehow reckon this pain as my own, but I swear that image of the daughter sitting there is as real as anything I can imagine happening to me, *like* it has, and like a thousand similar impermament rich pageants this life has thown me into so prone. G^d my singularity will indeed avail, I'm smelling it--fearing it--mourning my loss as I am the youngest of 4 brothers. The Buddhist perspective is we don't suffer alone, the Jewish perpective is that our pathos is between You and Your Creator. My feeling is that, if we are in exile due to our pain, there is "light-radiant" meditation that is the emergent fact at any one moment and will subsume the vital norm with a symbol of transcendence making us better prepared for TRUTH--things going away.
There is something Public Enemy rapped called cold-lampin'. I don't have any idea what they suggest it means, but it fits perfectly if one has ever found his self looking at resonant light, as a 4 cornered room is ill-contained, and there's no place that beckons...yet something hypnotic occurs--draws him in. Sitting down by the hearth, stale moments, empty cauldron, and I have but one friend whose offer of companionship was my jumping off into solitarian days-more, than losing my way with bantor making me languish with no real direction. Smelling the ink in Nat. Geographics, appreciating the Indian tinkers & taylors occupying a shared cubby, I saw the project of my worth was coalescence around the sovereign home/ & world village--an extension of shared skies, and brightened fields from local farmland... but all reduced to back-o-wall repose next to white noise vibratory properties emanating from yellow lamp.

Ways of self-annihilation, and no direction home

2010-04-09T09:13:00.003-04:00

I always wondered what those concretized thoughts had buried underneath the institutional pages of prayer books. Like subconscious imagery had episteme dialogues, irresolute langour.
Padding an enquiring path - its semblance my mind allows for is vipassana--a visual of deep-aside that carries me thru patterns of remorseless days...just freedom transpiring. The Will is a concept whose sense in Islam, like Judaism is about the limits we place on Imagination. Musa/Moshe was a kind of philosopher in this regard. Here in Lexington, the Arboretum, taking to the proud land, sometimes has those who have embraced the outward fact all in suggestion of dancing letters--think Abraham Abulafia of Seferad, like meditation had them waiting when I emerged. My ex-sis-in-law and I out walking together, mentioned to me one time that the blank language of the Church til we've discerned it, is the exact impute any attributable term applied to Transcendence in Sanskrit and our furthering into that plateau, like construed dynamic feelings exercised just so will have that same concretized starting point. And I'd rather see it that way. In all beginnings, all things are possible. But, without getting stuck on value statements, has the human condition in a referendum of change, since the proselyte is renewed by novelty, and with no preconditions. All things are possible when you are really unable. The beginnings of things suggest emergence that brandishes awes, and awe language, that we could yet be painted by the most indescribable spectrum of values starting a trajectory into self-actualization...played out like samsara yielding/ transition manifesting.
In the Quran I use as reference, has the Arabic with the English and accompanying commentary, Nirvana is used to imagine the Absolute. Spoken of with such a nod east, that we see the value in giving up the trappings of identity because of its material ties, so as to emerge creatively as the One and Many.

A reggae artist, maybe more times than not may politically identify with Islam as one of the dearer blackman means toward redemption. Zakat in Islam, Tsedakah in Judaism: tithes giving. This corner-stone making magnificate our monotheist utility as socially so unique, has compassion manifest when dar al-harb is at bay, or another way to put it out-of-Babylon's diminution. Making what-is go-down! Thoughts, torpor... In the forms of what I prefer, like the advancing politico whose animal I don't mind. Then what I want to observe creeping in the experencial media driven world, so that it gets sent back into the nothing of irresolute, corporeal imminent fact. All goes down. Moses Go-Down; Jesus=back to your desert sojourn; Buddha to the pre Sakyamuni moment...initiation developes. Muhammed when Jibril made the Prophet's life the result of a serious requiem of change to those who'd submit to Trancendence and our responsibility to cultivate it.

My issue with some of the comments with what those who detract and indicate that we have problems with "religion" is usually because of those who practice it. Then we indicate liturgy and its failings. Well for fuck sake we can do that all day. What about what is right about it? I mean I flat don't care for the missionizing efforts of all our trads. I don't care for the Conservative trend taking such as a grip on Jewish culture. The old school Jews were Progressives. And Traditionalists like Elie Wiesel still would be considered old school. When my bro walked around the Vatican, its perimeter, he said, nuh uh, the is one Jew they ain't getting their hands on. Meaning it is huge the effects these institutions ARE DOING laying waste to human individuality, but in my view, the meditation on the Trinity is a fascinating exercise in thought... You meditate on the spirit you coalesce around the logos, of Word into Flesh. Meditate upon the INeffable, land on Essense/Spirit and its quality in our faculties. Dylan uses the lyrics about the empty sheet that now corrodes, the Fiddler or Peddlar? who walks to the road, says everything is returned that is old, & Dylan's conscience explodes as the back of the Fish truck loads. Maybe Judaism was old--and needed to be mitigated and superceded. Yet we know Dylans iconography: The ROAD--taking to IT is a mission, a meritable deed of sorts. This is not a palimpsest havoc against Jewishness to embrace Christianity. Would Dylan LEAVE anything behind? Yet he saw beauty and salvation, his freed spirit in Christian initiation. He called himself a Zionist just a few years ago in a visit to Israel too. AS ugly as this political category may get, it is also worthy of something too, when the merit of its advocacy is in the actions of spirited defense in OUR mutual arising. The moral authority--maybe in a hero of ours; Maybe being objective about thought--meaning thought can be authorial and misapprehended. But in a Cleric--yeah we all agree, hell no.

The perimeter of the city in a Red Night and Bright Day

2010-03-30T12:04:00.002-04:00

I like what that symbolizes and concur, my friend called herself Pinko, and another friend pointed out roseate hues from a streetlamp a few weeks ago by Maxwell Elementary. We were on our way to Lynaghs. He said this was a "holy" color evoking a certain mood--and I was just like seeing it only in the abstract. Nothing about the color pink draws me into a chimey spirit. Certainly I'm not being patrician or macho--it just doesn't lend any ambience. (I'm purposely not deriving the obvious worded PINK on the ass of many a co-ed's sweatpants. Hot? Yes. Stupid or silly? Yes.) Anyway, Isaac Babel always had strewned his Soviet-Jewish writings with dusks lending a colorfield in variants of rose. I just see the ominous Sun with this, and a landscape in transition from rebellion. Iron blades drinking life's blood at twilight--the recesses of mother night hiding the damage.
~~Nothing dreamt, a solid state orderly green vista, just sky & earth had captivated me, holding out the last rescue of the peace my old neighborhood had to offer-its extension out over by the farm on Parkers Mill not 3 mls from the airport. A walnut treed path down to it, but only after my lined street with pines at the liminal point--I am in good company feeling comfortable I'm destined to wander amongst tall trees alone, in a comely loneliness. I read there Isaac Babel's Cossack stories of deprivation, mystic churches, impoverished Jews, war. The emblems probably a 100 yrs ago and my stumble into the Soviet early days, a percussive revolution in cognizant immediacy, were perhaps a tachanka, a kind of military wagon, not unlike the zeitgeist we associate w/ the military industry as in the US: how it performs in our environment (fashion, culture, social demise), & horses, the sentience-of-promise in front of me there under a pine tree now at the perimeter of a church parking lot, looking off into their field on this ubiquitous Ky horse farm. The loom of an unknown destiny untethered then in my life, had me look closer at what was intermediate space in everyone's life in & around me & made it important to me. I called it my own, lived up to MY expectations, & gathered no more than wall flowers, but enough of a kind of inner-attention to bring it all to the table when the new day arose.

Alfred Kazin was a good find.

2010-03-23T07:18:00.006-04:00

Beautiful air, looks rarified. One time before listening to Love is a Gas, I wanted a glimpse at something, this art, that was sorta disparate and over me in the briefest perspective into what seemed the right auditive wall to scale. That we can visual say our sauntering across a room, is to imagine where we presently lie in repose. To visualize what occurs beyond our scheme--this bubble of experience--is suggesting Everything IS (From Patriots, I know.), and is enough. I found what I was looking for.
Kazin says how Melville takes to the air. Because he exceeds all his ascetic indulgences--they're not good enough. The spirit is drawn in desertified self-possession, actually condemned to emptiness. Man's economy of the spirit is in recompence of life giving blood, but in hellion red hues. G^d only manifests what-is, ...there is nothing outside the known...and we advance upon it interminably.
...path

The last time I saw him alive I had stayed up late after everyone else crashed at his parents house, the appearance house, and listed in my head what I sought after in music's artists--badly identifying at all with some--his brother's influences/ favorites--and then particularly what Dylan and Marley had as a convergent little-trouble gotten over in a similar path... In the mostly pitch blackness, my glowering eyes seeing only a hint of orange from a couch, I think--I start populating the room. Not capturing anything but my indulging in arcs of imagery that seemed to be a call to Yeah Dylan. So if any one alterior self is availing, anybody else ought to be amongst in just considering what-is. So, the little brother tho' inevitably going away, and the dudes that heralded me, heralds him, and to the gathering crowd in my mind. So projecting into the room, clearly what I noticed WAS that he hadn't said look out for my love. Everyone else had. Soliciting the transcendent is goal, so holding the emptiness--there in the corner--in high esteem, tells me I am the Lakota's Yum (from the book The Lakota Myth), the real little brother who rides the backs of his siblings unto the 4 directions. It's just that one direction was the prodigy of self-possession, and I was missing my brother.
Reflecting on a wasted semite, me and thru the lens I imagine from Dylan's words - its conscious pocket and the homecoming like my obfuscated look into a mirror, the one in my brother's room where I was intro'd to his numious vocabulary and insite... Dylan may have come in from the cold while I lay there staring at an orange chosisme--thingism across this basement where we young men kicked it so many times before, and what was plastic (transitional) those times, are now clotted up in loss, sorrow, til I also meet light and finality and all-knowing. The words, "curly covered virility of a wasted Semite" came from Isaac Babel's writings, a Soviet-Jewish writer--early 20th century. What I want to typify is pathos, so that it is understood entirely thru images, and that this reality, that people are suffering can be as remote as KNOWLEDGE of SELF gets, has to be relegated to language as cheap as language may feel. Sad but true, but language is material, and thus is under our control. What we can't control is the fact of impermanence, but our control in its strange adventure and our emoting, we must allow to stream thru the certain vehicle of our relationship with these tools: language... You speak, I feel!

Lightning Lip: fear no evil!

2010-03-17T14:37:00.001-04:00

I've worked myself into a credible weird sadness as if I were at the depths of good-byes to my family. Seemed so believable, I thought I had a reason to cry except for the fact it was over myself... Then I was, well "I'd never know, selah." The project of my self-worth is sometimes only in light of immense generalizations these patterns saying communication is imminent. It is almost non-anthropos except for the fact that iconography of our minds is of course entirely self-mythologized. So, when I say I am in proximity to Us, self-understanding is captured.
I dated this really buxom generation-next or X woman, and she all but punched my cigarette, a really demanding woman. Getting out of her car not long before I lived in this what was to me like a bungalow, but actually was a treehouse, I lived with three of my closest family members. That occasion I just was at a disadvantage from telling everyone why I was trying to cultivate something else. I looked to move around enough that a sense of responsiblility would have been obvious to me, while mitigating these expectant employers--more than staying at Pizza Hut very much longer or any job. My girl, then, is giving me a ride home after some late night thing after work. So, looking at some Kessil the Fool in the sky--the stars Orion, not even close enough to precipitate some Hebraic fulminate light at the end of this conduit room earth tabernacle, the astrology had no value but just my body as some starry night, and no mind but some anxiety that it is a blanket draping the heaven, but only just above me. Inclined toward Sisyphus, in that I can't quite find my feet any more than boughs proffer Sabbath--while tikkun, restoration is clarified from without, the limbs almost reach...yet did not. I suppose this was some kind of karmic death, and indeed I am merely a block away from this vision's loci, and the pleroma of something we call liminal and sky-bound is as encumbering and beckoning now as it will ever be... Then dusk will be dawn, and the new day will be the green of space fading in my dream-scape, turning thoughts to reality.

Books and my self-worth: I'm an acolyte of self-mythologizing

2010-03-12T09:45:00.002-05:00

Subject: embracing the inevitable, Time is our glory

I went to a bookstore today, my friend did too, a different one. That we coalesce around a similar frequency--the emergent fact of what the essense of the respite of just these sort of places are, is known as one or just a few places where conscious props follows. The frequenting of these places, like a student cntr couch for me, and UK bookstore, and perhaps his attentive stand in front of books, is looking on toward the disbursement of knowledge, a star cluster shattered or brought into effect. Man, really it's grabbing for straws that minds meet at all, but imposing the possiblity in our condition IS attending to the fact at least, and commonly as what ought to be done rather than community relegating a mystery of otherness to loss of inner-scrutiny: THEY wouldn't ask about the mutual arising community...and I am nothing without them. The chair where I have died a thousand deaths can't be a badge of honor--the shame making me high--as in the relish I feel I can re-live past episteme solving earth crisis for ME. That I have died is indisoluable, I know I have. I look at death more or more sanctimoniously ad infinitum, it is answer to a more complete measure of these days gone by. You live alone, but you die in crowds and among the power that rids you of its responsibilty. We are One when we die, we look to be one.

This is what I have derived from reading Jalaluddin Rumi's father's writings.

Subject: thoughts as the garment of night warmed me

So the best thing we can do with experience is to equal it--as opposed to fearing that we might absorb experience and become jaded. We compartmentalize complexity and unknowing all the time. If we start projecting unknowing, and really that is only apathy, then we get thrown on the banks of our heart and its seat of awareness gets as unreal as habit and mimickry. If the heart was a ditch of blood, unrealized relationship is understood if we imagine that love's loss has us the proselytes as being thrown upon its banks.
We taste the activities in the world. Can anyone see we've participated only thru observation? The activities of contemplation and transcending or good times albeit, just that, has curtains draw from the liminal sky and the earth-body... here's where the senses say I am bound by an unconditional single phenomenon--consciousness. Hopefully Higher Ground will be in Equality and Self-consciousness at once... the little Problem.
If you see me thru the lens that I am entertaining the activities in the world, this creation, G^d's mention of his works, it is some justice we may all deliberate over that we all are in medias res of his meditation.

The Puja Of Valerie

2010-02-26T09:29:00.003-05:00

I went from idealizing what I want in the future with my lady... to this "thing" in mythic proportions::::::
"...that I can't make up my mind about. It would be difficult to start a new relationship with someone--I don't know that I want to. What do you think? Dating around? But nothing serious--and hold out for each other...?" I THINK the culture you & I come from has it that folks are casual and not tied down, meaning it wouldn't necessarily be a great difficulty to stay aloof in the presence of another woman, and I would hope that you feel that way if some guy wanted to date you--that you would be casual and not get caught up with something that here in a yr or so would otherwise pull you out of the possibility that you and I would continue. Yes, I do want to continue--because I anticipate you will have made ground on many necessary responsibilities that SOOOOOO concern us right now. In other words, a lot hinges on your development. Which like I say, you are HUGE and dynamic and will feel--not to make a mean pun--like a million bucks by that time. I'm not saying I want my cake and eat it too--I am rather placing the cart before the horse, and you're the cart in one way, and in another way I am imagining that we COULD comparatively look at each other from this same "condition" tho' time will have perhaps made us THINK we have changed... Change IS necessary, but I don't for a minute think that I want to be uprooted from this tree you and I have planted... I think you get what I am hedging on and not actually saying...all I know is it's weird to think about, and I feel pretty much like a nobody til someone says I really do matter. I would tell you everything or anything if there ever is an anything... You see what I mean about if thou wert as my sister? I mean that'd be strong if I could confide in you til kingdom come, whatever this high and low road brings you and I... I'm just forewarning a possibility...and am being as up front as possible...and I think who the cap fits let him (me) or her (you) wear it--ONE size fits all. This is like a pact with you. Whadya think, sis?
Told Val this was meant for her: we have an understanding-- it'll be a year or so before the next one...(understanding, I mean)
***Perhaps it'll be An Erotic Journey from Milan to Minsk... I mean, anything smacking of porn from the seat of Rum (Italia) to Eastern Europe has my name on it. And also ever since Craig got tied up and manipulated into a relationship with basically a mailOrder bride from Russia, I thought just going downtown to get it on with Ms. Brown, may as well be Ivanovich's forbidden fruit, the lucky daughter of a mafioso Russian daddy-o as easily... You know seeing that you and I are kinship with this part of the world, "she" could be my surrogate ball & chain Hungarian lover, albeit from the Yellow Horde (think Mongolian features--yes yours) in Slavic guise as opposed to the most diverse of Eastern European views into language's ontology=Hungarian so odd, and powered by that diversity... but again either Romance language or Cyrillic/Slavic ones, have tattooed my prediliction with a Commie girl. Like really Communist, straight out of 1900 when Zadie was but a cinder in his mother's eyes, and her rebellious girl-friend, presumably who I would have known, then gotten to know--was somehow transported to a lair of my making. And she'd leave the room to regimen her body, and all I can do is wish she would walk back into the room as you... and you would be.
***I read in a yellow cloud, and in my orange shroud a pharoah's night I once took flight and embrace within. I used to walk to chase away all exegensies, (I think I'm trying to suggest excesses), and I swiped at my theoria/contemplation over things not contingent on cryptic Muslim awe, but just my home in old brown (my shoes) and how to take the doctrinaire of phala shruti (Hindu for the fruit's of hearing) and call my own name in theophany (transcendent calling of my own name...), but as in a tinny radio jam box mute and lying on the ground while its owner was searched by his soldier inquisitor--what I saw in the Old City of Jerusalem. Lightning vox with its climax amidst space only has self-denial to contend with. So my opportunity to say I can't accept man's threat against man was forever in ideas of rumors of war. My hope is mythic that mostly I know everyone can have the light at the end of tunnel I see, that there's no lying in wait for the end game (of war's staged allegiance to pain)--the illusion that hope is consistent with suffering for the reprieve, leaves me shouldering my bridge toward awareness: I'm determined to be as stupid as the animal biting its own shadow, if that shadow would be eaten by street lights' radiant voyage when branches above of my neighborhood's gray sidewalk--or rather branches of neighborhood's sidewalks REFLECTS unconditionally. The pharonic night's were empireal strolls in Beaumont-Gardenside burbs...

I hate calling LEXINGTON LEX VEGAS, but here it goes!

2010-02-15T08:59:00.005-05:00

Do we agree that folks are fixated on an end game: life, today's party, tonite's fun! (not to mention the pseudo-science of end of days scenarios, biblacy therewith the conjured foolishness...)Maybe we ought to kill the reason to wonder at impermanence. You'd say, I'll think about disaster, or my reprieve beginning at its summation. On and On you say you'll go ooon wondering... But remember thoughts converge unto these things, go away as exactly. How about just go, for example. **THis is my thang from yesterday's reading. Which I didn't get as much done as I really feel I should have. I can be austere, and there's a pay-off. But I can boogie--getting really expansive, then be cool for a few days, reading-studying but without the long timeliness as on apposite say weeks passing by. YET my measure OF just how it gets with all creativeness and intensity with friends and relationship with the world et al, is exactly the same, no matter how hard of late and duration of time spent intent upon digesting certain concepts. Meaning, I feel received and I feel like I am giving away what the others sell... A really good feeling--just giving it all to the midnight sky!! The problem is IS expecting the bigger pay-off from lengthier attempts at erudite living. Somehow it never seems to matter. One day of stalwart effort 'tis enough to find myself in a plateau of elevated thought...

Now, I'm being a little acidy. But I thought his lyrics were interesting (which as above I use "...what the others sell," and "...midnight sky," from the musician in focus now). Actually he says, Yet I've learned my lesson well, he "walked" on ice and he rang the bell, he did his sentence down in hell; he gave away what the others sell...but EvEryThinG is gonna be alright... The F bomb was from another one of his songs--i was confused (I fucked IN ice...) Anyway, this is just flow of consciousness from an ICE reference in the recent stint of cold weather. Maybe, thoughtlessness transpires in Paul K and the Weathermen's music's message because it was wintry days spent at U of KY when I ran with this crowd/ the underground music scene her in Lex Vegas...of which I am no player. But I must say I get ecstatic feelings from music as one should, and if religion is defined as self-actualization, I am definitely at the peak of what the beauty of such artifice lends in terms of apostasy from the trappings of identity. Identity is the measure of something exoteric, which is TURNED out and away from subtler attributes of art and music. Rock and Roll--yeah, I'd call it my religion--sometimes!!!
***The end game scenario should seem like the pseudo-science people preach having signs telling us of impending nirvana impending annihilation. Biblacy therein this discussion is the crutch of too many. Armigeddeon, which admittedly I know nothing about, except that I'm guessing some early Israelites fought in Meggido--and then allowed in their minds the world should end there, is a preachy joke. Folks that say watch-out-here-it-comes are begging to witness the world's comeuppance-and I find it childish. Anyway:::
It just natural that the father-role our etre-pot into man's desire (like what Abraham said about Terah, that his desire resides in his father's house), is this lens causing some agitation. In religious discussion--I throw it all in one idea, the won ideal, which is 'my parents" are really mind appearance. And their is a stately way to imagine how it seems I have ever conjured my presense in view of their fascinans made up of time and place that gave me my grounding. Mysterium terribile et fascinans is how one takes external forces...say "those" individuals from whom life is in one huge way defined, and gets internalized and written in our subjective minds. So, now we can say IT is otherwise filial brotherhood sisterhood perhaps which is better to relay how we COULD come across to them. It doesn't matter that it is not encouraged. It doesn't matter that they would even riddle us with morose heart in hand, that we get NO pay-off by the languish of those corridors of personal history all supposing we fell away from the tree. IT doesn't matter we inevitably say we are here alone mOm and dAd--in humanities' worlds of acquisitive minds we merely want to believe impermanence will awaken the child and his wisdom that THEY are going to be just alright.

Kedushah mentioned because Wieseltier bridges Religions

2010-02-02T14:44:00.000-05:00

We supply our dreams with their fine details. What if we did this to the rational mind? You say the rational mind is cold, unallied. I say, once we dream of the rational, we are converged upon Time PLace and Community. We dream our imaginative narrative.
If philosophy was the smoke, and it would yield thru its conduit...in one way "the burning in my chest and in my lungs," (Paul K.) is an intensity which is key--and in the obvious way thru the fed hearth of ideas proliferating into the neighborhood's stands of trees, then I combust being restored to I AM.

"How sincere is the profession of your own insignificance if you believe that you are being heeded by that than-which nothing greater can be conceived?" Anselm--a Christian mystic from close to 800 yrs ago.

"Bear one another's burdens, and thereby fulfill the law of Christ." (Galatians 6:2)
The Anointed, the Perfect man, but divine? He said be committed/pistis to me (and become a pisteou/an initiate), but our sense of belief has gotten in the way. He didn't say Believe in me--that would have been found strange to him. An Example is found thru dedication, not repetition of our becoming acquisitive over liturgy. We'd be initiated by actively pursuing the WAy, not touting words that give One security/self-preservation. This is precisely Karen Armstrong's discussion on the Gospels. I thought the nuance was interesting, because many times I am not open to the Christian ethic, yet because of the virtue of what I choose to study/read, it comes up frequently--and I find something extremely relevant and consoling in any one of the Gospels...like Thomas'. Now, by feeling illuminated by this exegesis I don't pretend to say ACTION would not be any one particular X-tian's tendency in doing something meritable. Certainly, this is a call to action.
Just read an interesting perspective as to what we should actively pursue: "Whoever makes an effort to purify himself receives assistance from Above." This comes from the Zohar--the Book of Splendor. The primary source of Jewish mysticism/ Kabbalah... The word referenced is sanctification/ kedushah in Hebrew--the existential is what is implied in what is Holy. One way of doing this is to hold the world in all its subjectivity into High Esteem. Taking what is mundane and have the very sense of it as what receives us til consciousness is welcomed in Wholeness/shalom. Note DHYANA here from Buddhism's 8 fold path toward transcendence. The Result is what is important (in DHYANA)--that being we recognize epiphenomenal reality in relationship so that samadhi is restorative.

One statement of mind's alternate ambience is when I could hear a flangey radio--the conversation in my head threatening that the vocal fountain now scrawling across some projected field around me would soon trail off, but with no clue that an innerVoice is my recorded self. If I were in front of some media providing apparati, it seems only the object in focus suggests I am welcome.

Sitting NEAR = looking to the Upanishads

2010-01-26T07:14:00.001-05:00

All things are possible take 1. All things are possible when you are really unable. The evidence of that is knowing when we look for truth, it eludes us. That the world is, is what occurs when we desisit from cleaving to its semblance. The world is our evidence then.
I could hear a flangey radio--the conversation in my head threatening that the vocal fountain now scrawling across some projected field around me...and would soon trail off, but with no clue that an innerVoice is my recorded self. If I were in front of some media providing apparati, it seems only the object in focus suggests I am welcome.
Hearing with inner sensei some pattern in my inner dialogue was the strange empty look of just my proxy with garage and drive, front sidewalk and Ash tree with convalescent boughs. Do you find it a sense of release looking into the loam of your yard, or the call of the tree tops--like it is some lens through which the wilderness is encroaching just a little more than the shitty-city allows? With any luck we can believe it, then have it, just have it. The early Indian trads, Hindus Buddhists Jains, all conceived of a learning dialect under boughs and skies' vistas
Studying only up the street from where I now reside, I wandered thru Madame Blavatskii's Esoteric & Exoteric Writings deliberating on what I conjured and wanting it, then not wanting it and unable to see my way past it. The Upanishads were conceptually unknown to me, but fervently in the utility of whiling away. Just a box, the spectral me a spectral shore--the other shore, like only one thing is possible, annihilating wanting some kind of mystery that couldn't measure up to what is Good Enough: a box in the corner of soul eyes, never blinding, but merely a warning...I can't know immediacy, just everything leading up to it. WE can take the path to the Ocean's edge, but we can't get in.
Kerouac coming down from the mt. in a figurative way when poesis over the splurb and plash of the ocean hitting Big Sur's beaches, was the clarity he sought so many times before and now making sense he was doing the right thing. Like a flight thru his nerve, high up, one moment seized, a note or two takes hesitancy & a babel of thought, making an un-nuanced few hours surface. The source of Our intellectual prowess is going to carry him until his demise. This occurred when walking back from the ocean on a path that passes a stand of trees in which he particularly like to meditate. He sits & waits for instruction that surely is his-only as one's loneliness allows. But there he sees the "ancient rosy colours" behind his eye-lids & w/out its portents--look what has done that to him. If our self-realization was orthodoxy we'd be turning toward something rather than away. The void within sought to obliterate itself. On one occasion he relates: "for just a moment I had reached the pt. of ecstacy that I always wanted to reach, which was the complete step across chronological time into timeless shadows, & wonderment in the bleakness of the mortal realm, & the sensation of death kicking at my heels to move on, w/a phantom dogging its own heels, & myself hurrying to a plank where all the angels dove off & flew into the holy void of uncreated emptiness, the potent & inconceivable radiancies shining in bright mind essense.... I was too young to know what happened." In view of the mystic approach--my experience was Gershom Scholem's texts on the Kabbalah. I've deliberated upon them since I was 15, I'll turn 44 in a few months. I remember lying on the floor, trying to gather the imminent FACT as if sounds-arriving--traffic close by, house settling, birds...whatever would convey me to what Now seems to be What Then I was illustrating in my mind as ascendant chambers, called hekhalot. This is what we might call HigherGround & I'd say every excellently translated Rumi poem draws our attention to these particulars, meaning we are at once temporally grounded--moments later, perhaps, we find that we can reflect What-Is=the experienced-Forms, or in the Jewish Mystic sense, energies called seferot.

Inter-play of light and memory: Salvia Divinorum interuption!

2010-01-11T10:37:00.006-05:00

The other night, profiles of the constancy of having seen Howie, as long as we have known each other, then-yielded to neon-like perimeters surrounding him. Memories of looking thru the banana leaved canopy, in Israel--the West bank w/ his partner w/whom he grew up & me converging then in those few moments into their group, we had looked at the polygons of light coming into the ground where we stood, which were always dismissed & assumed--lest it matters that I imagine them now. And this looking would be toward people when we gather after a while only presence & gratuitous image... as that has changed too! It was like I had looked up into that light, a practical remonstration of personal history now opening up--during an episode of Salvia Divinorum effects. The cult of personality, yours mine anyone's, seemed to become an objective cause: consciousness now ironic because mental space becomes obviated--a discreet sharing of adventurous prowess of psychic drama; killing the norm together! This looking up into light interests me. At the laundro-mat the day before the last day of the year, I had an intuitive homeward feeling because I sensed time & place contained in the sheen of lights in there, as I immersed myself in an Israeli author's bio -- his growing up in Palestine, Jerusalem-- Palestine which later became Israel(constituent w/ a relevant past--when we call it Palestine, no doubt, anyways...). Now I was back the other direction, because everything is a before and after with my occasional thoughts on my travels in the Middle-East, w/ the hellion of light intensity, which at times has humbled me, making me turn off & tune out. These moments, instead, were a layering of brightness stewing above me, construing OBLIVION of any mundane thought TOWARD a "typical" trip to this place--in the shopping center next to my wife's pizza place.
MY BROTHER RESPONDED WITH THIS COMMENT: MY ORIGINAL POST WAS CALLED THEEND OF THE YEAR__IT'S SABBATH!! You grow nostalgic young blood. Somehow the artificial "change of year", this new number affects us all. It is a time model which we use to measure our current state. I can see the light you speak of, brightly feeding me like a reptile, giving energy. For me, shining through the grape leaves rather than bananas. The grand hills of Jordan, staring from accross the river where I always imagined Jordanian soldiers watching me work through their binoculars - maybe laughing at my sweaty toil while they watch from some shady place drinking tea.
IN MY CONCLUDING THOUGHT--this is my mnemotechnical measuring of the motive to tell stories:: Just by taking the tact that I should never finish certain sheer moments of memory, like it's on my behalf the feeling of living next to a river, never is the river jaundiced of tarrying stones--making memory as comfortable as probably the nicest teacher I had here in Lexington telling me she levitated, knowing it is no more than the horse losing concact with the ground in its galloping dance. No, but, there is no fulfillment, things are readily good enough. We are at our best when we are equinimical. Anyway Krishnamurti had that good aphorism that truth is a pathless land. If we believed in a path, it would confirm consequences in forgetfulness...seems like as in a dream I once had, the trodding exile from some precinct of memorialized space to the balance of intermediary space was getting the ground to meet each step--it was a move into subjectivity, since I hadn't divined where I ought to end up. Really like an Aboriginal walk-about.

Confessional--like to Zadie, to the One and Many. Then Etc.

2009-12-30T15:34:00.001-05:00

Got a lot of reading done yesterday after work. Felt great. Strange thing FinaLLy getting acquainted with silence and solitude. Finally not because I haven't noticed it before, but quite the opposite. It is a strange surprise, as in some threshold saying, "see you didn't realize this moment was waiting!" I think I feel your numinous mind and your language skills as I'd remember...like later wishing I had appreciated more then in that occasion, some occasion! Funny how a sense a presence is so phenomenal. I lived at my house on Williamsburg for about 27 yrs. There were some solitarian days there, due to my schizophrenia...which is utterly IN hand now--I so much love feeling convinced over a question of balance, but "then" I wasn't on meds or not the right kind. Anyway, I certainly began to characterize those ground-zero days among those environs as some kind of ulterior normative self, maybe. Going down to the sinkhole and sitting in the fenced-in area to read, or down at the Church on ParkersMill--like I've mentioned to you before, was what I felt I should edu-tain and have continuity with what i started at U of Ky. You are just like other old neighbors giving that certainty of the those skys encumbering me, I tend to feel. It was a great place to linger-on IN, and to grow and have endured--no doubt. But--I drew so many incursions of what I wanted to be in dialogue with, and you personify that event, as does your homey house...and it's a dusky ride into attention over emptiness anyway.
~~The understanding of our essential nature as a goal, in monotheist terms, should make us wonder at the fact the we know things must-go-away, we die. So it becomes very easy after that to say, that this world must end likewise--and expect, and f%$#ing pray for that. In some Theism, the signs can't be read, if they were it is said to be too late. So these bible and or Koranic thumpers need to quit looking.
You can walk to the Ocean's edge, but not get in. The Other Shore is the best symbolic illustration of the Ultimate Reality. The spectral shore is my narrative making ME the convergence of what-IS. Thoughts Feelings and Actions are allegory to Higher Ground.
ALL symbols of eternity ARE in this life. Are you saying you know of another--because you're speaking from this precinct in life, not another (kind) of life. Language is symbolic, RIGHT? Right! So in that we've used ideas about something netherly or paradisaical, still only bespeaks of what-is: that which is before you...
Once I thought "knowledge" would solve all my ills. So I was determined to believe that motive temporarily--because there is something about Unknowing, the Musterion--a sacrament in fact that is important as well. Musterion=mysterion. Ram Das, really doesn't speak to me much, maybe a couple of things...he's like Eastern Thought schtick, said one thing I remember just flipping thru his book at Waldens at Fayette mall about 7yrs ago. That once we realize we can say with confidence that I DON"T KNOW--it's because the certainty of our skies of youth, were really observed for what they were. I'm thinking THEIR intensity and spectacle--or the faces our instincts make us presume and emote.

From Ashvin--equus, to Islam thru Yehudi lens

2009-12-28T07:28:00.003-05:00

Watched a dvd on Bhutan lately. The mindset imparted is that these mountain dwellers are in immense complex relationship with the natural environment--no more complex than ours, just BETTER. Their prayer flags are called Wind Horses. And there's no better sentient emblem of compassion than horses suffused with mt's breath... Maybe elation is being the convergence of Time Place and YES community. Now, community could be I and I, Or I and THou, or we; Or I and nature--but it may not be at the exclusion of any other when one seems epiphenomenal. In other words, when it's You and Nature, or You and Self--everyBody else follows... Just a thought. "Maybe elation is being the convergence of Time Place and YES community."--I say this because in Buddhist thought, during meditation this is our condition. At the peak moment, the rational beeeeing identifying self in an existential way is a pattern of what seems cosmic and us as it's subject. We can see that dynamic. Objective reality, and insignificant self mirroring it. It is rational--because it is enumerated, yet spiritual. But it IS all encompassing, in that we magnify relationship then and all those we've ever endured. Perhaps!
"Similar goals" I would have
> thought this guy would have agreed to. Meaning, you know, life,
> liberty, the pursuit of happiness--however that
> translates in the umma and ulema--the varied stations of Islamic community. I haven't
> the inclination to drum up all the that I've
> read, my apologies. But, I am currently reading about ibn
> Maymun as Muslims knew him--Jews call him Rambam, and this history-bio
> deals Kadi al-Fadil at one point--one who received Maimonides after exile from Spain.
> Also this book is about when Saladin came from Syria to
> subjugate Egypt--taking it from the Ismailis and
> making it a Sunni state. Maimon wrote al-Risala
> al-Fadiliyya, a book about Poisons and Anecdotes,
> for Fadil--The Treatise for his Excellency. This
> is the etre-pot for my interests.
Like in the
> Epicurean garden, their are patrons and their
> subjects, teachers and their students. It is
> qualified in many traditions--pilpul debate in
> Jewish institutions--not to mention what goes on
> in the Zohar (tahir means zohar in Arabic),
> Buddha's deerpark with 6 ascetics all imparting
> austere vision to Sakyamuni as he'd be called
> after deciding the Middle path was best. And in
> Hinduism Brahmodya--an apophatic goal that
> takes myth and shows it for the answer it
> provides without demanding rigid logic to
> illustrate a cosmogony. So, silence is the medium of exchange between Adherents.
The sense of it IS and only IS without the trappings of taking on Belief system as if toting it around somehow makes me engage some Other all the better. Why? Because, cleaving to beliefs, beliefs in general, take you out of relationship, if the ritual mitigated by the Belief makes Belief as a goal preceding the moment of this or that Festival and its requirements. So ritual should make us land on something Unknown, not the habits that drag Tradition into the ditch where it belongs, as in OUT of my way.**I don't want to make a habit of Belief or Ritual--in certain respects. Not Western, not Middle-easterner. Belief is just self-preservation, and thought is fear, and cycles attitudes to make us Believe in our security. Now RITUALS as a nuance to show the human condition as having a Moral relief to chthonian (dark) forces, gives substance where otherwise our ignorance said fear IT. Like many people's fear to call the Muslims as Mutually Arising toward similar goals as we may have. You know its possible they have as many Literalists as we we do. So THEY are no answer to me--but with their compassionate edifice--Morals IDEALS--ARE.

G^D is NOTHING. The ABSOLUTE

2009-12-15T10:43:00.002-05:00

So I started A Case for G^d yesterday. Not quite sure the X-tian focus as Karen establishes to be her vehicle for the Literalist's squandering episteme, is what I was looking for, you know as specifically showing the Xtian's fault in this, because we know it's global. And yet there are more Christians than any other religion--by only a few million, albeit more than Muslims. But I am in it for the immense scrutiny toward theism and its under-currents, we all would be better for in a braver understanding.
I'd call the problem in a loss of spirituality in today's social environment, a sense of entitlement. My renunciation of this kind of selfishness is realizing not much is within my control--and further I'M NOT going anywhere, no matter how pretty and a spectacle that object portending self-worth suggests. SO, Nothing is going on, and then and only then do I realize I must stand up in this material void and believe in people and their deficits... It is the comparison K. Armstrong makes with this vast technological age and the intense knowledge therewith, that makes what was done in the Axial age, when religion was the education, and synthesis of what came before was the idealic compassion necessary appease our G^d.
It sounds too much like a rhetorical device, but it is worthy mental practice to say G^D is NOthing, because if He were something then necessarily something else would be EXCLUDED. Pure LOgic dude. And further to say G^D is NOTHING, means anything that would place him in our compassionate edifice would necessarily be Transcendence. Definitely to get over the "little trouble" --the little trouble is being able to talk about IT. For me IT is the utter absence of hope as if my heart clutches at what my mind had assessed as numina. I can hold things in High Esteem, yes that is hopeful, but I'd rather imagine my path, because it's about Process, not the flare of thoughts that Belief in a relative notion of Goodness, is anymore than the nice effect of THAT moment in the day. It is only for a little while. Yes, that's fine--but the bigger picture is getting into a place of mindfulness over a direction in multiplicity. A proliferation of attitude is merging with the Objective fact, the Cosmic Now from the Subjective emoting notion. But, if we merge--things are hopeful--I'm not saying don't allow for that. But the spiritual nature of the world is our equalling an immense emptiness...while the still small voice screams we are at the threshold and need not be consumed by it. So hope is Imaginative Motive, ethereal Narrative=Inner-voice like our lightning path. But the mind is so 5 minutes ago 5 yrs ago 5 decades ago we have only to manifest what-IS and that being the path that led to the ocean's edge. We can go up the cosmic ocean, but can't get in. If we could get in "HOPE" would be the intuition the human condition provides about the lay of land where our sustenance would be found: Physical & Spiritual. But we have dreams, and ways and means get in the way to assume suffering gets jettisoned. IT is the path to forgive the Ocean that we might suffer, that we must willingly suffer...and so we learn. So, I have landed on your contention. WE are better off hoping, because forgiving the ocean means the ocean forgave us.
The Axial Age's Ideal in Compassion, is not only in G^D's justice:
SKILLFUL is a Buddhist term!! It IS "skillful" to chop wood. Like one story Karen Armstrong relates about a Chinese peasant out in a tall field with a sticky tipped stick catching grasshoppers--to roast. It becomes automatic, and he is "part" of that field with the tall foliage, and steady legged grasshoppers. Skillful means benevolent and moral, not just physically adept or an artisan's or tech's finesse. Because, someone could kill in an exacting way, but that wouldn't be skillful, because it goes against the compassionate edifice that a world in dormant repose purports. The world lies before us 3/4ths of "what-is" is buried beneath appearances. It sleeps. So, perhaps we should dream or have an imaginative narrative that respects its convalescence. Just back up to the sentence that says the world is dormant, it sleeps--it is skillful to take what people say as HOW they are without judging them. Perhaps our adversary is confused? That's possible. That she/he says something that doesn't "make-sense" to you, why IS all I am asking, does that mean she/he was lying? I could have heard out my nephew yesterday--about his customer. Yes, but I couldn't concentrate, and I zoned out when I got home because my eyes were seeing stars at the edges of any little lighter shade of a wall or floor, or sign, or corner of a TV, or monitor screen. It makes my cognition terrible, so I tune out in a big way. And strangely it happens about 90% of the time on Mondays. The tact that we can cut people off doesn't seem like an option, which I know folks agree to wily neally. But like I was saying IT is best to assume people are confused or ignorant and not sinister or lying, because though they may try to spin it in their own behalf, doesn't necessarily mean they are bad people. I define the middle ground--it's what I do. I will try to listen to folks better next time.

THe Flourishing Bloom my mind coalesces around=YOU!

2009-12-12T13:34:00.000-05:00

That G*D said, separates, calls, and sees and seems to be what Abraham Joshua Heschel **in my estimation**ciphers as what is memorialized in Time rather than in Place is just knowing I am understood, with a brief glimpse of that, supports my ethos and behavior like I AM making IT happen. (by persisting in seeing ourselves in the social fray) "IT" meaning some formative conceptual authorial moment. See, I WANT to feel I am You and YOU are ME...so if the kind nod in my direction says clarity was in the proof of my reaction **Sorry so tedious** then I get those beautiful unconscious stones to tarry. Here's what Consciousness is RIGHT NOW. The fusion of color and form, as in the predilection to see the mind in bloom. IT is in the corner of my eye--many times any time I want to look. The lotus Abraham sat on after the fire was quelled and his magnanimity meant he wasn't to be burned. That image is so ancient that I can be prepossessed with this imagery in a leap and flourish of reconciling what I've scrutinized for so long that I'd never be able to shake the bonds of emblematic thought--as this desert of time portends.
The Ascendant can make a Place Holy, but G*d transcends the physical
I see the Mutually Arising personas of those transpiring around us. The thing that inspires something beyond coincidence of running into each other, would be a jumping off point--say a principle held between the two individuals/parties in question. The principle may be their magnetic draw toward each other, not rather that I hold my dearly striven belief as something that makes an Ideal in Jewish light better than those whose belief system never draws me near the flame of self-actualization. Except thereby thru discernment. The Beginning is perhaps their auspicious FIRST meeting making new antecedents for their supposed reunion.
IN that you dream, thereby you exist. In that you exist, there is a principle behind what it is that makes you subscribe to the momentum thru this path you trod. For every action there is an equal an opportune reaction. Any unit of existence is called a monad, anything that exists is consciousness. I want to awaken within this dream.
I wondered at the fact that I feel I am received in great moments of self-adulation. It seems somehow I am imagining an indefinite group of peers somehow giving me some due that otherwise escapes me what it is I do right. That I promote my just-due has me ride out some current where all these good feelings tarry...and I love "watching what I see."* (*Rimbaud) So, my motive may not necessarily be more of self-congratulation, but just the pithy blue dream that thoughts are alive, the mind is vital, in my mind a fine mind--I hope. Total Eclipse is a good flick about Rimbaud. I read in some book about his poetry that he decided some existential view of the world in a moment of true observation of a world of sorrow. He sat next to a deceased Prussian soldier out in some field next to his home town some backwoods French town. He said, right then," I have decided that now I want to know everything." Like Karen Armstrong relates, the immanent free-lance monotheist, letting the impact of suffering have us dilute the delusions of propriety, and rather have us appeal to compassion, is something starting with self-scrutiny, and not "lambasting" our supposed enemies.