***In my long distance run in the 90s, I'd sit in the split-level basement, house of my making, feeding the fireplace--where my eyes traipsed glowering into rallies of the inverse--that fire--of my empty cauldron. Bugler cigarettes, rarely if ever any green, but whose incidence with fire of mystic glyphs, taste now of my statements of Presence/immediacy. A brick on the hearth's been riven from the heft of logs dropped on it, now from greener wood and outdoor moisture has a gloss of gray and black. I think of its surface as serving up victuals from flames digitageous grapple into throaty chimney, and before that my solicitation... One wafting ash caught like artifact of compassions' boundlessness, I thought it magnified--as in The Last Temptation's messiah, the night confides in him even to the point extinction, someone finds him.
***In the Haroon Mt orchard, a date tree grew as provident summer's day retreat. My entrance was an exceptional passporte from a life which abideth in ever toppling the effect of serenity in potencia, with availling awe enumerating its examination. Had I stayed in mts' retreat, habituating to what would be unmissed that I'd endure w/o complexion--vipasana visions, however impulsive has authenticated an apex definition in a compassionate theatre. A nod to Kerouac: Just call me your broom, woman. And when I ask about eternity, remind me, Only a little to go.
***Experience is landed from up-above. Little blossoms of Mom's polyester chimera shirt, she's clouded cumulus abundant, omni-provident, stepping aft & no prospects she'd divine where I was following her, except maybe to the maples. The one to the right of the porch I've clung to and taken refuge upon the flat-porch roof--the last time the bland blue of the smoothly unreferencial sky, made this house's interior in its grasp demanding my coherence in less aerobatic hauntings... I'd do better to lurke under the eaves I imagined. Feathers falling. Ones sensory resolve is to go into it. Moving into experience, even in every tethery conduit of an enumeration of the possibilities--in sun born plateaux, which wholeness packages, expedites, thru it we're subsumed. So emanating relations sky-fallen, it falls, we're subsumed...down to it, down. Reduced yet bouyant, piercing truths can only inspire incumbancy.
***The window frames the yard - objective, willful - like Kerouac in suzerainty over the gnarled tree in a posture toward Mt Hozomeen--I'm here. Next to any window, like glad looks from sliding by neighborhood dormancy, warms in greeting-Kongfuzi/Confucius-definitions of humanity. As Kazantzakis tells his reader, the best warmth is next to a window. His/Confucius is an Axial age conduct when the world's core-cultures reliquished a proud warrior god toward the edifice of peace, to be erected in the hearts reclination as mind-sore's salve. Revelation which inspires, its death reliquary, the loam of all fertile consent---I'm going to end up there. The seasons are up to the task to evade my graduated therapy--all the time in its sway, illustrates man's unwillingness to wade into the climate of the Greater Will. One might be reduced to deny heady inclement privations in the unknowing meanings of earth's consuming flourishes.
***Slatted window shadows project onto the opaque wall making trees liquid in its negative space--my tote of a deep-aside needs renegotiating... The Great Transformation, Karen Armstrong's book is before me--NPR playing--but I want to find a Dao concept, the Way, as if?-- tho' a "way" isn't one teacher's recommend--so perhaps the "daode" is what I need--the "power of the Way." The unfurling of March 3rd is throaty with thresholds til the long ends of the day. Let me clear the way for the suspiring unsaid. The mesmerizing sheen, now just a dusty square figure, hand-splayed sized, make my tired eyes cross, ...these hard-wood floors resonant letting my woody eyes filter night images, and new manufactured motives.... I put Chex cereal underneath my scarred front-yard tree, it lies uneaten surprisingly--the 2003 ice-storm & lightning damage since as this trees personality framed in proper rigeur. This cellulose sprawl --tree-fount of of liquid messages rained from ancients, where I had guessed at its demise, is up to a great vital struggle, her potentials match the task to stay around longer...
The one thing that may stunt my fantasia about living in the past is unhealth. But then again I'm fraught & mindful of dis-ease now. In an Amritsar throe of pathos--the reading of it along with the stupid Orientalism apeiron & undeveloped cult, lines up with haShoah--the atrocities of WWII in its humanities' contempt, I see a humid-roseate stay in some bungalow where Gandhi resigns himself in brahmacharyin conduct IN a fast. His attendants in harmonious machinations toward ahimsa--an awakened message with clear moral clemency, in this dream, I align withal in self-confessions. He's in prayer modalities and I sluice-by past silken curtains, but only catching my self-agency in thorough-going factotem wiles. In my seamless night slumbering--these days all in early 20th century-deriding of the coming industrial deluge, sleep comes-to in the intermediation of my bedside: white sheets cover my visage and two unknown persons veiled by too much day blanching this nesting concourse. The observer me in the dream, I'm looking as from the ceiling light, delivers the sense that I'm coupled with two others. H.P. Blavatskii & Gandhi are persisting in the skyline median effluence white sheeted but humbly dormant for a morning what ever intercourse.
***Making music mixes= beastboys w/bizmarke / w/Lee Scratch / them doing an instrumental jam dubby too called Shambala, different than but conveys what it good about P.K's Mandarin Jade; reading the scrolll draft of On the Rd; read about Hillel; staving off boredom, no-ing it is the root of a weird depression which persists but "doesn't consume" as my old h.s. debate buddy put it. __________If getting outside of ourselves is a strong representation in patterns one may get wise to--some extremity limb of distraction, I certainly can step into my shadow, meaning outbound of my formal mind-sore (a displacement, psychologically, of the greater yield of brings one down), and call myself present for the advantage in dysnomia/ a mire to be readily discriminated. I'm more bitter than acorn tannins. As Bob Marley's 1rst producer lyrics it, Thank G*d for making me Mad. So madness, miasma of intensity, is yet intensity, and intensity is the Key...
The charge of more enviable better self is when I feel luckily drawn into some halfLight, if giving-in has this so valent apprehension. The recommend of those having seen me thru incarnation in artifacts of my staggered paths in & out of their courtesies, dangle keys--if I'd only...? These folks framed in glowering corporate/domicile lights in the dullard tricks suburban living does, does it in salutaries breeding its weird silent science.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Friday, February 10, 2012
I got your tree
***funk in my blue--firmament, where I throw myself prone, comforts in what's true!!Why does giving Thanks & Praises all seem like at the trialling occasion's strongest mean --its surprise--as its "intended," its edifier? I respired two three hits from a rolly--if heady event be a season of confidence, knowing I don't have to get up, gives-Up respite's graduate his gradin objective--meaning I'm at the cntr of ambient theater. Fluid meditations or "laziness" I see in this connection with biblical treatment--just at the Common Era's intro--the sanhedrin - its certain appointees had not done the scholarship - couldn't justify independent thought, whereas Hillel had... The word used was "atziluth"--this term has impute toward mysticism not mentioned here (Talmud). In kabbalah it suggests "emanation." Rather like a sense of self-possession, I imagine as just that energy performing, its lesson something less explanate withOut yet wielding in miasma formlessness... Formlessness is the efficient cause in any paradisiacal dream--as opportune as the threshold toward liberation is become identity initiation --the what if & what-IS beyond from this space, this timely adjuring. Having wandered at the gates where life's fruit is yielding in The Orchard, one is sometimes in and amongst its notice in unknown seasons....
Earth crisis makes ascendancy over it taste of reckless immediacy.**
****The dirt is my calculator. Think: madrassah students writing in sandy media, & alef-bet chart on the wall--chumash studies ensuing over self-realizations parchment... My bones are buried in time's refuse, season's chimeras of nature's omnipotence. My bones enigma in its dross veil is replete in dionysian tendencies. Wanting to burn in a manner of mineral suttee to my animal's vitae consumption--oxidations of earth body dirt in cauldron soul...
Dirt is the receiving media and first bearer of literacy--the pugmarks bi-secting proudland live in slo-fidelity toward integer distances where the quarry is to be had--reading on we orient to the Other - 3/4ths of its essense suspires in fascinans!!
Mantram: notarikon: at-bash: word Virus:
While I sat quietly my tambeur whistling winded mind w/out much warning seemed to give me an interior view to its pre-eminent product--Me. Me as the reflexive Excuse-maker. Comes off like, That is just yourself in an artistic brush...sh...sh current "whap," what it is you'd ever think before self---is as so. I would write "whap" infinitely minaturized if only to show its cheap consistancy to make me awares. But, as compared to the teeth on time-piece's inner-workings redressing what we see as the emergent sun. Now the sun is quick light and in the subjective--I'm just seeing the mind prone, confident no new answers would impinge on arcing liberation spirits--no flight from One Knowing. I even saw a squirrel under my quickly shedded visage--there's no denying it, but there is no ascertaining whose beast identity these vestige consciousness-ings meant to adjure. Thusly being like a ferral squirrel's tail, her robotic flicker recommending the creaturely nomenclature to shift to accomodate life sensed.
***I fell off the rd into a garden. Sleeping there for a month eating only tomatoes and corn, pot to cook, some black bread. Thinking xleb, but this takes place in some vision w/interview of Chagall, I read of a writer's pilgrimage to Provence, and my brother's terminus at a French farm. Feasted in pure diet renunciations, then hit the rd naked again. Nothing to carry far-over way-over, revelling at my good luck, I tote maybe the peppery filmy dust off of the tomatoes--fruit sticky on my elaborated grip.
** A shadow reified is no shadow, but its illusory semblance, just to imagine--presenting it in our minds eye--would be definitions of what ever distortions of sullen empty stoic outline, this recalcitrant chalkboard shade of self-personified. The first thing met in rung rds toward city-mind, or village-raft nucleus..., I lumber into pivots of corridor en-trances to plateau speaking of solitarian trod.
***People leapt from my skein of form. From my mouth was more easily read. Like weeping and wailing figures, black cloaked, in tendony bites--gnashing my teeth like these cloaked hordes in expiation felt it unreasonable their last digs in my incorporation. Of course, throes of populist valor from set-freed tribute for their habituation in my mind administration was glyphed indian ink graffitti in my head. The worst of selfs' possession is in the past of churchy amens making nigh aums my relighted literate thoughts. Cannibals, eat eat eat.
***
The ego comprising the macro-mundi stowed in the micro-harmonia mind, has the soul adventuring in great intention to centers that are from without. I dreamt of stifling a door-handle from audible rotations in unassuming intervals. I realized it wasn't from the last time the door was shut. There was a steally mummer like an industrial AC unit atop a bldg--I saw a retired figure underneath it. Rusted convex gridded metal was his bed--tho' the subtlety of dormant, deer-like lair's dream caricature, thrum thrum thrum mollified the proneness toward something demur... What ole brown had fated in his path, was just yet another social-mediation in my muddy ego, letting this distance demonstrate straits of denizenship as my head 'pon a rock, there on family dusty bedsheets. Funny, curious, bookended artworks arising in good fields alighted--and strangely unvisited... bohemian ones by my brother were sanctioned in what it provoked, but I didn't want him to get away with it. As if to say, see the history, get to the mnemosyne of this shapeless mass life hands us--prodigious conscious props and little availing to establish why so conspicuous without it being ours in graphic stimulation: that we are light, and blood is what powers energetic consciousness--I'll stab the pitch fiber of intricate dreighed designs in my head.
***I'm the manifold of the machine ethic. A toothpick can be a machine. I'm just a vacuous-ascesis delivery device. Certainly this physical sense is the least of us--easiest expectation of soul forms. Speak to the dust & language is voguely esteemed as some subservient florish ....in what it states as it becomes leaf-blown detritus, more likely: the tree's expression of season's time-taking of man's pulse. Forests entreat exile. There's no thoroughfare. One foot in, the goal of its margins is yet a redeeming imposter. One can't be as among the people who are the trees, and wander alone. We've already answered the question: the tree fallen is the arbiter of sounds-arriving. Screwing the sun just for fun with earth's wine reworked biotic collected into its going--the sky skying's face; the trunk is a fount, just more muscular--its limbs, the lit side inverted from leafy parks providence ...roots' acquiry!
***Sitting sesshun, as if I'd get anywhere where real light makes me see beneath sullied season's constant footwork on my soul's advantage over body's success, would prevail under a stupendous theatre when Valerie sees me in real-time--it can't be pretty. Not formally meditation (I-ditation, if my yeahs were yeahs). Like I need it, tho'--it's just that it is closer to her expectation that my self-reliance demanded. How that is possible still can't strain the indifferent chorus I'm stricken to convulse into my babel-mind, measured in the arrayed slippery road down to its reduction: truth is our simple station--Babylon falling somewhere, verity of its incessant perfect execution of my braver essense... If ayurvedic (sense of macrobiotic appetites) paths unfurl, it won't be at the pace of my approximated success as I would have it. An Indian rug is where I'm going-- with a 1000 raw laments imagining exactly roseate wee hrs in family homes, exuberant in Dad's heady ablutions, and Mom's tea or lentils, something staved remarkable about an exposed nerve, some-fire, all-gathered, waiting but deciding... Thinking past the night, and dreams gestating from stars in usual sky births...
***Subject: fountains/veruna
I thought it prudent to steal stillness at my misapprehensions. It was hard to take such & such dream secluded in cold & fog where experience with appreciable content railed over denuded train's proud land. I'm the train, boxcar locked from without; Mind theatre, candles alighted--some whimpering, and I don't know why they illuminate cornerlessness; who else is lodged as cargo w/ticket to ride, leaving lights On?--at beginnings, nothing's decided: duality and a giant step--just how proud in its essense hidden? But could give amazingly prone soul's thwart of the body--this engine, no where nomadic to stone skip (me in a tumult toward...) into blue mozaics of i-ching-ing fortunes, fountains, one pinnacle look.
***As a student - higher education - after starting my final semester, never completed, was my last attempt to feel like I've indulged in that process with potentials like my fellows. Outside Russian class I sit at the heels of the calvacade of stupids with more solid sensitivity about there educational goals. At the feet of giants was easily demonstrated - but more auspicious without their presence in fact, as it was in Dahab where I would conjure their proximal advice, evidence of their stolid academician fates. The stranger in remote objectivity was all that distance from home colluding in time-whiling away as that ascertained space of the vision of me in a physical map to rank the conscious one. Red sea looked vague in imminent boundaries--mine were in the social mind-sore...but wrested from phantasmal winds coming out of the Sinai: agencies could have been afoot, but enlisted unconsciously because of the precarious nature of my readiness to project conscious-crowd causes--if only in corporeal clemency. Getting at the crest of personas enthroned by what my thinking then made into a perfect gloss by their directions-multiplied would be this invention of residing-self at their feet--not in their procession, necessarily. I thought them statuesque, permanent sensual pillars of corralled and focused procelytes to thought-fields of never-ending mindlessness.
***
Ezekiel's vision. Chariot, throne, fire, angels, archetypal beasts of burden so that the chariot has spacial success--seems to invent an answer of ex nihilo conventions. A river of gravid providence - so immense as to as imagine Pollution victuals..., losses to matriculate from skillful discriminations making eternality a toxic invocation of plentifold answers to its all too evident nourishment in stows behind purusha (humanity's)pantry-shadows. Ezekiel must incorporate the design of self-actualization's mean. He eats--is asked to eat--he told himself, likely, physical success is cultural instinct to have life perform in his agency, at his heart's minimum-maximum rhythm he can't faulter whilst prone to concessions outside the blood-lair . Within the deference to an awesome event that wakefulness conducts thru historical well-being, Jah proves his sovereignty of myth's constant at work in a mutual arising. As the imagination arises confessing memory, the inner-narrative admits to the dialect as an Absolute, an oracle awakened but resuming...
Earth crisis makes ascendancy over it taste of reckless immediacy.**
****The dirt is my calculator. Think: madrassah students writing in sandy media, & alef-bet chart on the wall--chumash studies ensuing over self-realizations parchment... My bones are buried in time's refuse, season's chimeras of nature's omnipotence. My bones enigma in its dross veil is replete in dionysian tendencies. Wanting to burn in a manner of mineral suttee to my animal's vitae consumption--oxidations of earth body dirt in cauldron soul...
Dirt is the receiving media and first bearer of literacy--the pugmarks bi-secting proudland live in slo-fidelity toward integer distances where the quarry is to be had--reading on we orient to the Other - 3/4ths of its essense suspires in fascinans!!
Mantram: notarikon: at-bash: word Virus:
While I sat quietly my tambeur whistling winded mind w/out much warning seemed to give me an interior view to its pre-eminent product--Me. Me as the reflexive Excuse-maker. Comes off like, That is just yourself in an artistic brush...sh...sh current "whap," what it is you'd ever think before self---is as so. I would write "whap" infinitely minaturized if only to show its cheap consistancy to make me awares. But, as compared to the teeth on time-piece's inner-workings redressing what we see as the emergent sun. Now the sun is quick light and in the subjective--I'm just seeing the mind prone, confident no new answers would impinge on arcing liberation spirits--no flight from One Knowing. I even saw a squirrel under my quickly shedded visage--there's no denying it, but there is no ascertaining whose beast identity these vestige consciousness-ings meant to adjure. Thusly being like a ferral squirrel's tail, her robotic flicker recommending the creaturely nomenclature to shift to accomodate life sensed.
***I fell off the rd into a garden. Sleeping there for a month eating only tomatoes and corn, pot to cook, some black bread. Thinking xleb, but this takes place in some vision w/interview of Chagall, I read of a writer's pilgrimage to Provence, and my brother's terminus at a French farm. Feasted in pure diet renunciations, then hit the rd naked again. Nothing to carry far-over way-over, revelling at my good luck, I tote maybe the peppery filmy dust off of the tomatoes--fruit sticky on my elaborated grip.
** A shadow reified is no shadow, but its illusory semblance, just to imagine--presenting it in our minds eye--would be definitions of what ever distortions of sullen empty stoic outline, this recalcitrant chalkboard shade of self-personified. The first thing met in rung rds toward city-mind, or village-raft nucleus..., I lumber into pivots of corridor en-trances to plateau speaking of solitarian trod.
***People leapt from my skein of form. From my mouth was more easily read. Like weeping and wailing figures, black cloaked, in tendony bites--gnashing my teeth like these cloaked hordes in expiation felt it unreasonable their last digs in my incorporation. Of course, throes of populist valor from set-freed tribute for their habituation in my mind administration was glyphed indian ink graffitti in my head. The worst of selfs' possession is in the past of churchy amens making nigh aums my relighted literate thoughts. Cannibals, eat eat eat.
***
The ego comprising the macro-mundi stowed in the micro-harmonia mind, has the soul adventuring in great intention to centers that are from without. I dreamt of stifling a door-handle from audible rotations in unassuming intervals. I realized it wasn't from the last time the door was shut. There was a steally mummer like an industrial AC unit atop a bldg--I saw a retired figure underneath it. Rusted convex gridded metal was his bed--tho' the subtlety of dormant, deer-like lair's dream caricature, thrum thrum thrum mollified the proneness toward something demur... What ole brown had fated in his path, was just yet another social-mediation in my muddy ego, letting this distance demonstrate straits of denizenship as my head 'pon a rock, there on family dusty bedsheets. Funny, curious, bookended artworks arising in good fields alighted--and strangely unvisited... bohemian ones by my brother were sanctioned in what it provoked, but I didn't want him to get away with it. As if to say, see the history, get to the mnemosyne of this shapeless mass life hands us--prodigious conscious props and little availing to establish why so conspicuous without it being ours in graphic stimulation: that we are light, and blood is what powers energetic consciousness--I'll stab the pitch fiber of intricate dreighed designs in my head.
***I'm the manifold of the machine ethic. A toothpick can be a machine. I'm just a vacuous-ascesis delivery device. Certainly this physical sense is the least of us--easiest expectation of soul forms. Speak to the dust & language is voguely esteemed as some subservient florish ....in what it states as it becomes leaf-blown detritus, more likely: the tree's expression of season's time-taking of man's pulse. Forests entreat exile. There's no thoroughfare. One foot in, the goal of its margins is yet a redeeming imposter. One can't be as among the people who are the trees, and wander alone. We've already answered the question: the tree fallen is the arbiter of sounds-arriving. Screwing the sun just for fun with earth's wine reworked biotic collected into its going--the sky skying's face; the trunk is a fount, just more muscular--its limbs, the lit side inverted from leafy parks providence ...roots' acquiry!
***Sitting sesshun, as if I'd get anywhere where real light makes me see beneath sullied season's constant footwork on my soul's advantage over body's success, would prevail under a stupendous theatre when Valerie sees me in real-time--it can't be pretty. Not formally meditation (I-ditation, if my yeahs were yeahs). Like I need it, tho'--it's just that it is closer to her expectation that my self-reliance demanded. How that is possible still can't strain the indifferent chorus I'm stricken to convulse into my babel-mind, measured in the arrayed slippery road down to its reduction: truth is our simple station--Babylon falling somewhere, verity of its incessant perfect execution of my braver essense... If ayurvedic (sense of macrobiotic appetites) paths unfurl, it won't be at the pace of my approximated success as I would have it. An Indian rug is where I'm going-- with a 1000 raw laments imagining exactly roseate wee hrs in family homes, exuberant in Dad's heady ablutions, and Mom's tea or lentils, something staved remarkable about an exposed nerve, some-fire, all-gathered, waiting but deciding... Thinking past the night, and dreams gestating from stars in usual sky births...
***Subject: fountains/veruna
I thought it prudent to steal stillness at my misapprehensions. It was hard to take such & such dream secluded in cold & fog where experience with appreciable content railed over denuded train's proud land. I'm the train, boxcar locked from without; Mind theatre, candles alighted--some whimpering, and I don't know why they illuminate cornerlessness; who else is lodged as cargo w/ticket to ride, leaving lights On?--at beginnings, nothing's decided: duality and a giant step--just how proud in its essense hidden? But could give amazingly prone soul's thwart of the body--this engine, no where nomadic to stone skip (me in a tumult toward...) into blue mozaics of i-ching-ing fortunes, fountains, one pinnacle look.
***As a student - higher education - after starting my final semester, never completed, was my last attempt to feel like I've indulged in that process with potentials like my fellows. Outside Russian class I sit at the heels of the calvacade of stupids with more solid sensitivity about there educational goals. At the feet of giants was easily demonstrated - but more auspicious without their presence in fact, as it was in Dahab where I would conjure their proximal advice, evidence of their stolid academician fates. The stranger in remote objectivity was all that distance from home colluding in time-whiling away as that ascertained space of the vision of me in a physical map to rank the conscious one. Red sea looked vague in imminent boundaries--mine were in the social mind-sore...but wrested from phantasmal winds coming out of the Sinai: agencies could have been afoot, but enlisted unconsciously because of the precarious nature of my readiness to project conscious-crowd causes--if only in corporeal clemency. Getting at the crest of personas enthroned by what my thinking then made into a perfect gloss by their directions-multiplied would be this invention of residing-self at their feet--not in their procession, necessarily. I thought them statuesque, permanent sensual pillars of corralled and focused procelytes to thought-fields of never-ending mindlessness.
***
Ezekiel's vision. Chariot, throne, fire, angels, archetypal beasts of burden so that the chariot has spacial success--seems to invent an answer of ex nihilo conventions. A river of gravid providence - so immense as to as imagine Pollution victuals..., losses to matriculate from skillful discriminations making eternality a toxic invocation of plentifold answers to its all too evident nourishment in stows behind purusha (humanity's)pantry-shadows. Ezekiel must incorporate the design of self-actualization's mean. He eats--is asked to eat--he told himself, likely, physical success is cultural instinct to have life perform in his agency, at his heart's minimum-maximum rhythm he can't faulter whilst prone to concessions outside the blood-lair . Within the deference to an awesome event that wakefulness conducts thru historical well-being, Jah proves his sovereignty of myth's constant at work in a mutual arising. As the imagination arises confessing memory, the inner-narrative admits to the dialect as an Absolute, an oracle awakened but resuming...
Friday, January 20, 2012
My reading chair is awry in the 1000th death of my repose
***There's the adjacent room. Nothing but aerobatic conjurings of my wish to collude. Go into it. Lay in a middling side between corners. Demand what lay without in encompassment as attention offered--I'm acquisitive. Fortunate sense over place as time, rather than time as memory is just what it means as duty to be concise over privations' little trouble--out of place. "How can I look at myself in this (dim) light?" Or, "how can I ask pedestrian self, why to be adjudged in pathless land?" This time?
***
***Our minds make perfect a certain cessation of this reflexive becoming. What is the mind when weirdly effective but dormant--dreams of limbs amble, incorporation of the design.
***I had stolen a heavy doorstop out behind the anthropology bldg next to MI King as it was in its new phase replaced by WT Young library some yrs back. On one of those protuberant bricked-block steam vents, I sat reading Pilgrims which has something P. Smith wrote in Buddhist thought; images black & white of Nepal, Tibet, Mongolia, other places...; and Dalai Lama's input to promote R. Gere's theme, matriculation of the dharma path. At home with the magnetic element of just this doorstop, I couldn't manifest the event of my propriety--negligence in institutional margins, how it incited my conduct, dipping in crowd-herd spaces, but then slipping away with a relic of this importuning, left me thinking of ways to answer for it. Tho' I didn't (want to) care. I wasn't smoking pot at this time before 6 yrs ago in the range of about 10yrs doing mostly without. And the liberation in physical--commandeering space at my beckon, had this harnessing of my senses in a precarious position. I had to fully believe reception Without was imminent. I used the doorstop without intention, meaning upon something but before no door but the hypothetical. The following week I brought it back, dreamt that night of tent-refuge, doorless, expectorating onto the beaches of Dahab--of note probably for Palestinian/Israeli negotiations having taken place within these last couple of yrs here, incurring terrorists' wrath. As for my habituating there for 10days or whatever it was, there were no resorts, or bldgs over 1 story. In the dream's verisimilitude - its truth to the reality in my apprehending say these Egyptian, not bedouine, restaurantuers--their personae, the dream had one of the Cairoene tote the bottle of Elite vodka we negotiated with w/intent to score more prodigiously, actually, ...he's ambling thru the tent entrance, waggling the bottle to warn, what was actually the case, that the vodka would sting the gash on boy-dude's leg. In reality--he smuggled the vodka away secretly, and very hush-hush. Kid probably need stitches. So, black tea was served, camels trodded between us behind tent's facade, and the beach 50 yards to go to Reed sea denying what-all we could see, the sky skying thither--out the framed tent portal.
***
Sleeping in our hotel room in 1000 Oaks, my brother on the adjacent bed, a strange testiment to presence etching into space, had left me prone in some subterranean foothold. I saw folds of light, neon like lit parking lots and nearby shopping cntr, all intensifying suspiring langor--giving it hard edges--green margins, energetic like my next breath fills 10 men's lungs, & not only mine. I'm underneath it all, older than the eucalyptus trees with their mesh of fallen leaves desicating willow-like. I imagined impatience in the treadway aeries-born (of this light)--if I were to clamber up its incandescent arc thru the patio doors. My brother certainly wasn't reifying in convalescence such vaguely sustained conscious space considerations... He couldn't have known he walks this mile in brevity to the equinox of parallel sojourne, me there, him residing thus! Buried underneath memorialized escape from my innocence as the youngest of the 4, I have acquisitive throne of awareness he's been packaging as less thrwarted anthropos figures, not leaving it all to the intentions of painted light-glyphs, I'm seeing, since he imagines his proxy in the world as a hand grappling likenesses - representing an uncarved-block: his stained countenance not meant to lose its intent as shapeless mass of man's wallow. And there is where he's yet witnessed.
***Moms: In beginnings, all things are possible. All things are possible--when you are really unable. Thanks for baring the children of light. It's not that I'm distracted from our distances strung. It is only that when I think the world is feathers falling, everything presented as unfurling times are pathless lands, because the little trouble is only a Becoming, no goal of negotiating you in striven industries (dear cosmopolitans!); your peace bidden in the slightest ways, I'm vexed & glad.
***
Reverence is culture--I may have used your_____to yoke these senses. Whenever the occasion when intimacy isn't manifesting of instinct, the wizened have exceedingly tried to impress out of biological reality paths demostrating cultural instincts. The instinct being his-reign, the father when sad, can't otherwise see his son but impossibly sad too. A blessing, confessional for the son. If thinking as much, I'm assenting to take the self-same planet, bomb atomic til the next load... --I was like 16, thought equinamity could be instinctual terrain. Self-expression = apprehension of utility in the empirical burden. Reverence demands ritual--yes I love her like ...just there before us, whereas affection gives man up to roiling wet mind, hard-wired, brick ubiquity, to dethrone convenience: arbeit macht mame loshen, work makes the mother tongue.
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...
***
***Our minds make perfect a certain cessation of this reflexive becoming. What is the mind when weirdly effective but dormant--dreams of limbs amble, incorporation of the design.
***I had stolen a heavy doorstop out behind the anthropology bldg next to MI King as it was in its new phase replaced by WT Young library some yrs back. On one of those protuberant bricked-block steam vents, I sat reading Pilgrims which has something P. Smith wrote in Buddhist thought; images black & white of Nepal, Tibet, Mongolia, other places...; and Dalai Lama's input to promote R. Gere's theme, matriculation of the dharma path. At home with the magnetic element of just this doorstop, I couldn't manifest the event of my propriety--negligence in institutional margins, how it incited my conduct, dipping in crowd-herd spaces, but then slipping away with a relic of this importuning, left me thinking of ways to answer for it. Tho' I didn't (want to) care. I wasn't smoking pot at this time before 6 yrs ago in the range of about 10yrs doing mostly without. And the liberation in physical--commandeering space at my beckon, had this harnessing of my senses in a precarious position. I had to fully believe reception Without was imminent. I used the doorstop without intention, meaning upon something but before no door but the hypothetical. The following week I brought it back, dreamt that night of tent-refuge, doorless, expectorating onto the beaches of Dahab--of note probably for Palestinian/Israeli negotiations having taken place within these last couple of yrs here, incurring terrorists' wrath. As for my habituating there for 10days or whatever it was, there were no resorts, or bldgs over 1 story. In the dream's verisimilitude - its truth to the reality in my apprehending say these Egyptian, not bedouine, restaurantuers--their personae, the dream had one of the Cairoene tote the bottle of Elite vodka we negotiated with w/intent to score more prodigiously, actually, ...he's ambling thru the tent entrance, waggling the bottle to warn, what was actually the case, that the vodka would sting the gash on boy-dude's leg. In reality--he smuggled the vodka away secretly, and very hush-hush. Kid probably need stitches. So, black tea was served, camels trodded between us behind tent's facade, and the beach 50 yards to go to Reed sea denying what-all we could see, the sky skying thither--out the framed tent portal.
***
Sleeping in our hotel room in 1000 Oaks, my brother on the adjacent bed, a strange testiment to presence etching into space, had left me prone in some subterranean foothold. I saw folds of light, neon like lit parking lots and nearby shopping cntr, all intensifying suspiring langor--giving it hard edges--green margins, energetic like my next breath fills 10 men's lungs, & not only mine. I'm underneath it all, older than the eucalyptus trees with their mesh of fallen leaves desicating willow-like. I imagined impatience in the treadway aeries-born (of this light)--if I were to clamber up its incandescent arc thru the patio doors. My brother certainly wasn't reifying in convalescence such vaguely sustained conscious space considerations... He couldn't have known he walks this mile in brevity to the equinox of parallel sojourne, me there, him residing thus! Buried underneath memorialized escape from my innocence as the youngest of the 4, I have acquisitive throne of awareness he's been packaging as less thrwarted anthropos figures, not leaving it all to the intentions of painted light-glyphs, I'm seeing, since he imagines his proxy in the world as a hand grappling likenesses - representing an uncarved-block: his stained countenance not meant to lose its intent as shapeless mass of man's wallow. And there is where he's yet witnessed.
***Moms: In beginnings, all things are possible. All things are possible--when you are really unable. Thanks for baring the children of light. It's not that I'm distracted from our distances strung. It is only that when I think the world is feathers falling, everything presented as unfurling times are pathless lands, because the little trouble is only a Becoming, no goal of negotiating you in striven industries (dear cosmopolitans!); your peace bidden in the slightest ways, I'm vexed & glad.
***
Reverence is culture--I may have used your_____to yoke these senses. Whenever the occasion when intimacy isn't manifesting of instinct, the wizened have exceedingly tried to impress out of biological reality paths demostrating cultural instincts. The instinct being his-reign, the father when sad, can't otherwise see his son but impossibly sad too. A blessing, confessional for the son. If thinking as much, I'm assenting to take the self-same planet, bomb atomic til the next load... --I was like 16, thought equinamity could be instinctual terrain. Self-expression = apprehension of utility in the empirical burden. Reverence demands ritual--yes I love her like ...just there before us, whereas affection gives man up to roiling wet mind, hard-wired, brick ubiquity, to dethrone convenience: arbeit macht mame loshen, work makes the mother tongue.
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...
Monday, January 02, 2012
No Door? Precisely, life suspires, if sweetly, thus.
****
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.
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.
Thursday, December 01, 2011
Acquired silk paintings w/possibly Urdu calligraphy
***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!!
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!!
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
OFF the cigs, man
***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.
***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.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
THOUGHTS on Sarah Tilla, and other pieces
***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.
***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.
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