I'M TALKING ABOUT 2 CONVERSATIONS

Say for instance there is an ensuing dialogue--you, however are attentive, conscious of the foci which is administered by, say, a posture of confidence, & IS HEART-felt. But rather your mind is floating on a myriad of conversations imagined & one that is realistic. Now your spirit is divided. And perhaps your head wins the battle, as the awkward silences demonstrate to you an awakening--a minor one, the one that always accompanies your daily travails. The only hint, literally, that suggests something has taken place is footsteps pattering in ascension, rather than the reality some one individual is going away but in descending steps. But a hint nevertheless: the following of the collusion of sounds arriving.

On Parkers Mill, near Airport rd.

A sweaty ride through that aromatic countryside, wind blowing into me... objectifying temporal thought in angst that my life was of some other place & another time. There I push off from worries, & the wind is hitting my face; I feel like congratulating it, she cries happy tears, my sweat. I'm still in my beak, hollering inside, "All this shit of self-deprecation doesn't move me anymore--just my heart full of blood & legs pulsing..." Rhythm: purple sticker thistles' smells; fields in their expanse; a car whirring by=no worries, I'm not going back so quickly; the solstice of June air; alone! I even ask myself why am I out there, as if I needed a reason one last time--leaving me prone & irksome: the diminutive self wanting to get out. I'm riding our neighbors Schwinn 10 speed, an old one, it looks like it has a gooseneck made of nickle, still not sure. There is an old raggedy home to the side of the road after Airport rd., which is all ahead of me on my way back. Then BLAM, a serious boom & I thought I was being shot at. I instantly surmise that some ole redneck from the porch of that house had to be the culprit--but nobody is around, there is no gun. But then I realize, too much air in the front tire made it explode from the hot pavement. So I get off the bike & walk the 3 miles home.

X-mas day--A Jew resides in his thoughts

What is it that speaks to us whilst we focus on experiencing just anything and something DIVULGING our insight gets to our cognitive BLAH BLAH? Like nothing stands out on one show we're watching, and then the presence of some one actor seems absolutely palpable. Obviously we get beyond the calling that life is imitated and we perceive absolute realism. I could paraphrase Camus-- He says that in order for the cognitive faculty of the mind to be in a healthy state a certain amount of dormancy is required. Watching an actor in a role, say live action or otherwise even, lets us on to a reality their respective identity imparts... & maybe if we are distracted and unfocused this (moment) can be delusional, recorded nevertheless thru our persistence, or not, and if not why do we not have the necessary down-time for our mind solvency (finding that identity) to occur (to us). If we are suicidal, something has brought us to the (in)capable moment of discordance and the ambiguity felt in whether we can go on. I say capable at once, because perforce we can never know what we could or would do. (Capable also could imply that we objectify death i.e. our ally and we can go on to the waiting now w/ the tool called impermanence -- only if we are in the known of transcendence!)

CHAPTER 1--REVISITED, AN ANSWER

Below in chapt.1 I take an idea of dying a 1000 deaths (from sitting in a particular chair amongst your families dwelling as in Kerouac's emphasis) and give it a more literal sense. The old samyasa (religious-wanderer to use a Hindi term) so to speak takes liberty from knowing the bible's characters are not quite present in this dispensation (i.e. only the morals, homilies etc. are available) as to say people have come before us and left graves and grave attributes to be memorialized (as he would choose)--& also personally for him, a man on the fringe of a more prosperous world, he has taken blows & heard the death-knell too many times FROM adopting the bigger picture: the secular world has opportunity but it remains abstract. You can look at it two ways in the day & age: (1) the opportunities are purposely not meant for him, he is left out, or (2) if a religious person is a literalist they excuse themselves rather than avail themselves of the "bigger picture" --(like the advantages in science/health/medicine, which is a commentary on the fight for a god, whatever that may be between those who cling to belief & those who see it as bunk.)

DYLAN----CHAPT. 1

People moving through this unestablicshed reward=life, seems his focus. He names names throughout. I see him in some unfurnished apartment, or taken in by someone, but solitarian occasions where the cognitive yields to the towering obsolete & it's just him & a book on the table (almost a typical scenario). He is calling himself something in the vast immediacy just to turn to his potential to see thru what he can never ally himself with, power. I'm reminded of the image of an old mendicant (wandering ascetic), in this case a Jew, and he comes to a small room in this ghetto, or tucked away village restricted from the rest of the region. To be free from the Powers-that-Be means at first to seek out the thousand deaths he maintained only to find, in his world the even more grave conceptuality of the Bible, or Book of Ethics--Talmud--more grave than anything the authority could do to him (in his mind). So he sits in a shtibel (study room) the open book swells his head with forced thoughts, he is across the room and the distance is a maze of gravid time resisted now forever 'til then. And all he can know is a Seperateness called Kodesh/holy. Dylan seems to claim loyalties, calling himself a Zionist, but again the world is out of balance & we are still younger than yesterday--think history!! The history of G-d is replete with a context of only one conversation with the Infinite that mattered. G-d said, "Hey?" & man said, "I AM!"

I know I know, why bother!!

Our minds demand order, order is in simplicity, & simplicity is in the statement our memory makes that something is feasible to THINK. So say we have a divisive moment, nothing to do with that one statement but to admit we'd go about our day w/o dwelling upon it, this one time. Now when I'm facing losing out on certain imagery, & only those occasions when that static quality to thought demands a blunder of space to deal with, I know I'm not going to pursue the "thinking" just for release. I refuse to consider my experience as if it could be any better or worse just from the influence of thought. Resultant imagery now remains accessible=that space is inside (vast), & not obviated in a way where time controls me.

beit (hebrew)=HOUSE; EIN SOF= G-d as the ETERNAL

The house is the symbol of the receptivity of the Infinite; & gives it a place, w/o negating & creating a sense that in another place Ein Sof wouldn't belong. I dreamt of a sidewalk flush up against a yard in a neighborhood of houses. But the sidewalk was a rushing stream, and to cross it was my prerogative. I saw it for what it is--the gap that contains me from imposing on an-other the just abstractions, incoherencies, & quasi-social thoughts in a half-light, was all within a fence (this stream) of mental imagery, and spanned only in expectation that the ulterior self, on the side of the house, will receive me. If energy comes from other planets, in the sense of scenarios we've built-up & made affable, home-like, like a job, a coffee shop, shopping cntr., an apartment et cetera, we gain solace REVISITING our instincts that made us make those places a part of us. The imagery is energy, in other words. And a planet is like the greater world now contained in OUR smaller world.

Walking to the BANK the other afternoon

I think it is kind of strange how we have an impulse to hone down a sensory moment. The wind was coolish and I was emptied of thoughts in intellectual pursuit (which is a good sign, because at those moments I'm wailing back to find its application) & I wanted to embellish the consciousness of that sensitivity with the desire for more of it--quantifying, that's all. I was at the peak of the deep, and I wanted to get it behind me: truly in this case hindsight was going to be 20/20. That is the instrument to my success--having felt presumptuous, if at a point of endurance from no longer being the spectator (observer) of the realistic--but of only illusion: my perception. & more than that not an intellectualization (like this) but rather an insensed moment *as an actor would speak of: the observation of neuro-activity, like that of a winter's day as a kind of competing for its profit (the existential thing-ism).

HEARING the conversation in the OTHER room

So the lolls are really riffs, a hesitation & expectation. When everybody knows the general course the conversation will take, someone grabs the floor & tries to give entrance to his peers--but loudly. It is like a bubble someone tries to blow up & take a gander at, just to create an edifice & lend to its demise. It really has stereotypical qualities I personally try to excise from my principled dialogue w/ others: kill the pattern!

I am ANTINOMIAN

The general malaise of purpose unites us all in polite contentment & seeing, in this case, Asian Indians, say, at the Univ. Library I find myself in a salutation deliberation, because well he/she treats me the same. The American Wasp is somehow different: perhaps I don't seek his purpose--in the CONSERVATIVE trend. I call going to an ethnic restaurant or foreign market something in line w/ the thinking of my bro Mark, or looking to a pluralist individual like YOU. I get there and look for clues as to what about this place suggests you all would be a part of it. You are me, we're blood, & I learn from the comparison/contrasting. But then like the annihilation of the ego I don't sense identification w/ the pack anymore, instead I am a stranger in a strange land. (or am I just merging w/ the whole?) --& my bros cannot brandish an understanding that this one world village contains me. I've surfaced. So now I want to claim the old way (that may be the affable self, & somewhat ineffective). I'm assuring myself until, yeah, that is gone too, thus the antinomian conceptuality=calling it what I fancy to perceive, while the reality on the ground, the logoi, is what I find at the surface, to which I cling--still w/o a sense of seperateness, allowing me to yield to the strange. The radiance of perception burns away the contours of mischief I'm apt to learn from in identifying this thing through your eyes.

It is a SNOWY KY. morning

I went out to Natural Bridge a few years ago, early Fall. I knew that it sustains more brisk air in the forest, than elsewhere. (It had snowed on me one March Spring break, there in Daniel Boone National Forest.) This one time Valerie was w/ me, and the cold on my face made it hard to talk. Now the obstacle I naturally impose thru communicating was obverted into something really now beyond my control. And since we absorb a modicum of absolutes, and endure them similarly, I projected into relationship that I am understood from incredulity: she's cold, I'm cold et cetera. This morning the weather eclipses my way as I am refreshed from the norm of it all--expecting harmony of spirit asunder. There is a silence, Im apophatic--9/10ths of everything is submerged like I am buffered from one day running into the next, this dispensation is not not-eternal. This day's angst is in the shadow of the SUN, it is cool & approachable...

ALL my THEISM is an AS IF!!

In the Synagogue back as a young person, I'd commence toward creative moments, geometric ploys in an understanding that the walls & halls of the synagogue--Ohavay Zion, the Lovers of Zion, had perimeters I was not opting to go beyond. I knew what it felt like in strange environs, to want to get beyond thresholds, & a house of worship is a reprieve from the frenetic world because it blankets our coveting externalities/ dims our alighting toward the material reality. I could look down the corridor of classrooms & the walls & floor seemed to bend in a circumambulation around gravid G-d thoughts. When else was I ever so mindful of an I & Thou scenario, or Greater Being? I can narrow it down to a breath. The arbor had a secular manifold--unshakeable, because Lexington can be tasted in the domains of the outdoors away from mysterious ritual/ nothing mysterious about play--in reality a stamp of liberty in childhood certainty of the skies above, leaves us off without placating Abraham Our Father, a consort of G-d... naturally we were designed to digest absolutes (in this subjective way--is that possible?), & no authority beyond those reaches had us absorb epicurean sensitivity to the outside world. **I borrowed this idea of geometry as a portal to a creative mind from the Islamic instance; it applies--Peace!!

RASKOLNIKOV via my underground

I felt sensitive, like all the incidental sounds arriving cut through me like a wooden bat swung against a leather couch. Someone showed up... as I neared the convalescence of hermit-like existence, finding opportunity in it. Why haven't you done anything today? were the words unmistakeable w/out movement in his guffaw, but drawing me out to the color blue, my floor, which I had only seen as black & white 'til then. I had an architecture drawing table, a cheap one, in the middle of my small room. & he slammed some piece of industrial metal, I found out in the garage, on its corner & broke a piece off. I felt it was a fist's report across my face. I see what Jimmy meant by saying the lights turn blue tomorrow: my eyes only looked inward, felt glazey, & I made the outward fact a center whose perimeter was infinite--I just looked like I haunted myself. I drew little abstract images on a journal then, felt rushed like each idea was kindling my intensity to prevent a fading away. There was a fire in my brain, but my cup runneth over w/loss, & time was being broadcasted from everything I railed against. To compound those "images" I read distinguished Flavius Josephus histories as if this book proffered the concolor of my effort with "road"signs, only I could read, & would make this strife personal & not derivative. The signs or symbols were the archaic projection of this 19th century book translated from the original Greek, & somehow still embossed with a truth from an ancient time, while defeating the relevance of immediacy. I took it out towards the airport, into a cornfield, sitting in the autumnal cool, the sun still high above, I needed space. I G-d damned my life in those moments--I g-d damned the lack of portals into the mundane awakenings I expected just through heated conditions of forced thought scenarios. I needed to taste shapes & to hear colors. the Muse:"Doest thou love the fog?" the Self: "I fear it!" the Muse: "If you fear it, you hate it..., if you hate it, you LOVE it!" (Evgenii Zamyatin)

Lay My Hands across the BURNING Sands

You know that limb we are taken to from reading? The passive exertion leaving our minds to contend w/ a more meditative "hold" or contraction from all the elemental residual torpor our day usually embellishes into our psyche, creates a darkened corridor into which we are no longer content to trod. I see the "gravitation" draw into the confines of that little center of contention, but now I wonder about being in the throes of that blanked out space, now I won't dismiss it, now I want all my space back. (Instead of being backed in a corner from moving around conceptually, & then staying there, I want to consume space.) I begin to scurry across images of the book, in a precise alluding towards my take on the author's intent. I begin to project motive like this--a little logical flurrying to get ahead in the book, making information now to seem more accessible. We may assume the fancy to maintain an interest, but actually indentifying having gotten lifted solidly, & becoming that movement, one becomes incredulous at the adaptive mind. And that is a prone moment, readied & established. I want something like a half-thought, so I won't answer back, then it's on me--the thing that I am a cause-apparition on the burning dunes. Is this an explanate reality enough? I know it is analytical, but really it is a simple idea!!

The man who fell to EARTH

Sometimes I feel like the man who fell to earth. Everything I can say or do is exceptionally homeward. If I think I have a link of reprisal to what is happening to me, it only spurs me on (sometimes) making me resolved to it--solutioned. Nothing to be helped. In Israel, in Petah Tikvah, I was staying with a Sefardic family (non-European, Iraqi-Morrocan in fact), very modern convenient situation. And to get out one afternoon to stretch my legs, maybe walk down to the beach was a way of LOOSING a BORN feeling of walking the PROUD land. (As opposed to a reasoned, weathered appeasement that hill & dale was gainful in my intensity toward it.) I got down the street & felt overcome w/thresholds & loss. Had I gone further, it was plain to me in those few moments I would have been lost & helpless to find my way back--Mediterranean neighborhood in all its modernity; I was desperate to rebound from the little sandy path leading me towards the unknown back to the apt. block & condo where they lived=homeward, no other choice. At this moment I felt like I had stretched to the limits of a starry cosmos, but a thousand points of lights (excuse the origin of those last words, seriously..., I read the same thing in "The Jew in the Lotus.") had me gathered all along with no way to get outside the box!! This is wholly symbolic of the Brahmanic reality, where there is nothing outside the known, & to think yourself outside the box leaves what is manifest only that much more the goal of what you seek. We are Positivists.

ATZ chaim OR da'ath/ the tree of life OR knowledge

This morning I have conceptualized time, which is always a good sign. It has to do with the quantity of input as greater than the expiating of what I have read. I like lying fallow, at least if I can keep this pattern in mind. As ideas come up in this book that would suggest a familiarity with the environs of Jerusalem (yes), I go to these images instead, as if I know... which the consummate effect of having been there is one thing, but looking into those images without that advantage is basically the same--it's all the immediacy of my bubble of experience, as that is just what IS before me. I know better than to spread the thick sedative of god images into an intercessing human reality, though the eschatological psychology has gone the way of cosmic man, rather than a Church, or Mecca surrounding our fervor. I.e. I'd rather call it a tree, as perhaps the one where chaos & mercy mutually arise.

GIVE your more, to receive your LESS

Think about whence comes perspective. If it is the floor & dregs of consciousness, though the grounding affect is realistic--it would take one longer to find the equinox where shared experience emanates, that of light-heartedness which is middling, where most others (other people) can be found. Do we sacrifice this ambience? Life takes sensitivity to its game because everything we can say about it falls short, thus the impetus to embrace the floor of our sphere of influence (whatever we can do to penetrate the bubble of experience surrounding others)--It is all allegory, but we have one desire, to touch a nerve!! What about deciding on your angst as the thing that makes you emote: that is sometimes all that we are, a dot of angst. If we pry ourselves open & leave us vulnerable to this deficit in thought I'm talking about, we could fill up with loneliness. I want to be born each moment until I see people's heads rolling at my feet in hysteria, ecstatic hysteria!! Look at them full of themselves. There is nothing funnier than that. Pride made them look at you that way. Soon we will be completely objective about it.

A RECORDED event, static in the life of the ETERNAL mind

The possibilities of seeing more in the half-light, is enduring the third option of something in between consciousness & the sub-conscious. A fictive reality is as conclusive as a doctrine of truth, but rationalism is not the last thing the mind wallows in, in truth. Desire is all-knowing transparency, even if it is the desire to speak the truth--ego is nevertheless the order of the day. Truth on the ground for me, is in terms of relationship, of course, & that being the extenuating biblacy of Abraham of Ur (or Uruk) into the facts of my Grandfather--Abraham, his vibrating on (if only in my mind), & my cognizance of that. We're all maneuvering through a complacent life, gathering our waiting as if we'd have a greater belief in its trial. Looking at the white fire of concept purported on the open book, I begin to see lettering in intangible symbols, maybe Greek in the Origen or Philo Judaization. Something w/ progressive possibilities, yet almost 2000 yrs. old--& is old & new at once. Something seems to eclipse my bono vox, and becomes decisive as the vital revenue of self-actualization thru Zadie's (grandfather's) voice. So now I think, as if brought by cognitive forces & mysterions that he has been recorded in the life of the mind & ever will be.

Misr-Mizraim-Egypt

Timelessness goes up on trial in the abandoned synagogue of Fustat (Cairo), standing in there (unless our guide has lied, we could of been in some other ruins) with nothing to be seen. Brittle pasts, shards of consciousness leave me exhausting dust motes creeping out of the attic, at one time having contained genizah documents of the Jewish communities' of the last 800yrs, in Afro-Asia. Like stale consecrated bread (matzoh), aged asceticism is the same mourn, whether or not a more perfect history/utopia (to jump from) suffices in one's self-actualization, OR the fight is lost on us to carry the exploded tear of Job on those who'd wince at such empathy. It is all given up to the Most-I, the One who intercedes before I'm received in any confederate way to my peers--like a house maiden who slips a coaster under my hotter-bottle (which gets hotter each time it is reached for), so it can never actually reach the table. And when the tables are turned, I can't believe its just a diminutive me I'm looking at--or maybe a macro-me? A gazelle-attribute, as is applied in the West to actresses is apropos for the mottled-schemed worshippers & slaves on the walls of various after-life pharisaic digs: the Sun seemingly stifling the contours of the adherents with its radiance. The Sun of Akhenaton. ......there has been Talmudic claims as well as from the Qu'ran that Job was from Egypt, in the company of Balaam, the gentile prophet.

The SAHARA of confinement

Say we use the image, the lit projection of our imaginative faculty. as stark as a message we glean from a passing cloud, or conclusive as the Muslim madrassah students writing in the sand of Niger or Chad or Tunisia, to define the thing recitation illuminates. I reflected on the blue light coming in my window, NPR playing, sounds coming alive & dancing around on my floor before me in an alliterative resolve. I would think my gravid thoughts were distinguished from symbols like the patterns of vocal-capacity, communicating knowledge without an embellishing image, on one hand--and just thinking that the life extinguishing the constancy of the last few moments trolling away was me flipping through a life-book, ever advancing, on the other. I knew it was two things in brief interludes with the present. The floor in its exudation of shadows was my memoir, soon enough I'd get to a pen. On my new futon I'd lie down early unresponsive to a night ardor, but listening to a phone call up the stairs & in the kitchen between my Mother and Aunt. I would fill in the gaps--intervallic silence with a lexicon of peronal history, mostly though just with abstraction. This was more truthful communication than I could then do otherwise: I wanted to object to images, therein lay my confusion. (Now doing more with advancing waywardness had its rewards.) Meaning it was not my communique' that was going on, until I so decided. However, in the end books & images were my deliverance.

Walking the dog on a rebel rd.

The filter of lights through limbs is tendrils of thoughts bidden in & out of my eyes, like a fountainhead or saint to cover my back.
The most feeling I could ever covet thru relationship (the I & I perspective) is me & the trees.
Not because they are sentient-reflective as if my life is conjured, but because I am (sentient).
Though you have established the drama, whose actors (you & I) are destined to leave the script by & by for only brief moments, otherwise our finesse is left to that which cannot speak back to us, and in this silence is where we find self-actualization.
The gray of night, painted spiritually true, muffles the contours of trees making them black scaffolds, with flutters of wings playing tricks on us,
as if the architecture of vista-scape would be policed by lights shed only from activity we conceive in the natural day of interplay,
shadows obfuscated into the density of grasses, urban animals abound, including us, breathing the better air--our eyes have turned to plants!!

ASANA (position) to Pranayama--prana=breath, yama=prohibit

I have a poison head-ache but feel alright--it's like night time is contiguous w/ dark symbolic thoughts of construed mysterions/mystic identification. In the tension I get a body conscious sense like it corresponds to lucid moments when walls have come down around me--almost imperceptible at the moment, but I've committed it to a self-understanding. The sounds arrive from without & I have co-ordinate thoughts policed by torpor. Torpor constructive as full-up senses yield to it from prohibitive breathing. It is all compassion and an appeal to the desire for my reckoning, however it may come. No hope. Only a stretch of path, made plain as if the Metatron drags my carcass to Higher Ground: Metatron proscribes & manifests the Greater Will--think Thoth in terms of Will.
For a story in truth see "Bug day... (gloom chic)." -- the March entry

Shem/JAPHET & their issuance

If time spent from point A., people in conversation around me w/ interests varying about Semitic studies, to point B., now when I entertain these ideas & unfortunately exposed to a bookish sensitivity to it--then there is a vessel with a kind of transient content in it from which is poured into an awaiting paradigm: the things of my experience, making them representative of this interest. (Though I can construct very little else to give me a basis of more of the same.) *** You know I get used to seeing some of the same ideas! al-Lah, as in El; Sanskrit as being the Hindu divine language--Greek & Latin, supposedly not reaching that level--(but why? just because of the vibe of self-actualization Hindi imparts??) Hebrew & Arabic do reach that level. Arabicized ideal of the Unapproachable, suggesting a similarity to our (Jewish) view, but lacking the collusion the Jewish ONe emotes of suffering as we know it. Other stuff stands out like I have been dropped in a foreseen plan. And if you link yourself by saying there is reason enough to know, then that is a broad step towards erudition.

RED river GORGE--HERE IN KY.

Deftly upon a rock I sit down on my haunches without using my hands, a couple of miles into a trail at the Gorge, by myself. I am matriculating with buzzing noise--a noise I always waned at my control at its emanation. I have a peanut-butter sandwich with me, which I eat though I am w/out any hunger to drive away. Up on Coomer's Ridge the forest floor descends before and after on either of its sides of its more determined peak, at the center. I am at the after part. Kerouac's Big Sur is my companion, & only if, if I could close the circle as to why the enclosing woods stands between me & its rescuing peace, I'd get a glance at omniscience--the bloodsport of meditation Kerouac leaves off unrealized by him & absorbed by us, his confidante. His wilderness is a tabernacle of loss; this sound pulsing in my ear gives to me my ineffective solitude, warranted in achieving pace wandering in Daniel Boone's woods. Widening eyes is his descript wakened moment up on some mountain, out West, in another one of his books. The appearance of the eyes, we countenance because the bubble of experience then, made measured words sussing out our kith & kin & friends alike--& they all (those eyes) are before me, like him, readied-explanate, but going away in a breath. (One would have to seek the unresponsive self to understand, as in Big SUR. -or just assume!!)

HERBAL remedy

Over at Howie's, he & I smoked a legal substance, a kind of sage called Salvia divinorum. The only sage plant having hypnotic properties, though ours was standard, one could still get 10x, 20x, 40x, etc.
Lou Reed seems to call OUT the crowd, its intimate persona, by saying heads were rolling on the floor, making him resigned to affability or whatever. I think it is more his having served up his head, like on a plate to those present with a sign in his expression saying, "enter here." The lull due to the herb was moody, not final, not strong, but condusive to subtlety because the sitar music w/ Ry Cooder's country-blues accompaniment made me look to box-in the headiness, which I did & it was gone, except for a dull solitarian night-time thereafter. I'll listen to these ole guys, Dylanesque in vibe (admittedly not exactly like him), and my inner-voice sometimes rails for that activity, saying, "don't leave." I have come or gone at these moments, in an awakening--it's the same thing--I know it is a departure, from what though? Dyaln's wizened, lazy head from his profile (like on that one blue G. Hits album), hid from me the translator-face-- I knew I was being introduced to a master (speaking of adolescence) still would give me no propriety, but wonderment. But this was the talking-head as a placebo, only I could determine thence its expectant mood, I was the drug, now with the other one gone, flushed out--I'm placated with seeking his, or do I just gather the momentum of departure?

Time IS what we NEED

Say in one way reading flow of consciousness type descriptive writing means to you only what the author derives. That can take you as far as enthusiasm allows, but how ever long that is will not suffice. But then take a look around you! There is a measure of ULTIMATE restraint the formidable time & place leaves off diminishing any prescriptive illustration for which you'd want to gain expression. Restraint. Now one would have to break these bounds--& only by actively, mistakenly, & dryly w/ half thoughts proclaim: I AM. For instance, bridging the gap to give security in your disconnect due to your condition. We want unity, and equality is outside of us. (The embellishing psyche always prevails, equality is not a state of mind.) We are enough alike to believe in this illusion (of equality) that your compassion is motivated from the same principles as another. It seemed others held for me the condition of my asceticism: "the rosy-colored mourn of old women" (Kerouac) holding court in the synagogue, & I half expected living in a valley of tongues i.e. under the spell of Aaron's blessing, as he was the one unswayed by miraculous events in this life's report, perhaps in sounds-arriving which I would illustrate, & they collude in a half expected half vainly pursued theophany.---The NOISE of Language. Time & place is a very odd thing (think restraint, again), at a certain point we see people who no longer vibrate on, they may not even define a path for themselves: they fall behind the threshold of time, they become late. These people then yield to & confuse the time element w/ place. They appear in YOUR world as reflections of you, & as individuals (?) who cannot be commiserate with doors in the Unity of mind-space, which have now been blown open. I drove down a treed avenue, a young fellow seemed squeezed out of pain, & therefore come to a peninsula of averages, my reflecting upon-him. Not that one could not observe MORE benignly, but then Aaron was the face looking back at me, and I said to myself, "Aaron," a station I toe-hold just like when I had a paper-route in Cardinal Valley & I walked the streets dreaming-alive the boy asleep back at home with no clue that he'd only be projections of others & cease to make his own gravity. We are in fact all judged with the comprehension of a one-organism consciousness. A black couple now walking behind me, whose feet I noticed stirred nothing on the terra-cognita (my word), had just touched the earth (descending), where I waited with my plans to live up, to be beyond exploiting my body-temple as a tool--...simple animals don't behave like spiritless machines, or if we do we become wisps behind greater ephemeral & AWAKENED BEINGS whose places act as guiding stars, which puncture one's experience had we deigned to ignore its quality.

Concealment

hiddenreceived== apocrypha/kabbalah--now you know! Due to my concealment I am able to bury my heart in the earth of otherness...

UTOPIA is in the doing

Kerouac lying on his back at the edge of the clearing, with Mt. Hozomeen in the backdrop & Kerouac on the incline leading down the ridge, upon which sits his ranger station he occupied by himself for about 2 1/2 - 3 months---thinks about solvency to his struggle for Higher Ground / his cntr. that being accrued by ascendency of Avalokiteshvara laying his diamond hand upon his subject, so that he might think himself outside the box. ...as close as I could get to the skies shared with the ones blanketing Israel before my trip there was to begin, was having climbed out my second floor window, in the house I grew up in, onto the motor home, then to the roof of the house, & over to the porch where I'd sit beneath the tree hovering above its roof limiting the cool prevailing winds in the early morning hrs. As I looked through the limbs like windows out a door of perception, to that of a sky I could only wistfully conjecture at its delimited space temporally: I knew I had legs, and I felt I was on the ground, like B. Marley numinously prevails upon us.

Sitting on the Back porch steps

Reading "What is G-d?" --Karen Armstrong's book, left me off less concerned with any spiritual headway at first, though I wanted it. I wanted to be concerned. The ideation of worship doesn't cause offense in that I can't be mistaken for leaving my salvation at the foot of any church. Knowing we impugn the outward fact in our respective worlds, the object worthy of worship developed of its own momentum. The SUN is rife with adherents for this reason, so with circumspection I just assumed I should take it in therapeutically as if it would suffice only for obvious reasons, my dissipation. But why not immerse whenever, wherever into its fullness? Never identifying with it was never plain to me, just that it was our gravest resource and life-giver excused it from a life thriving in minutiae (namely mine), and beyond its healing. I'm managing from page to page in the book wanting to compliment the Ultimate Reality with a glance into the yard, or skyward, and then I get to an exegesis from a Sufi poem. Something with the SUN mentioned in it and I felt NOW, then, and if my thoughts were intervallic with a lesser attention as I get sometimes, this kind of formidable moment yields to a vastness, creating a story and always a pattern to get back to.

On the Backporch Steps

Reading "What is G-d?"--Karen Armstrong's book, left me off less concerned with any spiritual headway at first, though I wanted it. I wanted to be concerned. The ideation of worship doesn't cause any offense in that I can't be mistaken for leaving my salvation at the foot of any church. Knowing we impugn the outward fact in our respective worlds, the object worthy of worship developed of its own momentum. The SUN is rife w/ adherents for this reason, so with circumspection I just assumed I should take it in therapeutically as if it would suffice only for obvious reasons, my dissaption. But why not immerse whenever, wherever into its fullness? Never identifying with it was never plain to me, just that it was our gravest resource and life-giver excused it from a life thriving in minutiae (namely mine), & beyond its healing. I'm managing from page to page in the book wanting to compliment the Ultimate Reality with a glance into the yard, or skyward, and then I get to an exegesis from a Sufi poem. Something with the sun mentioned in it and I felt NOW, then, and if my thoughts were intervallic w/ a lesser attention as I get sometimes, this kind of formidable moment yields to a vastness, creating a story & always a pattern to get back to.
(The Gospel of Thomas found out in the Sinia desert, in some cave, I think, says look within, this is the light of the LOrd--whereas the Gospel that made it into the canon says, look to the church, this is the light of salvation... so remaining beyond the reaches of any church theological conflict, which, I'm suggesting here, WHY wouldn't we? then how can anyone doubt the relevence of pseudepigrapha, though of course one would not thusly call it such!!)

I'm cold Lampin' -- Glimmer on the lamp

I keep honing down to the light source at the end of the proverbial tunnel. Disregarding all reflections that tend to distract or worse like Dostoevskii, himself or his characters, find themselves at the bottom of a well (figuratively) more likely to grant the source of light, but losing expectation of ever joining it. If consciousness is a gem in a field of gems, say, at any one moment the sun illuminates them all with an equal refractory. But light is what sets off his mystical theophany. Couldn't this be as if rather than the sun the outward fact is just a flashlight's light and the refraction is begun by encumbering one gem, & therefore has limited affect on the rest? I'm exposed, posturing towards hope, something creeps up on me--a poison headache, or more solvent really than that, but I feel alright: like a bridge it's the physicality of knowing, corporeal, because the dot of angst is enough for me to pursue the heart of balancing you & what delivers me. In his books the protagonist may say at some point, "Now you know everything!" If we were to assume there is nothing outside of the known, we are in fact the story unfolding & his/her companion to whom the statement is made really is the model for expectation, & yet we lounge by the river of sight thru the eyes of the one divulged.

VISION-SCAPE--I'm a soul Vendor

For every word, there is the accompaniment of an illustration--it's done intentionally, perhaps even superficially, but to experience the world & give it expression, the word in our mind is, beyond it, colored in--a different similitude to conjure the value we must obtain. It is also decisive to yield to the vision, rather than the ration. In terms of meditation visualization is paramount to the Arahant, to use Buddhist etymology. This is the individual who seeks the world beyond the surface, and becomes a product of it, i.e. Soul-adventurer. Just a shadow of the reckoned equinox between two minds, is the shadow of koddesh (Hebrew)-- a separateness, from that which cannot in & of itself instruct us. At least recognizing our solitude in this world, the power of observation will grant exceeding depth to the star showing the gap through which we are exercised, drawn into, & left to appreciate.

Y-H-V-H shalam (Jerusalem)

Words have no solvency in my Higher Ground, so I take the Lawd's name in vain... anyways. While in Jerusalem ('86), my friend & I were staying in this lousy youth hostel, and I, up 'til then, liked the headiness of coming out of situations from smoking cigarettes or pot (& in this case we had done a hit of blotter a piece--I promise I am not advocating using), because it gave me a sense of being impelled to do something different now that the later moments had arrived--& anything with direction or movement was bound up in positivist vibrations--mine & how I was tied into some worldly abstraction. The thing I noticed in dwelling on such a small world was how loud my inner voice seemed in galloping toward assumptions, that of release. I would be like, damn if I could smoke now this place wouldn't seem to be such a drag anymore, instead of seeing the diversity in the change of my conditions, as mundane as they seemed to be -- like figuratively sitting before the wall, in order to gather its relevance. Man, I want those walls now / its a better fight than the one against oneself.*****
Some thing vital was needing expression, but unformed in my mind's eye then-at age 21. Intrinsically I felt a need to attempt at conceiving what about me was Jewish in identity, as a young person. I could not draw upon an experience & just say, yes that is what makes me Jewish. So now I'm left with the desire of desperation's brain--desperate to get to the abundance of experience in a way that the void of ignorance would seem negligible. This takes active thinking, & reaction to the outward fact, which means nothing unless one becomes an observer, and believes in its value to your condition i.e. complacency. Yes, but my whole point starts out with being without experience (e.g. not having a Bar Mitzvah, like my 3 bros.) and with a goal of essential clarity--a desire to make it right. But this is the grit of knowledge as advantageous w/o any need for a particular balance between extremes, (say living in a chasm straddling secular on one hand, religious on the other). No decision (or conflict assumed) meant immersion, rather than bouyancy. The bottom of the ocean has just as much vitality as the gravid waves.

Scat-MAN on the Tube

Feeling less than essential, watching Valerie's expression of duty at her new entrepreneurship--definitely in those few moments I want action to multiply, but I'm looking inward as if I hold her at a deep resolve; looking to the corner windows, that now happen to be open, I fly out to the gravid world with nothing to match it. I fill up watching her, but I don't peak, so there is no verb to perform the effulgence of this contrast. I think about the nights adding up--over at her former bosses' house, watching the dogs (& now). We were watching The Shining there, and crows on my shoulders seemed to help me project into the cover of distracted moments in the house where I grew up. I remember thinking Dad's reasonable response, or not, to a certain amount of utility stress I seemed immersed in & no different than his daily deconstructing of identity, had leveled the endurance I had in balancing between my schizophrenia, & my clarity on the other extreme. The capacity to intuit fates beyond your control*, so hopefully if we're true to Kharmic law=all of them, seems more & more probable & realized as time goes on. I'll assume this is because we created benchmarks of otherness--those who we have begun to project their sense of things too. At a certain point, its the only promise of the movement of our spirit into materiality.
* Midnight's Children is excellent on this reference

The SPIRITUAL man is mad/ Tic Toc Teac

A mystic may say: go sit at the right hand of G-d, Be at His throne. G-d may say: you've entered the 7th heaven, didst thou expect to be absorbed into the Whole (cosmos)? "But Dharma, my dog, had me follow Him, this was Right thinking," Arjuna of the Bhagavad Gita, might say. G-d would say: Your body is the Temple, seek G-d Within, & the Light of Judgment & mercy will be found ...thinking (see Krishnamurti) is the addiction of thieves, they are only concealed because they remain at a distance. ---If you were to see the stones, you'd have no reason to throw them. The stones lie at the town's edge. Villagers perspiring in the dust collected as a seal upon any advance beyond the communities' measure. One Organism. Dust motes taunt me to swing verbs of contentment, in the air, in the basement. By the window, looking at the philosophy that held one race superior--but the individual knows better. No movement, legs akimbo. A tractor sleeps a blue slumber this morning. We dreamt it still runs, but nature will subvert plastic energy: there is only a dream to make it run. **** How do we justify the frenetic moment? There is of course release--& release is a way of life, just as internalizing our experience is just as much a response to the indulgence of experiential knowledge, whatever that may be - like relationship, or book smarts, or how we take in a vista of landscape, which is making up the pattern where we spend most of our time. But we have motives, and to let go of these symptoms (e.g. motives) of the outward fact is opting to reflect on how we make the scene (just talking about observation here). Why does the frenetic moment make us so unstable as to forgive intentions, and behave desirous of decision making, to which we are addicted? Nothing is the result of nothing i.e. confusion is the result of the wealth of stimulants to which we are addicted. The message here is to stop coordinating & planning etc. "Some people have hopes & dreams, some people have ways & means." (--Bob Marley, from Survival)

That which I READ, & its GOAL

AS I absorb these histories, I begin to suss* out the typical alluding to what, & why the researcher's style divulges the concept. Like vignettes I am responding in kind, as if I hold out for just so long, & then I know someone has directed me to move on. (interval-thinking) My counselor read something of mine & said it was poetic, a common critique of my material. I said I can't put it in a varied form to convey the ideas in any other way. Dr. Memsophi was like, true, because it would put variable rules on your intentions. But my intentions change, nevertheless. I cut into the fat sould of plenty that is my ignorance, willingly, to prove an Ultimate Reality is the concourse of the Mind. The seething infra-structure of my city, or any particular one, & seeing the mess of masses move throughout, are refractions of moments of the unbearable likeness of being. The tree we characterize as a reflection in identity-personified, is too simple--now I am literally PEOPLE, wholeheartedly the "group," & I burn in their vision-scape, no longer in their fray, but frenetically in the migrant mind-sore.
* a Rastafarian or Jamaican term, =to find out. Ras=Head, tafari=creator

By the Lamp, opposite of the burnt Wall

Caviar from that big lake in Iran, a sign of affluence yields to thoughts reaching toward something--nothing better to do than climb for the upper echelons of people occupying the cult of identities, adjacent to the mind-sore (hurt from the reading of the predominate excess) existence of mine. Four Hindus working: they have four places of shoe-cobbling, two on the ground, in this cubby of the bazaar (Mumbai), & two in the berth directly above--only room enough to sit/ shared livelihood/ tools of the trade all lying around. One Mind. Knowing that I find a society with a god, who has no heart, is a ditch full of blood to which I throw myself upon its banks, before I can know what is right, because the sufferer has a man who drowns in his eyes, and he/she wants him to stand up & salute. I exalt in the salutation for the Sun. A Jewish woman swarms her hands across the candle light (touched her eyes), it ripples like stains of ritual for which for her there is no exclusion. Lighting my incense, I pretend I attend to a fire at which I am chaste at its perceived violence, and find ways to demur from the hard shine of daily toil--breathing in the black smoke, exhaling the white.

The BROKEN transcendental Bridge & the Dream

Substance abuse indicts behavior, behavior that can not adapt because these people's will to get-over has to be reciprocity & not their own initiative. They are measured by what seems acceptable by those to whom they relinquish control. If the Greater Will like the rhythm of climatic, seasonal, cosmic sense of things is as the personal Will, that of the grazing deer, his/her dormancy as contentment in the hollows & meadows in a pattern of survival, is any clue to those of us whose eyes haven't yet turned toward nature, help can be sought looking out windows--the blue skies fragmented, but then coming asunder. My chimerical vision was an ultra-mundane one, surreal one, because it may well have had the Salvador Dali melting clocks & the hearth it sat upon was open to the yard and sky beyond; the fire becoming the one thing between me & oblivion--the fire is the feeling & I was chaste as I demurred from its perceived violence. Walls were merely slightly opaque windows, and the world was in its ultimate Unity.

JAZZ - seeking the inflated TEAR

When the band (Red Fly Nation) was together, Joel the guitarist/vocals construed direction typically at least from my convoluted perspective, which is this--as I see what mattered to me then. When would many times listen to various musicians' product as the session went on. Which as I couldn't perform myself, there was no leaning on any erudition that of the way things could or should sound like. So when things would dwindle down to discussion, at least then I courted sensibilities, "I am now amongst!" This was expectation. As the iconoclastic cultic expression evoloved i.e. we'll do better than our predecessors, I would link to the last remorseful confusion--this is what I knew I projected. So maybe now some Jazz was playing on our jam-box, & this is my reprieve. Jazz, with its distiguishing instruments--one can find what each of these artists means in a kind of voice, & I'd imagine the map of digressing emanations: drums up front, bass pondering expanse, sax like birds calling me outside. ** Surmising the plain hearth, I gathered the concept of having sought release w/ the musicians I ran with, now years ago. The mayhem-tree (I dubbed) down on campus seemed to be the transition in place, of place, allowing me to yield to the currency of norm, which I now objectify for its strangeness--its a good thing, I feel--nothing to prove. Now there is nothing outside of me, drug or otherwise, which would leave me gainful of expression--I am movement, life's grand reward, a positivist's momentum. Why I sense my concealment, at all, as it has never changed, is almost beyond realization: I could be scaling the exterior of life's edifice, a house, wanting to get in--or already confined to the "bamot" (immemorial, worshipped space-literally " in the desert"/ hebrew) with expectation on par with the cosmic--either way I am buffered by exaltation. When Kabbalists are acceding to higher chambers of belief and knowledge, it is due to their concealment that they can bury the heart of the "other-side" into mother earth & define their opposition to it. I am the convergence of wanting in and getting out.

The TALE of the TREES

The tree as a fable of the mind is given its story when we see it rush by our car window--immediately personified, & given its dignity as we jest that it is a reflection of us. I am literate so long as the impressions I sought just this one time led me to embrace this mystery. The yellow-green-brown matter looking like a lack of pulse - and at once circumambulates from its core as we have witnessed through time, remains in a master's teaching what is ever to be sentience on earth. Krishnamurti seems satisfied that the no-struggle to find ourselves the observer would lead to the dream that is life. The threshold is the awakening. And the tree changes its mood as the observed i.e. the yawn of the day gives out currents of shadows, twitches of its limbs from wind, & a nod toward the sun.

the Harder They Come...

With my cult book in hand, upon the floor exuding a punch in the gut surrealism, as if I laid before the stars - X-mas-like in orientation, this particular evening sought oblivion. I was outside home in the cold/cool garage. The psychology of homeward-existence is having found your way entering through a door. I only smelled the moldering earth. From the floor in the back of the garage, lying on a blanket with musk of dog on it, I smoked cigarettes lighting them from the electric heater I put in use: vibratory-properties of source-heat, like life itself and the irony of extinguishing it with my uncourageous smoking habit. The black of dawn or the dawn of black night was my witness I sold myself down river. Like a Beth-El moment I wrestled with an angel--my thick heart of stone, because it got the better of me, telling me I can't go where I ought to be, and the garage as time-memorial, which as an idol I respected because it wrested control of my thinking the patterns of traffic speeding past from the highway close-by. Because of immersion-moments like this, I at one time watched a fog drift & lift, like the gray haze of day leaving a note for its cause, and rising into the atmosphere. I'm left half expecting to see objects relinquish feeling gravity's pull--the sky is the limit.

In the CATSKILLS mts., in a place we call the HIDEAWAY

I see myself in utter isolation, utter anihilation, where at an I-IT moment I reject the field converging on my inner-peace--everything within my presence, and let go. I'm jailed--there is no reachable new environment I can go to anew. Then, so as to not feel abortive I conceive of the struggle, - now it is I alone & the Thou of presence received. My passport is tattooed upon my person, a veil which allows incognito surveillance of higher chambers where I'd meet a transcendent "being." (--verb) The iconoclasm of self-hood is acted upon & I am the current of the experential, the death of symbolic me. G-d is the insignificance of me. Imagine the dank halls of physical confinement: Papillon's story. He is hanging by a thin web & he alone sees how he is pinned. Like a green limb, there is no exclusion or objectivity to his source (of self-realization), he'll turn in upon himself. The imagination is the symbolic universe and it takes over & nothing is real. To evade his finitude he splits into two: the pain is acute & wrongly he imagines surfeiting the struggle into, again, the realm of representative relationship, but it is his dormancy. The sleep of the just is to whom he projects his loss of freedom, those who have died on the trail he is finding, the void of time.

The exudation from the DREGS of consciousness

Mirrors reflecting what is here, is negligible for Yeshivah bukhers--they had no mirrors in the institute, & here to them is some benchmark in history that imparts solace of an asceticism which we can guess at with our own self-realizations. Why no mirrors? Because as men we are not to suppose ourselves as vanity permits. If rooted in clarified reflection is past lives--ours or otherwise, then artificiality of thought can be surmised whether we are looking or not upon what we'd want to be as some lonesome heaven portends, or seeing oneself as a contemporary in a one world village. On Williamsburg rd. (my neighborhood of growing up) in the 88Olds, as if the red dragon of some remote past life decided to sneak up on me, I expedited a pensive notion, but quickly as like the rear view mirror in the car could contain the thought, and yet looking askew proffered a full length view of my face--in a red glare. Supposing I were in a third world pension room with my woman & we were erudite from seeing ruins of confessions of lost history and if we then stared into mirrors opposite & back to back from each other, I would have in this case reminiscent of the drive down my old street past tall oaks & the peopled side-walks, seen my past life with her as my mother.

W/ the Kiryat Arba advocates in HEBRON

I went to Hebron with Ohr Somayach (Light of Happiness) yeshivah. In the main square outside the ancient temple (mosque/synagogue) we all stand in the cold/cool afternoon milling about. A Palestinian boy comes over near our group with his donkey & they get up on this tall median-like protuberance coming up on the square's floor. There is grass growing there, a way to feed his animal, no doubt a mundane ritual for the boy. The mention of the evil past in Hebron beween our two opposing sides sort of does not contain me--seemingly obsolete, though I know there was early Arab violence really begun by radicalized elements on both sides? ...1929--I don't know much about it, except its report of pain. Now it's like theater. The boy, who I go stand next to, makes absolutely no acknowledgement of my being there. His disgust was palpable, & the Jews standing around are beyond any consideration of him, too. I wanted to laugh at this, if only they could see each other it would be a caricature of humanity & of these terrible events I know in their mind is not beyond reach. There are plenty of webs of illusion between us all. Potok (of The Chosen etc.) illuminates the struggle for Hebron nationalism in In the Beginning. But I felt dissuaded from accepting Israeli sovereignty when there, not because I sought the rights of others to that land, but because the Israelis contained it militarily, & it gave an artificial feel to my American passport functionaries. Our Yeshivah group walked past a look-out station (our first look around when we got to town), I'll assume on the corner of the Jewish enclave. & I had hoarded an extra Yafo orange, ...but seeing the soldier way up above gave me the idea to chuck it up to him, which I did, gleaning the constricting boredom of this mess of a "sacred" place.

Outside of ELLENVILLE, NY

Thinking a shtetl is relative, one world village--I feel I am among the seen of those who portend signs of spiritual realization, like Rebbes on top of roofs, {fiddlers on roofs} as I walk down the street ankle deep in angst, a dot of angst that surmises what I can emote of the significant dream images I have of Poppa on on top of the bungalow as if my outstretched arm was right there ready to offer him a tool. Like biblical masks veiling faces, or just transient looks I project upon people--these characters whether dream-like or here, not knowing what else or what root race seemingly contorting out of serene looks heralded into my plain of view. Dybbuks, spiritual possession, has to be like channeling; the voice of split cognizance occurring--the patient drone awakening in your mind that now you are amongst.

In Cairo circa DECEMBER '86

These guys we saw were the Israeli version of the European ex-pat. one would find abroad from their respective motherlands. Though the Israelis were by consignment still avid patriots, one would think. We, as representatives of job-ONE, as if we were of the American ethos, seemed enjoined looking at how the Israelis clean-clarity stood out from the glum cigarette smoking of the Arab citizens i.e. 3rd world is glum and not shiny though 3/4 of what we absorbed was submerged like islands in the deep (Simply speaking, we were just not seeing the whole picture.) These Israelis had built a loft & fixed up their hostel room down from our stark, unglassed windowed one on the corner of the building, 6th floor. I knew I was seeing Jews in an absolute & uncompromised situation (the polite tourist, if you will) than I had ever witnessed before e.g. it wasn't the synagogue or relatives, was going to be unforgettable for me. Rob, there with me exuded confidence & came from the recesses of his experience, but my proffering anything brought to the table had a sense of the provincial & unworldly. Still, in my mind I reviewed what I would tell them. And that was I know them, but I don't, and yet I would remember their aura of the traveler-absurdum (All they're doing is defending, so to speak) of merit because of their travails. (And yes, I see both sides: this is MY sense of things & I HAVE no currency w/the polity of disharmony.) This was also, however, a big brother scenario-they were my big bros., & though I would wear thin thinking familial-ly about the world, it really always gave me advantage at least predeceasing going into new situations because wondering what came next could be as good as intuiting the same.

On NORML, HEMP legalization tour

Waiting, waiting & gathering what is bubbled up from the crevices of surface reality, which we find is rarely other than that. This is my locomotion into the dark mundane, as critical understanding of what I had gone thru was nil, yielding to observation only--that being only potentiality of what could be adduced. Like a monk, I sought solitarian being & no-struggle towards what was social distraction, & silence. The bus, like a cavalcade of the known, took to the utterly bland fields of Ohio as if a hostile voice streamed towards its goal--my presence of mind, making up an ill-considered cosmic tourist of me. I had taken along Luis Borges' Labyrinths calculating its Cabbalistic intensions, like a deep-aside to an ascetic report. My dissipation was ominous and unyielding i.e. we were on a "hemp" tour, and what came of my academician quality looking at that book for hours at a time, only makes sense today (the soft machine becomes part & parcel of a greater organism). Words, plains of pavement, empty train tracks following the highway, novocain mind drivel - all left me seeing each word on the one chapter page, The Circular Ruins, with having a green shadow cast upon its black print. A truth from an ancient time seemed the order of those few moments, like the first literate beings conceptualizing waywardness would have been looking into plants on the ground, the world around colluding just enough to make them wonder what comes ephemerally from beyond...

apropos of a WET SNOW

Living in active pursuit towards experiencing your interests is a waiting game for it to catch up w/ you, over take you, but you are the hunted--it is gainful to look at it this way & we do. But when there is a lack of pursuing of activity one begins to haunt the very grounds where you were once caught-- caught up in life's grand reward. The waiting now becomes superceded by the duly noted objective, your not there to spend time now. Haunting is like chasing thunder, it can be all around you (this thing you've gravitated toward), but you have only suceeded in becoming soaked & beyond its report. (a pop, a flash, a bubble, a shadow... {Kerouac}) You're terminally late, not unlike a spirit. Relating to this somehow is a goal I had one time of grabbing the horns of relationship's BULL, riding it out, & not sacrificing my self-respect: I had nothing better to do at the time, in other words. So I break into my girl-friend's car w/ a wire hangar, she drove a big black Eldorado which I subsequently kicked leaving a dent in the front fender. It is February probably, cold out & I wanted to rummage through her ashtray to find an old roach to smoke. She is in the restaurant across the street working. Found, I sit there smoking in the flurrying rain listening to the radio. Now the haunting begins of an old mind that knows to commune with relationship means something other than this...

A Poem for Grayson to make LIGHT of!

Tea, the peace like taking in the ocean one sip at a time// Sea, like a void we walk up to, to glimpse the sublime// Explore, everything until that point--in this rhyme// Pieces of beyond, we hold in just this one pond// In our hand, grappled unto abstraction--our struggle and...// Focus, which gave us allegory, the fusion is a gate all hoary// A bus, the cavalcade of what is known, stretch the fiction, pick a bone. ***Rationalsim IS the HIGHEST Spirituality*** If there is a thought, then there is the principle to thought, the simple beginnings. If there is intelligence in the world, then there is its beginning, the intellect. For every condition there is its potential. This simplicity is known as G-d, according to the rationalists (I think, the Mutazilas--Muslim). If we dream thereby we must exist. To exist then whence that energy promoted reflection upon the necessary condition, there is a principle to existence. Though it may be beyond a dualistic approach as our minds accord, still one may necessarily expect a Principle behind that value. Why do the Fundamentalists therefore say, leave the most profound queries about origins (cosmogony) up to faith i.e. mystery? What is it do they not want to think about?

I potok-ularly like reading POTOK!

I'm following the conclusions of yiddishkeit there for my perusal via Potok's spin on Jewish up-bringing. I see myself assess from a cntr.-my cntr., which leads to expectations like: this is Jewish because..., but I can't finish. Yet the cntr. is never exasperated and I demand more. Religion is to me these few moments: a cntr. unfulfilled yet dwelled upon the constraint as if no other thing could have brought me to it. The human condition to be naturally parasitic is relieved of its affect on me, because change begins with me, & I'm not trying to convey expectations on anyone else. If asceticism is a product of danger (desperation is desire's brain), then I am rehabilitated, because a healthy mindset means the path I am on is from the minutiae of where we are all prone to lead i.e. solitude.
****Shlomo Almeoli's is one of the numerous books Potok mentions as curricular to what has developed as an immersion into the secular encumbering the ascetic. A character would find resourceful allies in literature shared from an anonymous world or perhaps a mystical old lady, from which, in this case this Book of Dreams is proffered. I see the world unqualified to go along for the ride as an illustrated artful world of ideas allows the characters to close doors, and we find their eyes adjusting to abstractions out of which the material world ceases to be observed. Books within books, threading tendrils which hook me into an evolving surveillance of the zwischenmench (in-between man); everybody is half of something!

Submitting to Peaceable REASON

I am of the mind to expose maybe an underlying psychology of the circles I moved in, at one time, advances on indicting relationship which is conjured and not real is thus embarrassing. I gained ground just with thoughts like I was being written in the book of life as long as the mundane was eluding me, because spontaneity wholly meant quite the opposite, that it was not written (predestined), it (my life) would have, rather, made its own current. It is a fine point. Timelessness has the same sense. At my detached best I would look at the gods of abundance, that being whatever sense of the providential I could construe, and ask that I may have time: time to live rightly, time to create movement of thought so that I may consider the corner I occupied. This now gives me the sense that I am not ridiculed in the face of impermanence. But because i feel dropped into positive and novel circumstances, there still is a sense of artificiality to it. I have begun erasing what is beneath (I am a palimpsest.), though the past is jumping off points, its happenstance is irredeemable. In medias res!

REBEL ROAD

When I worked in some kind of capacity that seemed filmy & unnatural, for the business, when Eric first started it, I remember the phenomena of only seeing off at a certain distance upon the vistas that surrounded where I was spending most of my time (this neighborhood). I said to my cuz Andy it was like being in command of views that would go dim in a really overt way the moment I'd project into those perimeters. So Andy, as if his physical prowess could help, picked me up & said now look... & if not for that I wouldn't have been true to my contempt for my condition (not quite contempt, but rather grappled unto abstraction). It was like a pipe dream realized: if these soul-eyed observations where ever on a grand scale i.e. if my soul wasn't simply this small constraint which I find it to be, then the whole picture would be jaded, shaded with say the majesty of what I envision as the convalescence of the souls I see just passing through (around me). What I'm saying is, is that the view is more organic the more one observes at one time. On Oprah there was a soul-dynamic discussed which explains the bridge to awareness when I pass-thru as if I were cast out to sea, like a small sea-worthy vessel & I am destined to follow the mothership, just follow, no goal in mind to where I'll end up. If you seek the ocean as a path, you are lost!

the Dream & Sqqqqecial Media

Sometimes I wake up with just a black field & one image (personality) upon it. I am of course sleeping with Valerie, and this is a status quo dream, because I am electrified from conveyance then in those moments, as if I was looking around the room, but my eyes are closed. I have to ask myself why is it I inculcate & suppose Valerie in a dynamic with our slumber characterized. And I guess the answer is, this is what we do. We sleep. And I have a nocturnal conversation with her, which is only answering me with a soft question: "Why?" To perceive relationship, it seems, we first place identity at our cntr., apparently--this is homeward, rather than wayward.****************************************************** (about a week ago) My eyes feel feverish today--recently. The image of the primordial man (Adam-kadmon) on the cover of Gershom Scholem's Mystery of the Godhead has no eyes, but is reverential of the solitarian me (or anyone) like to guess at a face from the back of someone in a crowd is the same demand we have of a facade of self-hood thru images. The guy at Sqecial, who always trades for my books, had a sleepy Al Joelson look to his eyes--I am used to seeing by now elsewhere, like lines of reflection from intensity, concentration & everything I guess at, respective of me (though I don't have these eyes) are like my sense of my power spot, which is under the cascade of shadows cast under the auspices of community, an entirely visual reality. I remember in around 2000 visiting my brother there in Newbury, Ca., sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed (just a mattress on the floor) as we carried on. I still see him peering from furthest-most reaches than just the few feet between us--even at that point I imagined novelty in that look (and the point is not necessarily fraternity), though I knew til now now I remained intellectually un-intimidated (like anyone with an attitude of benefits to studying regularly). On one level we ceased regarding anything grander than ourself because its torpor cannot surfeit our exhaustion.

the little smoke & the Brujo=JUST allusions

The sense that we can have self-realization out in the wilderness is interesting to me. (though the concrete jungle remains available) Sakyamuni, the Buddha spends 6 yrs. with 5 ascetics, those who live in renunciation of the world. (stark) The perspective is that IF we must struggle to survive i.e. work, then life is worse for it in the samsara, karmic-cycle. So he sees a local girl down by the river, from the deer park in which he currently resides, & she offers him a bowl of sweet rice, which he decides to partake of. Then he sets the bowl in the river & it flows upstream: this is a sign to give the form & nature of the body the things it would require=the middle path. As a child he had reached the First Jhana, trance, the first sense of concentration cognitive of compassion, near the planting field, under a rose-apple tree. He naturally acceded to a position of just the right amount of tension, his breathing was tempered (pranayama)--the breathing yields to patterns as we promote a certain control over it, & thus affects consciousness. A centeredness! Being, a the peak of monster consciousness, the deep aside to sensory perfection. I turn upon a ritual-realized thing like attuned to the cultish don Juan's apprentice going out into the desert & "seeking" a higher ground, as conditions in the natural world would be the closest to a freed imagination (spiritual ally). Nature is allegory, in other words.

To the Dylan fans I know, as the back of the fish truck unloads:

The chic who started WRFL (Kakie Urch), the student run Univ. of KY Alternative radio station, once told me some kind of perception of those who wondered at the esoteric life of Dylan. They said at his door, I guess the facade at which we would come to his "house," a large dog was at the watch. And as a boy sitting under the mural my brother put on the wall--seeking what was beyond the framed portal out of the flying carpet, there in the mural, the Semitic purveyor of distant travels, all appealed to the logic of seeing Dylan's wizened head from the side and obscure, on the blue G. H. album. Like looking at clouds and imagining images that bring closer the affect of the details of the mind, I thought I could see half the hidden face, but this was all that I projected--as the songs supposed the details of the thing from which he translated the world ...the illustrated face in the abstract, which unjustly, I couldn't help but not see in its entirety.

JUMPING from HER WATER

In the Boyscouts in Wander Woods was a just found new opening to another branch of Mammoth Cave. We pried the door free & went in--I think this is where the impression was born of falling, spinning out of control like a cycle where all things relevant pass the cntr. equally. I am compulsed to find my cntr., here realizing the French word Rousseau uses, tourbillion. Thinking things in a patent way as a situation demands is a cycle, which without, you are doomed to search for cntrs. from outside of you, of not your own making & the losing end means your forbidden path. I once worked for a lawncare co. & the outrageously blowing wind animated an experience of chimerical quality, of little whirlwinds blowing forth around me until I was enveloped in one. I thought I was at the cntr. of a top, & as it landed the world around me would have me suddenly in an entirely different corridor of, well, where I occupied space--this is me being precluded from minding the here & now--there are a lot of things that stop us from seeing the moment fully divulged. I honestly thought being in a soul was at once within the forces of ever broadening whirling tourbillions, & this was to take me to somewhere giving me the chance to gather myself, but again changing the path I was on for so long, in a very drastic way.

Mid-East Travels, then in Musr (Egypt)

My pal I traveled with was an example to me of a life of study, experential as well as literary, but in common with my attitude that I intellectually had a struggle to which I could attend. The irony was that I had thought advice should be sought-after from reading a book, and yet I just didn't get around to reading all that very often. I was highly vicarious in this regard--just gleaning the report of continuity of academia to then the present, as if time meant more than filling endless rows of bottles with its impermanence... I had a sense of measure for inducting memory which was inculcating adversity (my neurosis, no doubt) rather than anything concrete. All this tended to fill me up, and as long as I could reach the surface of my internal struggle, then that movement gave me currency. It is all that seemingly I would require. ****In Egypt, about 35 mls. outside of Cairo, Rob Loco aka Jamaal Roy Valentine (the pal mention above) and I were visiting a home of big fat Adel, the first Egyptian we befriended, a restaurant owner called al-Salaam Restuarant, there in Cairo. Adel, we had just come to find out was just then embracing Islam - ritually speaking, not just in name, (due to his poor health, perhaps?). He introduced us to his family there in what looked like a ubiquitous Egyptian kinda light industrial town. And he said says as we were moving towards the door, "Tonight I want to swim!" To this day we have no inkling as to what he actually meant. Rob patted him on the back and said, "We know you want to be with your lady, man!" But no commotion in the effort to give us quarters were proffered and we just continued on our travels (obviously we weren't staying there)--in some such order we took a row boat out onto the Nile, that day. We have a picture of Adel picking his nose, out on the water.

Red heifer is to the politicos as the bread of affliction is to stale saltines

Peace is not the placid surface of a spring, a contentment that this distance between me & characterization of strange lands that allows for an oblivion that will satiate the eternal. The eternal being the last few minutes making up my feeling now, my experience in the world making up a subtle ignorance of a strange future. The spilled milk of consciousness is functional as wall-flowers of the drab people-garden of industrialized-West, because it'll never be an entrance to thought-scapes, but only its exits. Suturing suras (measures) of Believers & Seekers from a mt. top as these novels, I read, tend toward a travelogue, I get at from vacation smells that never go away- Texans afoot on Temple-Mount, by the Dome of the Rock leave little room for solvency of an excuse to build bridges with identification between nations.

You Give your More to Receive your Less

Think about from whence comes perspective, if it is the floor & dregs of consciousness, though the grounding affect is still realistic--it would take one longer to find the equinox where shared experience emanates, that of light-heartedness which is middling, where most OTHERS are found: do we sacrifice this ambience? Life really takes sensitivity to its game, because everything we can say about it falls short, thus the impetus to embrace the floor of our SPHERE of influence--it is all allegory, but we have one desire, to touch a nerve! What about deciding upon your angst as the thing that makes you emote: that sometimes is all we are, a dot of angst! If we pry ourselves open and leave us vulnerable to this deficit in thought I'm talking about, we could fill up with loneliness; I want to be born each moment until I see people's heads rolling at my feet in hysteria, ecstatic hysteria! Look at them full of themselves. There is nothing funnier than that. Pride made them look at you that way. Soon we will be completely objective about it...

KENTON'S BLUEHOLE; have you ever walked a mile?

Allowing for the owners of adjacent land surrounding the creek leading down to Kenton's Bluehole & then beyond to that farm born off a hill, I'd take my time looking for a grappled hand-full of mint, or chew a piece of watercress just wanting to know this plot. The church up the way had pine trees lining the parking lot & I'd lay under one in its fallen needles & read awhile absorbing the once-was & ominous reckoning that meant a soon-to-be disturbance because of thoughts about an earth-scrapper abandoned, but not this place (over-all), as I am here, & what is next? Having fallen in the creek in the dead cold mid-winter snow, never gave its desired affect, that I should leave well-enough alone--just walked home & got into something dry--a detail that lends no-struggle to ITS report. Or the old collapsing ice-house with a perfect cemented-room for a club house, though we couldn't have maintained an incognitive presence there, the Colony neighborhood being so close by & really the wooded vistas around it naturally was effective like this: we were there for it & not what an encumbering urban sprawl could offer. Spring water from the moldering earth was part of the pace at which we received the tally of everyday living in Gardenside neighborhood. ****If words were sentient & only awaited to penetrate innumerable spheres of being, then into the bubble of experience which surrounds us as identity-projected is its destined helpmate. I nutured & stoked the fires of awareness drawing upon my diary actually drawn-characters, symbolic though they were of the time spent re-evaluating the direction I had been going. I considered a flagging wisp of abstraction as the explanate moments walking back from the Univ. of Ky to Rebel rd. The meaning of which would necessarily come to me in dreams inspired by physically struggling to get back home walking that long distance, late in the wee hrs. of the am. down past two hospitals, stores, yards, apts., etc. The dream containing these wisps had me rise off the ground in expectation of catching the siren of pain-escaped, mottling through the air with shadows in & out & under the street lamps in a grand chase. Non-assessable consciousness is utterly the result of physical exertion, & finally I knew it was all not for nothing that I could embellish my walk experience with a dreamt-reprieve... dreamt it was!

BUG day at Missy Grizell's house (GLOOM chic)

Through the sands of the hour glass, so are the days of my 9 lives: morally & physically bankrupt made observation of a greater world impossible & a lesser world-- my mind--obviating itself. Out at this goth-chic's house in the country, I realized I looked at everything as an opportunity--just thought it thus, hoped it so... Like her proffering a joint, made the leaden mixed up mind of me see the tent poles consciousness dismount even before the drug reached my cortex. This is the sand metaphor. What little I could adduce from stirred-up consciousness was the milting sands making a hole behind the hardened exterior of my yeahs, like inventing the means to relate to her was inviting me, the star of some grand parade to an after-dinner show--but it was me who was being consumed. I knew it was yet another life of mine being discarded, because I ceased hearing her, seeing out the window into the farm rain-dampened hay fields, & demurred from the smile-fest that ensued. I couldn't even well up w/ the intensity that senses were failing & felling me as I wondered at the lack of adjustment I sought in my new predicament ...just begging for an awareness of the sense of a corrupt higher-self, who was gone already w/ the pretext of a sedentary world now at-large (and as gone), leaving me at that point, I was desperately patient.

inside the church steeple & surrounding environs at 16 yrs./don't be fooled-esoteric below

Whether we are consciously inspired by a heavenly accord, or not--though it be from a churchly experience or a sense of clarity, perfection is guaranteed to be the projected-temple of the wastes of consciousness, while under duress or anykind of acute consciousness. A sacrifice is made when an individual renounces immediacy of rewards through pleasure seeking, or worldly gain. But what is true for the macro-world is true for the microcosm! Patterns are like the abundant mundane ones where our time is caged, & then habits lend cognizance of the temple-projected. Seeing the road unfurled like signs of dispensation you belong, the car seems to lurch in rhyming procession at the pace of your heart--each beat brings on the next blemish on perfect plains of pavement--the explanate moment not unlike the heat mirages in constant amidst we are wired to define as abstract, & the road lives at will. We give all the unrealism its just due, and tend to ignore this taste of liberation--maybe we are all on the alter of sacrifice as each moment is at least evaded by some extent w/out an enduring resolve.

the disquieted thoughts of judaica

The promise of fulfillment through the practicing of mitzvoth (meritable tasks) is their big push. (this may be nothing less than beneficence, however...) When I visited Ohr Somayach the 2nd time I had a chance to go to some Kabbalistic session where there would be chanting & clapping & such going on. I was just thinking I don't need to see this bunch of monkeys hoopin' & a hollering with such a serious intent there & then. (though now I fancy it would be quite interesting) My focus wasn't illumination, though I may have said so, but rather episodic. Just riding waves into the space of experience as if one was cut off from the next. Very disparate behavior here. But in a way it helped in the decision making process--just being able to nip things right then knowing something else would come around was the general mindset, small world though it be. At the Yeshivah I imagined apparitions as if I adjusted to new light, unsure of shadows. I felt in a solitarian room, thinking, construed either dimmer vision, or lit eyes adjusting... But it all meant that immersion into psychic phenomena of one's own mind had an obfuscating affect--seeing the world colored differently, but this nevertheless a trip wire into formidable characterization of self. A new environment is the new color, or a room, a person, or what I ever could emote & project into my strange world. In this case, I sought out images of a Judaic bent, I thought inhabited the earth as spirits, ophan, angels--whatever, but in the stream of my consciousness, which was becoming of the mental furniture outside of the physical.

sisyphus & music

hiddenreceivedThe back of Dylan's Desire had a canto w/ Rimbaud mentioned, makes me think of Springsteen's "...strap your hands across my engine": our momentum surveilling the inner-city. Rimbaud was a nationalist of sort, infallible because of the illusiveness of it. The mystery of the enemy makes him a nationalist... only in regard of his meeting him & representational of France in north Africa, where then as before he crosses to the other side, their side, if only in his mind. The attention I gave to the music I listen to, like last night's Rasta Revolution leaving off inquiry & wanting like my offering yeahs here or there, because I tune into a possibility of a message here or there. (Like less inquiry than pop on the radio I can't hear anyways.) Confusion like corrugated shadows is as old as barbs on the fencing, say down by the water tower where we'd cross a profusion of upturned sod furrowed by Mr. Ogden, whom I never met on Parkers Mill rd.-- a puzzle no doubt in the offing. A puzzle with no match skyward. What about this fence between me & my confusion? The world I know is clarity--the void of materiality offset maybe by the insanity of the Egyptian we saw on the road to the train station (in Luxor) by a fly-ridden halal? butcher shop. His frenzied banging of a tambourine upon his head and muttering looked alighted to the mosque doors let out to that street. Just his giving voice & weird credence to the pity born of ritual/religion--his music, like mine as if it is being pecked away by the hope we'd at least have something to say. This probably goes to the head of Sisyphus, going toward the valley. This is where Sisyphus begins: the entering into confidence.

to complete a thoughhht

hiddenreceivedI only want to suggest that we at one point do recognize to whom we are speaking--& I thought I was talking to one person until I realized there is more to it than meets the eye. I had more going on. I was caught up in my pantheon of relationship, simple & perhaps evolving & beneficent though it is. Something biblical in characterization from our conceptualizing something within that context sometimes means we have more (some image) than just who is in front of us, in mind. Our experience is more observable if we start here--it is always there in the BACK of our mind, & I would ask why should it remain there? So one example is in conversation w/ my Mom, I think somehow she is more cognizant of a nuance suggestive of the-growing-up-&-continuity-of-religious-thought, I may otherwise would have directed from & to an interior self &/or you. But in your absence & in my lack of tangible grip upon inner-selfhood, as anyone, someone else will do! No fault of hers per say, I just think we should know our bounds--we should indulge & project that make-believe audience, because that is where it starts. It remains subtle to assume to whom we speak. Create your relevance. It could be anyone in the back of your mind to whom some self-identitied hesitancy is suggestive of him/her & not who is in front of you. Right now I speak to Krishnamurti, begging your pardon.

as in the received (=kabbalah)

hiddenreceivedLets say there is one prime Source from which all else emanates. Call IT what you will. If there was a unified existent consciousness, say any monad is a unit of consciousness--wouldn't it be like the scenario of the worst & best students as agents of the Principle (His? power) and thus reason enough to stay as clear away from the Source and its exigencies (those punks) as possible. I say this as if it were true what an early Church Father says: the further from the Source we go, the more clarified becomes its emanations (Enuma Elish). So we deduce that if there was immediacy in comparisons w/ the Source and what is derived thereof we will have been blinded by its negative space=we can only be objective as the Condition stands on its own. Individuality is the rule, buck the One who wants to author your identity).

who the cap fit let them wear it

hiddenreceivedSay they have come to get you in the valley of decision! There you have maintained your modus operandi, but suddenly like a crystalline palace, it is too perfect & whatever the consequences, it is time to do w/o--you kick it over...exposing yourself in your four cornered room to the CHARACTERIZATIONS of self, which remain & function w/ a particular role (a unified in-dwelling, perhaps); they wear the respective hat. Remember you are still at a loss. Who will provide a way?There is no h2o to put out the fire. We are a single flame born unto a sun of all possibilities. If the spiritual man is mad, then this one emotion yields enough perspective w/o negligible results, because we indeed persevered. Laying on the floor of my washed out basement apt., pursuing some faculty of meditation--some quality of consciousness I was sure was there, made only resultant feelings of ambiguity--realized/unrealized! I dreamt lyrics saying things like "dare a guy in the Japan eye" & "black plastic, magic record speaking" as if a singular event was at hand. A grappled illustration of Eastern thought seemed cognizant squeezed thru my threading senses that I was everyman, If I could only choose now. The one & the many, became the one & the few & then I & I, solitude, that's it!

"The Source" & me--adam's children

hiddenreceived"Cain," G-d says, "Where is your bro.?" As if, rt.? But now the burden of interpretation suggests this is a lesson we hearken to, what does Cain find incumbent upon his sense of his condition to further his existence after his demurring, "Am I my bro's. keeper?" So is there a rock so large that G-d cannot lift? The answer is yes: the willfulness of his creation, that of man. & yet, does the Bee-catcher bird have the will & the nature we so easily construe just as the change in our climate, our expectation of it, as only a path can take us to the edge of the void so that we might look over & suggest to ourselves, IT is?! G-d only spoke to one person, according to Jewish tradition. Moses. & He said one thing, "I am." I can think of no greater mystical experience to occur in the human mind than to say to ONESELF, I am! All good graces to the powers-that-be, but spirituality is the product of man/woman & I see no greater endeavor than to be at the heights of rationalism & say to oneself that we are part of the whole & we shall disappear thusly. Dude from iamadick.blogspot.com had originally posed the ? to me--is there a rock so large...?

repairingOneselftheTube/impairing oneself making us the boob

hiddenreceivedAs I sit & watch TV sometimes, I begin to reflect on the surface-noise, blankspots as if I'd rather remain at the sense & thoughts slowly evaporating otherwise under threat at the muse of yammering making up the cntr. of activity & porous gravity in my family room. Just cause accompli, I can't understand it, I just turn from its clutches. It is not just turning away, it is turning toward. To induct memory takes no sensitivity-zonal (like zoned) or more active than that. I'd rather be sated looking at the corner of the room for a moment, because a lil' squeaking beak says I am more comfortable right there in my amused dissuasion. And believe me I don't watch much TV, if I find myself willing to listen/watch, it is because I want to preclude my interest in it from defenses of which I have become merely too conscious. There is a threshold that says to me turn-off, tune-out and I sense its arrival until visually my psyche is assuaged, & that just makes the betterment of the moment i.e. read a book, or do something around the house, all the more necessary.

ideals were born unto phylum animalia

hiddenreceivedIn agrarian communities sometimes a male youth of the tribe is given chattel, like a cow or goat he totes around to pastures, as if that animal was his peer. Walking down Williamsburg rd. when I was a teenager I had a thought & enlivened by the spirit of a kingdom of peasant-like reality, never colluded inwardly by the thought that this is at all the norm = I felt I was being trailed by an old cow, like sensitivity to what was around me was key to the locked door about to open thru-which the animal would enter. The thoughts seemed archaic, & I sought to bare the thought that it was old enough, but not recognizing any biblacy, as if? But rather it seemed OLD-new world, like 200 yrs. ago. I have had a dream of lying in a doe's lair,almost like awakening in the moment, there, & more to th pt., I had a dream of being in the cntr. of a varied group of chattel all of them wide eyed & looking prone to their own signature call, while I in a primordial slung moment felt like their little bro., & the barer of what subtly is communicated between man & beast if it were possible, like a Cabbalistic threshold being crossed into a cool watery realm of early self-hood.

hiddenreceived

hiddenreceived Life is patterns, therefore cycles & thus, yes I would say we spin on an axis of self-preservation. Never thru my times of confusion did I become depressed, because at the very least it was clear to me that see the inner-self I would increase thru "otherness." On the way back from Cinci. back in the early 90s, I considered the lack of movement I thought was interior to this life transporting me & mitigating higher ground, in ways that were purely manufactured/hypercritical--of my dependency upon the array of social verification I was then so afraid. To get to the bonds of assurance I only had to perceive the clarity that relationship would be. Upon riding in the back floor of these younger cats vehicle, making the scene, I only needed to look out to the midnight sky before utterly as I shut my eyes on its vibrancy,did I realize the images stuck there. This had to mean silence is w/out, confusion is w/out, intelligence is w/out--and the star I sought to hang my hat on was only there developing in me ways of acquiescence to that truth as I could no longer act from a cntr. belonging only to myself. Out on the street, I guess it was somewhere in Newport, I imagined this guy saying to me as I sat on this door jam& him just carousing by, "I'll see you up here tonight!" And he seemed to be looking skyward, too. & my inner voice said, that's right you will.

ifUfearit,youhateit,if Uhateit,Uloveit FROM "WE"

It is said that "WE" influenced the writing of 1984 (predates it). Anyways, the chasm between me and what the auric egg has revealed is likened to the prospects of interminable reading affecting the soft-machine (W. Burroughs) = the hope of being borne unto a new dimension pecked clean like crows in Mexico city eating the plaster falling off the Jesus figure (Radio Ethiopia, P. Smith) a part of a prayer niche, more Indian than quasi-European/semitic.