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.