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!!