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...