DESCARTES & nothing better to think On

The human context is about this big: I'm pressing my thumb against my pointing finger. We know our dialogue with one another, here in the West, is derivative of an impetus begun 2000 yrs ago and then some--& therein lies reality for most who don't look outside the corral of belief in ritual=their security, into the human totality i.e. they don't look East. Maimonides, however, speaks the Orientalist vocabulary (I know that term is dated--anyways!) when he said G-d is Reality & there is nothing that we can know that isn't Real. Hindus by the same measure say Brahma manifests Everything that is, & there is Nothing outside the Known. The old man--former owner of the local Chinese restaurant, stirs the energy in the room, kind of like a tourbillon, the Wind of Dreams. Each moment proffering an advent of encumbered step or fall toward whatever relationship you tend to make whole, is none other than a Cycle (a sense of what Descartes illustrates). The air is something we all know quite a lot about. We circumambulate from someone showing us distance-as-their-device for the current norm. I mention to the old man "sunyata" & distance becomes relationship: Jews & Muslims have their High G-d, El or Allah respectively... similarly, the Conscious-Void=Sunyata is somewhat conventional 'til ethereally it is developed into the Higher Ground of Compassion contained in his pervading glance, while putting substance into what no longer seems empty. Distance is Relationship--and presence is defined by motive. In The Jew & the Lotus s(h)unyata is shown its comparative qualities with the Jewish "Received" or rather Mystic tradition=kabbalah, use of the word for G-d going from the Cosmic here & Now to the Objective Ineffable & back again. The term is Ein-Sof=All or Nothing. This word packs the biggest punch than any other reference to the Ultimate reality, in the Jewish tradition. Had I said Ein-Sof to an adept Jew rather than sunyata to Buddhist adherent the effect is exactly the same, we are all borne of an Eternity, and mostly we are ineffective answering the Consciousness illumined from our participation OF it.

Mdm. Blavatskii & Our Anthropos

Madame Blavatskii, founder of the Theosophical Society, which Krishnamurti inherited their helm, & subsequently-& rightly relinquished it--rejecting a kind of authority-toward the search for self-realization--(Mdm. B.) had discussions on root races, in her Esoteric Writings, that some meta-physical formidable spiritual content to the archetypes we understand of the variety to which humankind is composed. We know of the traditions somewhat, but when the Anthropo-Observer-student looks at presence beyond obvious stereotypes & sorts out the project of his/her own worth, the stranger amongst typically equals that effort, & we learn... **Something, yeah, was on NPR--& is in their archives, I checked out a couple of months ago, I guess. The Clash featuring Strummer's direction thru & beyond. Now-today on Utube, his version of Redemption Song, I have to say, leaves something yet to be desired. At first I didn't sit thru it all--but damn is It as f*&^ed up as he sounds, thru-out? By way of disclaimer, Bob Marley's theme'd "concrete jungle" assuages my attempt at marginalization of an urban-dirt type twang, via Strummer,=his vox. Still, those boys are very political, & unless the pain of suffering world-wide is graduated to me in one sedate glimpse into a face, then I can't translate the effort so easily. Not to say there is No face here--only that it is Harder to look into some settings. Let's just say Strummer is rt, et al, tho' I contrast this thing. Bob Marley, however, had a presumption of Funk, & I determined the black man veiled in earth-bound treatises, puppeteering some soul-happening in & of the temporal kingdom in which I am imprisoned... just as I do, seeing women (moving the boundaries of what we speak of in terms of a Race: our multiplicity has individualized identities!) as keepers of the elegant throes of some covenant I must dance for, because she is earth & I am heaven-bound trying to find my legs. Like Marley says, if you have legs, you know you are on the ground. Root Races, for all its false decor, seems to be the struggle for relativity--on going=subjective to cosmic; general to personal.

In & Around Bluegrass Airport/ gentrification not availing us yet, on Parkers Mill ln.

Coffee-water colored, next to the median-way/fields between the back-roads & THAT stream, we sussed out between rocks & spiderwebs looking for beercans...later to be washed & dipped into oxalic acid to remove the rust that never sleeps. Corruption of REMs, which this rust made-up oF the dreamt repose of those hilly-country roads, lying across fields of corn, horse meadows--I saw paths only proffered under-foot in nighttime vision yawning ahead just as my feet sought its hold--as the unveiling dream flowed forward in undulating ambulations like I have never left these things I sought=beercans, Country-air w/purple thistle stickers corn-flower smells, & exertions from distances on trodded roads. On Frogtown ln. a farmhouse settling ever deeper into the firmament, invited us to explore in our stealth: timelessness for One, & a buena vista social-club (to coin a phrase) in its patience for our membership once removed from the harsh light of schooldays then encumbering our world. We'd eat peanut-butter sandwiches on roman-meal bread & drink warm sodas, if we had them, all carried in our backpacks, or tied in Kroger bags onto our handlebars--A day in the life from restless youthful consciousness.

Apropos of an actionable Academician

Wandering images on campus, upstairs, into hallways--transmogrifying into a squirrel--then defying physical categories, becoming the usual shapeless mass & a book-of-rules, again. By saying again, I mean a coherence of a shapeless-mass=a body consciousness w/full attention say upon the elements of outward fact. It is a derivative idea, originally implying something not of my assertion. This would be in opposition w/some fragment of self-image competing w/my better intentions. If I had not been a sh.-mass, self-image would obviously have been frustrating/derivative, in the dream. All too busy of a dream-scape was my presentiment of an interlocuttor who hadn't the time to address me. I begin to fumble w/some writ, symbols on paper which avail my eyes only whence the eyes focus upon the opposite pg. "Forest of life underfoot" (Patti Smith) as I get to the perimeter of campus into My own--a Chinese man comes across the POT square w/the Red sun at his back. He's on his bike coming my direction, so I climb atop the (now gone) fountain, & take in distances academia has yet defined for me. The day is coldCool, steam coming from vents in places, but the bldgs are locked & rather it is the final day or days before the M.I. KING library would close for good (on the Univ of Ky's campus). Assuming some thoughtless Asana pose, my book called Pilgrims w/Dalai Lama's wordsAmongstimages--R. Gere's thing, tells of nirvana & refusing it to lasting resignation on earth--my telling of it. The posture could be colluded in the yogiclike practice of Abraham Abulafia--13th ce Seferad (Espana). My eyes' recused vision of ancient times always seeks Hebrew symbols, letters, especially as the lazy mind becomes delivered of the dearest cryptic scenario, where the heart lies. Nirvana may just be that chamberOFwisdom, hekhalot, that presumes an advantage in intercession in the form of the community we identify w/most, OR that crowd we channel that may not be an organism of One-mind (like gems refracting from the illumination of a flashlight, rather than the burnishing of the ultimate Solar-disc)!--as opposed to the zeitgeist of the media driven world. So there I find myself, a khalutzim, pioneer or pilgrim, on the way to the temporal kingdom. Only to find patterns of language, the way we constitute the onlyAttributes of G-d we may otherwise have no way of articulating. The Glory, as Gershom Sholem relates. When I was 6yrs old at the neighboring st. in Laurel Grove Austin, Texas--I sought to be conveyed in a few moments the thoughts that constituted what was to me My lifetime. So to be articulated into something not so easily defined, I thought I should start At-the-End of the path/those thoughts/that day/This life. My question is this: we tend to sort out the last 5mins in any kind of constancy, our life's totality i.e. generalities supposing some inertia that there is some Grand design to our efforts,...usually means something epiphenomenal like the image of the rabbi, in my mind, that has the dust of archetypes upon it (life's exquisite dust, assumed in "the tea-maker's pose" -P. Smith, again)--rather a motivating emotion I suppose in meditation. Is this K'fitsas haderekh? translation: Skipping, what one does w/visions & thus the experience of presence.

The way they use you, live big today--tomorrow you're buried in a casket

George Harrison says, in some interview about self-realization--this interlude within the context of more topical stuff, "one has to sift thru the grains of sand to get to the sugar...." I like getting my mysticism from other arabias, rubbing out symbolic thought while finding that stark monad in some immense void--(a Kerouac-ism, in terms of ARABIAs), & this is thoughts on why there is no imminence front. What all is the fuss about? The very real constituent activity I undertake daily IS knowing what I'm leaving behind. But, not acting in its stead. There is definitely radical forces--institutional entities that creep into our thinking. --Lying on my bed, back in the house I grew up in, then in the 1990s, Bionic Rats was playing on my turn table, reggae, --I knew that the one effort that informed my mind w/o cessation was weeding out improbable notions THAT I had a certain amount of control over just what was now before me...! "...in the garden..." (lyric'd theme commonly heard in Rasta music, think Iraq now--war, war & rumors of war then as now--& only a desire for "Certain-skies"--Arthur Rimbaud) meant just that spiritual on-set of victory over any supposed responsibility to deliver myself upon the threshold of common zeitgeist gnawing at the corners of the emptiness I maintained--in my concealment. The churning riddims of Lee "Scratch" Perry's Open the Gate, did this for me. A field of light WAS as casual as glances beyond this kaleidoscope in front of me, but for the moment the gaze into shadows w/florescent animicules, like a varicolored veil, kept my concealment from advancing. No longer would I seep further into empty chambers; everything now would be a constant departure. Hard to understand, I know. Just imagine white noise & vibratory properties as a visual. Exuding frenetic energy, turning upon smaller & smaller experienced forms, I was quickly turning off and tuning in. (this thing I projected was visible) Utterly indescribable isolation, those days, my condition was everything just short of monkhood--minus the doctrine, though it would come. Turning off everything I could, 'til the zealous projection of light energy was all a contagion before me.

Masr or Mitzraim to the Ostyuden disambiguation

Dylan's Mr. Tambourine Man, though conditionally not theist bent, brings me into the fold of memories about a tambourine man, an Arab, Muslim as much as one would consider any one body sentient within Arab lands (...that includes animals--according to the Qu'ran, and the characterization of the T. Man==More, animals, as I've read, have already "submitted"--define "islam" here, but Man must take upon himself the Shariah, therefore identifying himself as an adherent--I think the word "witness" is appropriate, here, in his forebearance). But to expand upon the poetic nature of confliction over theism, tremendum and fascinans, the adult playing the tambourine down the butcher's street, on the way to the train station--in Luxor Egypt--Just his giving voice and weird credence to the pity borne of ritual/religion--his music, like mine: vanquished! -- animated the dust coloured walls to chaotic fly-ridden meat (halal-!)--laterally his domains--into tacit moments otherwise not warranting this Westerner to get all that close. The man was clearly transcendent (the local masjid in vicinity, by the way, its door let out upon that dirt road) to typify his insanity (=majnoon in Arabic, one posessed by a demon, a jinn), probably not to the nether regions, but more closely toward disease & propriety in his next breath. Now we see the Mumin's or Musselmanner's treatment of his kithe & kin or my misunderstanding of it, along w/whatever we'd see in the following. (Muslim detractors called Muhammed majnoon, inappropriately--I reflected on this word working construction in Southern Israel, amongst the other Palestinian laborers, unknowingly, & got punched hard in the shoulder over & over again for my indisgression. I had only thought of its similarity to the Hebrew word Meshugga=same meaning--words aren't cheap to some!!)--Covering all bases, to continue: In Visions of Joanna, Dylan uses the lyrics about the empty sheet that now corrodes, the Fiddler who walks to the road, says everything is returned that is old, & Dylan's conscience explodes as the back of the Fish truck loads. In what seems to be his telling of unique histories, the fiddler is he--the so-called fiddler of E. Europe, On the Roof...it has to be. And the whole Judeo-Christian ethic, New Jerusalem (from maybe the Jerusalem of the east--think Litvak) on trial--is of One product, as he tells it from its report, meaning his conscience exploding--the fish is emblematic, Rt? If anything I'd bid his perspective at the equilateral-ness of the monotheists. It wouldn't be conceptually, except in some very essential ways, but definitely socially/politically--as Downpressors? (a Marley-ism). We could take the whole context time-line of the last 2000yrs & brandish its beginning as a deliverable context in itself. Called the Axial age, we now see, and the impetus of the degrading human condition thereafter. **See Unripe Walnuts below for schizophrenic allusions--my take on the supra-normal, short & sweet.

Once intimidated, twice Intimated

Standing out on the log pile in our half-acre backyard, just a yard away from farmland & more bluegrass, off the wet ground--a balance from the tethered past 'til that purple night--all a handshake w/the homewardness I'm leaving... The stocked kindling used to be over at the front side of the house, & there had been a couple of bouts chipping away at dull wood w/hand on an axe blade & no handle--just because! Toil, I guess had to be equated--mind to languor in the late night hrs. A yellow breeze from long ends of the days puts yet another attenuated sense between me & the Ky star-lit sky. I'd come back from Cinci earlier that evening & thought about the midnight sky as something to be excused from the Will its path conjured, because I foundered on the dialogue w/it thru its impermenance now solving the crisis I'd be heard by those vast distances. A young fellow had been belched out of the smog & din of Bogarts frequenters, I asked him for that ride, which stretched in a kind of asking throughout the ride home, conjoling him I'm not too far from downtown Lexington. I'm tired of looking at the antiquated biblical familial nods, but this just-out-of-h. school dude looked like my older bro, 1970s & all, in h.s. in Texas--I'd call it beatnik, or more wholly--vital & beat, like Kerouac would say. The late in the am. hrs out around the neighborhood, w/my bestfriend yrs earlier, had heavy skies throttling my composure, as if we were at a kind of bottom layer of atmosphere, walking into the field enclosing the church. & for a moment backing off--in recalcitrance, I sought my friend, wondering if he too felt burro-ish...? Our primary regard for what we had become, midnight ravers, meant ignoring an escalating sky & committed us to groundlings: some strange headless sense, just part & parcel Of the arbors' flat earth in the burbs--sunken. That is why the voice I heard, mired in solace up outside of Bogarts, struck me as entirely appropriate. "I'll see you up here, tonight," to which some bird-song crow-vox informed me I'd be arisen from what was a kind of opposite rung of, rather, people's lightened load.

The DISTANCE strung,the THOUGHTS traveled

In Cairo there was a sweet decadence in a day where at one moment I felt I was unlimited, & I gained a reverence for the immensity of experiences travel had to offer. Vast & eternal because I was somewhat ill-received these faithless days & yet stood beleaguered by the profundity of distances & finality of that. I would have to say that smoking herb there in Egypt sealed the deal, but more importantly I was solidly assured that my liberation was at hand & no water (or High Sun) could put out that fire, ...meaning indulgences like smoking. I can't sit here & promote marijuana use & say it is a means to an end, but whilst we contently articulated a day's consignment of these meager illusionary moments--in repose of those Dec. days in Cairo, I remember some thing in my eyes which made me subject & audience of my own independent means to get Born under circumstances=having gotten away from the constraints of time & place e.g.hometown so remote & automatically assumed in its pressures, however abstract they may get. I carried this idea all week now, & thence I dreamt of an ex-patriot accord, w/an old head I know here from work. ==In this domicile we found ourselves in, I kept promoting reflection on the advantages of setting up camp there--Valerie now in the picture & here & there responsibility on making her comfortable--but my wandering mendicant of a friend wouldn't yield to me & was dubious throughout. This made the dream & its mundane possibilities that much more a recess I had to indulge in: I wasn't going to leave behind this place & reject the illuminating conjuration of New-bounds Unseen. Captivated. All domiciles (in my dreams) have the portents of a forested corridor as the people are the trees & I am destined to wander or trod. Even the illustrations in mind of my wakened moments there in Egypt--this unwooded Afro-Asian desert--leave me off at a quake of protective boughs.

The Climate of the Bee-Catcher=The Will of Higher Ground

I saw a passive environment there in Ontario, Iron Bridge, next door to Neil Young's hometown Blind River--we actually went by his sister's house, we thought. Though the feel was dormant/slow-like, it didn't have the pretense of winter coming on though it is. Now in the stale office air, looking out to the road trafficking students & associated agents of this town's school yr arising, the humid winds (of Aug/Sept) sweeping past in gray skies look awefully Autumnal from here. Here's the rain now in a new shower from only 15 mins ago & it actually looks bright out. The seasons are kept in a deep well pocket of mine, & now I elicit the respect from lone days spent as if I have some kind of will tied into a climate of change/& the greater Will. I remember going to Mark's--my oldest bro, & summery heat of an apt this casual no central air was at least bearable & mostly just where one would want to visit to think of the emanations of headiness of healthy foods & soaps & incense. That is the times-in-between, & the identification of a fixed state of mind to make it jumping-off pts, & leaving the negligible responsibilities to the moments when I'd do THAT too--it just wasn't THEN.... This is when one sees a sort of composite of unyielding time just out of reach--he or she would claim that crystaline air as effortlessness--a karmic resolve. You'd think one would get the "news" peripherally indefinitely. Accurate force of what we reckon we need to be hit with, IS found a 100 pgs into a book when you're ready to put it down for good. Still , one's back pgs is the acquisition of persons' manner we're more easily going to antiquate. Those 4 corners in some room decorated w/projections of whomever would understand you/ we will never know--not really... but I throw dust on images of self-reflection until I see that nothing looks back. AND then the whole winter solace is ahead of me: one man one plain; nothing derivative.

Call it biblacy, but this read was New yet Old

This is probably my first book, besides a Beatles bio, which I had never thumbed thru--this book is called The Rastafarians. (ras=rosh; tafari=tiferet goes from translating the Arabic to Hebrew=head (of) the creator/ Ras tifari+ but I'm no adherent.) I importune a feeling of complacent lounging on my bed or floor in the rooms I grew-up in, as I looked upon this book in my bookcase. It is literally an edifice of those moments, remonstrating perfection in contentment & clarity, though unachieved, claims me as an adherent--toward a noumenon. I intended a vista through walls coming down from there in my solitude into the shelves at Sqecial Media, yes sQecial, where I bought it. It is the advantage in identifying space as a power spot, just as in Don Juan's, A Yaqui Way of Knowledge: It seemed someone had led me to my room & said find where you belong in it. I composed myself until I broke the recluse bounds & tore off pieces of titles languishing in repose, there for my assessment. The BLACK abstraction that was an emanation of word beginnings imparted by Mom, is just that sort of gathering of concepts as my gaze moved around the room & landed upon maybe in OTHER cases, like Gershom Scholem's writings. I am mystic, I am fistic, I am hiss-tic.

The Smell of Unripe Walnut Rinds on Your Hands...

Hill & dale down the walnut tree'd main rd into & between my neighborhood (Beaumont park area) toward suburban ubiquitous devolution behind the local shopping cntr (Gardenside), I'd sometimes walk in the wee hrs, maybe for a juice up at the market. My schizophrenia full-blown at the time, at least, remained laughable to me--even in the seriousness of mind-sore imagery, in this case an auditory hallucination. Literally, dormant interiors to people's secluded rests faltered the broad-scape visual (behind well-kept yards) I sensed...anticipating my own respite, while only being the convergence of their's. Like a whine, patterned from row upon row of houses, I thought the thing I heard was nocturnal communication= people in dialogue in order to sustain a dream state. (I was privy to...) And this (dream state) included the path's vistas I carried forward upon wondering if the language would translate into maybe a morning that this time wouldn't get away from me.

A hobo got to hide--Williamsburg rd. for 27 yrs

First, to step rt into the deep, I saw a chasm of ams, just as many do--seeing active pursuant thoughts that defer us to relationship-social amiable distraction. I'd get up & the meager earnings I accumulated for my lax communication w/others had me question why one would be so willing to be filled up w/such surface affability. I knew that a man who had wrenched his senses thru either his own faults or ultimate suffering had only the blue empyrean to thank, a tree, the smell of breakfasts, the laundry smells wafting thru the suburban-scape--had no abiding & gave no thanks to streams of social interaction, which could no longer suffice for his longing. 2nd, to evade relationship is neither here nor there, relationship IS regardless if the dynamic is presented or as in my case the projection of personas becoming as real as the object reasoned WILL to find an intercessor for my longing (a potential, Yes?). I guess at this pt I might as well admit that I had hallucinated. From the front door of the house One would step out & the grand ash tree of my growing up held the promise of achieving rootedness as nothing else could. People I knew sometimes flew into my wonder, & I sought the fulfillment of imagination, kind of instructing the sense we are ALL present in the threshold of the day, at that very moment. The thing I felt I saw, at once, was ephemeral imagery of my dad, but only in that something that was taking place under the tree. I imagined an elliptical hand-held mirror, kind of hovering as if it was held before a face allowing for a look into what was behind the statement of my projection=me walking by the appended identity of my father.

In Eilot, Israel==Autumnal couple of days

We'd come back from Dahab only hrs before, showered--I extricated the hidden hashish from my ass, & felt a little lost in a homeward-kind of present. I wanted to feel linked up w/complacent reflections of the Danish girls there in the apt. They, at least 2 of the 3, were hooking...flowery still, something nice. I went out to the deck (in the dark desert sky), we were upstairs, laid my head back on the cool rain swept tile & tried to lure a Fall relevance to distance traveled & a back home revelry. The others, my friend Rob (of Red Fly Nation) from here in Lexington, our comrade a British cat about our age, & those women, were all sitting around drinking beer & wine, which didn't interest me, fever was coming on. One really striking chic from Denmark, unusually darker than the others, & I went for a walk the next day--I wanted to go by these solitarian picnic tables & watch traffic, across from the airport near the Red Sea (Yam Suf--actually the Reed Sea). I had earlier in the week seen a morbidly obese wanderer--some woman w/splitting wounds running down her ripped stockinged legs, sitting there mayhem-like. Life had motion, just being w/the Danish chic, however--there was clarity in her attention of me, presuming there was a there there. I fancied Yes, but in reality, I merely thought this out of distraction. Back the night before one of the girls--her--came up on me & pointed out my anti-sociality, then threw a pot of cold water in my face, laughed, and left me alone.

THere's nothin' really, nothin' really to turn Off

Keenan Lawler said from his Myspace, frustration or anger leads One beyond the traditional. (& in the view of the Reviewer, his was a third alternative) TicTOCteac (Lee Perry) thanx G-d for making him mad. We always conjure Order (making a distiction from those things our focus becomes delimited). We see a freshly mown lawn & say, I want it to go like That. But it is like that. But again, I want it to go like that--still it is like that!! (suburban death, is quite another idea) A child whose energy which convalesces in the mundane outside his/her provenance seems wholly possible. And maybe we all projected energy from other planets (...VU's electricity comes from other planets recognized here) Lee Scratch says the Spiritual man IS mad. But I'm certain the MF (namely reprehensible conservative jips) detailing me how he'll make my monies work for me, is as mad as a reckoning of some Absolute will make some One. And yet I am on the front lines of a battle I wage to compete w/Ego...it's all ego, yeah, but when I let go I observe just that deficit in awareness, rather than fill up w/some kind of social status--

On the way back from Canada=Toledo Ohio, in August

We stopped by the graveyard where my wife's Grandma's parents are buried--in Toledo. This is a mostly Polish graveyard--though we were there for her Hungarian grandpa & Canadian great grandparents. The Poles traditionally were extremely perversely prejudiced against Jews. (google Anomoye Potswo; their lable of an anonymous Empire--a derogatory term to explicate what little humanity they'd assumed of their Jewish neighbors) It is a reality to perceive a threat when we cohere a community still living--this relativity that Otherness is Imminent. But this part of the Polish community lies ineffective, & out of my control or forebearance. And yet I mingle head & shoulders among spirits now that their reckoning is the kind of Ultimate demise in which we all relate. They are at peace, & I solemnly care that they are. I reach to clean the gravestone, someone reaches back in reaction to a constancy I maintain from dialogue toward things here & Not-so here. I forge a People'd pantheon of relationship, and they discover a new participant to the Crowd's end-game.

Did my sentence, languished in Gehenna

I went to see Paul K & the Weathermen down on Main st., good club setting--dark dive=The Dame, actually rt across from my cuz's old loft, Red Fly Nation's practice auditorium, the band I sullenly played-in...meaning I was thick w/exclusivity then--beyond the bouyant immediacy, not as now; & also this band subject of this writing played there at a loft apt. Time. Its Irony, that of time I mean, is that all the fantastic hype of relationship w/the material void--the unassailable appearances which we seem to want to duplicate all the time, this hype has a kind of energy (maybe because it opposes our sentience)--& once we place that measure of force to be Reckoned Into a box, we see that our momentum shouldn't be consumed by it. So, here's my point: I'm standing out in the crowd, Paul absolutely throwing down, Tim no less on the kit... an exacting kind of hypostasis occurs to me. They have ever been upon the threshold of sound that conveys me, & I have ever been in the throes of ecstatic imminence watching. Just watching, like I was supposed to interpret a message from an ancient time. & Ancient times, by the way are a dime a dozen--just think for a moment that all symbols of eternity are in this Life. We know no other, & Otherness is before us as viceral-as-an-effort we'd muster to complicate the Ineffectiveness-trying-to-change-things suggests.
paul k's website is paulkweathermen.com

Under my brother's mural...looking to the light from the upstairs coming in

From the bed where I languished... once upon an afternoon-sunny bland-until-I-imposed-a-remedy I lay there w/the duality of serenity & dead-soul. I conjugated my 1 plus 1 effort, suddenly knowing my neighbor w/his spiritual machinations enthused a fusion of the ineffective-me to the vital now/I could be both! My conga drum at the foot of my bed, always w/a telegraphed presumption--this calling toward the blue outward fact & skies--yawned while my nephew (Aaron) puttered around upstairs. So I call him down to my basementCRAFT; an impetus to say something w/my hands & the voice would be secondary & readied. I said,"Listen it's something I learned, not to forget, on this drum.". So a slowed-down resumption of analysed-afternoon glum came to my hands w/a hesitation in the pattern half-way through. This is when I raised my hands even higher, closer to his face: Look at it linger, I thought. He saw it, & I am going backward in time...then in obedience to fixed notion that freedom of thought is his kind of atonomy--To relate w/ youth is formulaic FOR freedom & I wanted attention ON having always placed a half-full cup in the WAY of release, to sift into liking it for the context of an inner-dwelling.

NEAR KENTON'S bluehole--a spring on Parker's Mill

Nothing dreamt, a solid state orderly green vista, just sky & earth had captivated me, holding out the last rescue of the peace my neighborhood had to offer (after 27 yrs, I moved)--its extension out over by the farm on Parker's Mill not 3mls from the Bluegrass Airport. I read there Isaac Babel's Cossacks stories of deprivation, mystic churches, impoverished Jews, war. The emblems of these yesteryears, a percussive revolution in cognizant immediacy, were perhaps a tachancha, a kind of military wagon (Soviet), not unlike the zeitgeist we associate w/ the military industry as in the US--how it performs in our environment (fashion, culture, social demise et cetera), & horses--the sentience-of-promise in front of me there under a pine tree looking off into their field on this ubiquitous KY horse farm. The doom of destiny untethered then in my life, had me look closer at what was intermediate space in everyone's life in & around me & made IT important to me. I called it my own, LIVED up to my expectations, & gathered no more than wall-flowers, but enough of a kind of inner-attention to bring it all to the table when the new day arose.

Living on REBEL rd.--RADIO-FREE-LEXINGTON djing then

The imagery behind "this" scenario is the kind-of-event I felt occurring to me down in the basement apt at the old house here on Rebel rd. Like an uncarved block showing its potential, because I was insignificant in a way that I, alone, understood/ part of a greater whole no matter how far from relationship I became. In the half-light of chimerical ams, before getting-up & after the light of am. trapped my eyes from leaving my dormancy, I'd dream of the immediate, perhaps the room in which I lain. Once I thought I actually laid my hand on the stepping razor of blood images from my grandmother-(granny) emerging from my heart... (a black velvet shadow of projected self) if we begin to set the plates for the mindsore of characters that occupy our world, particularly when it is strictly unrealism, in the end it impels us to design the realistic.

See April's 2006POEM** //THis one is a RED FLY tip

Surmising the plain hearth, I gathered the concept of having sought release w/ the musicians I ran with, now yrs ago. The mayhem-tree (as such 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--it's 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 this life's edifice--a house, wanting to get in--or already confined to the "bamot" (immemorial worshipped space) w/ expectations on par w/ the cosmic--either way I am buffered by exaltation. When Kabbalists are acceding to higher chambers of belief & 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.e. to that of the "other side" the sitra archa--the ch is a Kuh sound as in cuss. I am the convergence of wanting in & getting out.

RED FLY NATION, dispensational

The new dawn faded, thither I followed the descending sun, while living in downtown Lexington. The band was inspiring, but not for me to do things supporting it, but rather as a cause-accompli in my reaction to the world, my fait. No one has regrets, least of all anyone knowing those times in distant cognizance, however something was unsettled. I needed only to turn corners, those being dusty & worn, unremarkable, but nuanced enough to say I had forward thinking. The 3rd st. house we lived together in, the 6 of us, had me undetermined where I'd remain--if only to get the ball rolling, a current taking me into the bounds in which my then girl-friend vested her critique of our relationship, to which the plain suggestion to me was get-on-board. Literally I walked out of the house(apt) toward the settling evening air, out across the st. from Lex. cemetery, & sat under a tree in the parking lot. Still enough sun was gleaming for an allowance of alliterative resolve--my esoteric book defied the lack of patterns I'd forsaken, & given me something at stake. (I think the author was Madam Blavatskii, her mysticism-something book I stole from Sqecial Media, which considering the beneficence of the place I felt almost blasphemous.) If the coffers of the compassionate void grants us a powerspot now & again, I knew it wasn't for the moment instructive to bide those places AMONGST--(too bad, I know). But I prized the connections in relationship as something to get back to, if only... & for me that was clearly defined in the stands of trees which rustled w/ otherness, & in which I sensed the impending thunder (which we all heard), & yet I was left naked w/o a rain dance.

Met a Ma-mun (Muslim) in my DREAM last night

WE were down over by campus (UK), specifically some place either where Two Keys is now, or right there across the street at Casmir Restaurant, but inside had a kind of Student cntr feel to it. The Muslim didn't know I was a Jew, but outed me as an Infidel anyways--though I began to rally him that the world outside of Islam is not the Dar al-Harb, world of war (this sense may be part of fiqh--a kind of jurisprudence, the institution of jihad). In otherwords my dreamt self was someone purporting a reckoning of what fear & paranoia, if dissolved, could then sanction. This thing unique to our quality of life is probably a sense that we are not impelled by others toward the happenstance of any religion (think biblebelt here, and beyond!)--simply put secular ideas let lighted streets take us to a pluralist understanding of you & me. And the street is the revealed sort of powerspot, this particular area, I have dreamt of many times. Rt by what use to be White Mt Creamery--which I glanced at it while it was established--yrs ago, coming out of my old girl-friend's apt for the last time, above Two Keys, made me think I was at the foot of some fantastic obstacle, a figurative "mt," which broke the thread connecting me to a past I can never go back to. Personality can be cult-like, to stretch the metaphor, whether it is a taste of how your own has lent to a dis-ease, or if someone or something has a kind of control over you.

THE gray-ce of MOTIVE

Looking off to a corner of the room, not really in digression of what is on TV, or enthusiasm thereof, but some message reeled in thru the nature of complacency & my visual from escaping it--I feel this visual though only in inaugurating the immediate, still-solutions an on-going effort. All this effort is a cognizance of a kind of stammer--a shutter like the mortal coil announces its residing atmosphere which cannot easily be transitioned. But obviously an observation gets me thru a door.
Just today walking back from the bank I had a California moment. In CA perturbed masses in movement can be objectified because I am only there--just there, I'm not participating. Here, I smell the diesel, hear the car tires--their adjustment upon the pavement and suddenly I'm earthbound rather than KY-homeward. I've gotten beneath the firmament of time & place to a graver atmosphere, the nerve core of civilization in ad absurdum transition. I think we would agree that ideas & ideals are on a collision-course w/ experimentation & normalcy to its pinnacle there - maybe elsewhere.

KRISHNAMURTI

kRISHNAMURTI name may seem to imply new age perhaps or cult-like reverberations, but his essays are not ritual-abiding blah at all, nor are they neo-traditionalisms via Hindu study like a reformer who is ever so MORE conservative in his own approach would be apt, or religious to any degree. He takes a point like his exacting departure from the Theosophical Society, an Orientalist group, founded by Madame Blavatsky (who happened to come from the same town as my Grandmother, but in her parents time=Ekatrinaslav, Russia): Truth is a pathless land, and shows thru an exercise of conversation where we generally are left holding on to visualization of some bit of rationalization in how we cohere our response to our condition. He cajoles his reader to self-scrutiny--and one might react like having martyred a sense of relevance held closest to the vest due to his sheer plain affect. I find his writing writings highly UN-radicalized, to the effect that all else seems excessive & over-wrought.

On Fallon rd. near Beaumont Pk.

That cat who lain on the road, down 'round the corner from my house, on the oldest street in the neighborhood, struck a note of empathy in me in a very finite way==It was dead, of course, but its spirit floated close by. I entered the soul of the compassionate void, maybe ITS DIMINUTIVE space its vitality once conjured. I was touching something & I thought of my hands in that moment, on the wet road, Spring am. A black cat crossing my path, w/ a bleat in a spiritual heart I knew was manifest in every dreamy sanctioned day of my growing up there--seeing these locals' critters meander around this place. This cat meant that. Its one eye appeared as a kind of extremity, sticking out as a protuberance demanding one last visual of the road of its neighborhood life. I was as dead as it, and as alive. Marley's "Running Away" ran thru my mind--"you can't run away from yourself!" & I acquiesced to a struggle right then, at least in that moment I wasn't running, so I only had me to deal with & why not RIGHT then. If Rimbaud could lean next to a Prussian soldier in a field adjacent to his village at his final peace, and decide he could know everything now, similarly we are the convergence of tremendum & fascinans & could identify w/ a complete sense of motive.

Opting for TORPOR

The meditative moments Saturday night had one of the things I put on-the-BACK-burner as being the thing that would typically impel me to construe a night ardor. This being torpidity, thence made realization a struggle but no less a pay-off toward now of course though I paid for this feeling then. It seemed all I could do was a vertiginous pose and all I wanted was a babe-on-the-lawn seeking the brighter atmosphere. I looked at my hands for what really is a conciliatory image, not unlike a geometric-ploy of a Mohammedan in their tantric response to a world of over-bearing images: scripture as pictorial design conveying the adherent out of the cosmic to the conveyance of that & Other things. Images symbolic of sound e.g. the language of G-d's mind, are just as UNIQUE as my hands as IF they were pug marks on a path in the Wilderness and explanate of an instinct to be consoled in the distances we achieve to consume an objective cause. This would be a spiritual exercise, if not for linear thought bringing me out of the angst of LOSS of inner-attention. Inner-attention is always a godsend, but as that Higher Ground is what it is--some OTHER place, I am typically deliberating on the exudation of some Lower Order of things. --a trifling ordeal, and the simplest to contemplate.

LUXOR, MISR==REVISITED, part II

When there is no consciousness or abstraction to grapple with, one would feel entirely compelled to finish the "waiting." --(speeding thru life's current) Like how I felt out by the Titi pension, in Luxor--only the balance between being utterly away from typical amenities/comforts into a situation where we would make do, made me feel any kind of gravity. It was totally momentary--I couldn't tote it around in a wheelbarrow. I declaimed my will to move forward by jumping laterally all the time, circling the castle so to speak, I was interested in torpor & categorically ill-considered its partner=silence. Named IT as I confided in the presumed atmosphere of my last mood/struck by this and affective discontent was thusly achieved. Walking around the Temple of Luxor, the stark Middle-Eastern brightness gave no deviating shadows--I felt like taking my shoes off, though the quality of its antiquity was unfathomable. This is where tourists were killed THIS millenium. My sense of unity & goal becomes fragmented as these places disappear over the horizon, my impermanence suggestive as it courses thru people's demise yon & hither. The Nile waking thru the village's edge (right next to the Temple), I would scan its civilized banks to find a perch just to view it for awhile--but anything as presumptuous enough of being a beautiful vista was wrestled to the dust by vendors, boat rentals, or appeared too close to traffic anyway. I thought of riots as having no potential, but crowds unbarred from their willfulness wanting to climb the walls of the old British neighborhood dwellings walled around w/ shards of glass acting as barbs seized into the cement at their tops.

LUXOR--THE bank was more likely "du Caire!"

hiddenreceived

LUXOR, EGYPT

To the extent that we were using hashish &/or tobacco together or separately, one might assume there were periods when we lived in a thick dullness abiding the intensity from our brand of liberty, to its other extreme--a void, whence the harsh Arabesque sun of Ifriqqa shone past the CLARITY and into the mishap of confused reflections e.g. at the Tea House, presuming as I was, some dot of angst would color an otherwise unhealthy unknowing.*** There is a boulevard stretching toward the trainstation, our admittance to this village-town, & to the other side our pension, which we'd hoof down away from every day wondering at what non-paying wonders we would have divulged to us in our hikes around the village. It had a Banque Leumi (sp?) (wrong fact here, THIS bank happens to be Israeli--whoops!! ...everything else is as it was.) there on it, at which one Sunday we had our travelers cheques cashed. Everything seemed off from the current of modern access, as 80% of all you could see was submerged, but seethed. Toward my freedom of youth I'd admonish myself that big fish authorial entities would in fact show me how little they cared what sensitivities I contained in the contra-bearing for others in my path. Like the governmentally controlled bank we passed each day. The mosque on the other side of the side of the village where we stayed was another such place. A Midnight Express scenario played out in my mind, as much as I could think about it, while considering entering the mosque, which we did--& formidably w/SHOES. We actually looked around for some object to pilfer from it, however there was nothing within and still I would not have gone thru w/ it. By the coffee/tea house before the boulevard & closer to our youth hostel, the Titi Pension, the place was called Television-Cofe, Mahmud the owner told us that Jimmy Carter had been right by his place one day only a few yrs before, & then commenced to scatter a few glasses full of water out into the sand-ridden road? to keep? the dust down. Far from re-allaying a sense that this was memorialized space, it seemed as if this little African man looked to the promise of an immense cosmic polity which would help people & lift them up--and this was part & parcel the powerspot we sought & could sanction (merely his humanity, that is, not the content of his beneficent agitation--"Wow, J. Carter!" --I don't think so.) Power spot. No longer wearing his jelabiyah, Mahmud in his suit about the same day we were to leave, he was off to Cairo toward the granting of a loan. His securing a future was in his eyes, a certainty beyond the correspondence w/ us that was neither here nor there toward his ends... He was comfortable in his own skin & was beating the odds. We left Luxor w/ hope for him.

DANGLING man--I'm in PROGRESSION

The day unique to the freedom I've inherited, from whom I don't know, is distinguishable in a few old thoughts: the betterment of the general malaise around here. I think the eros of lies telling me I could PROVOKE my INTELLECT w/beauty, via androgyne, thus honor relationship with impulsivity, has everything to do with FREUD, though I can understand him only superficially: And of course what else should it take--we are driven to extremes in most emotions, but sorrow is largely, but evenly compromised. These guys? who said never police your own thoughts, left me unstaged as a youth, so I looked to postpone tangible successes of which "others" pretended to be so fond. I can think someone here & now, but why should I if they are only a step in the right direction. I grew weary of the thought, "I was on my way." No one could collaborate assessing my diminutive self, until what became relevant was static. And it was clear that there was no going back in time---there is no recluse moment of nostalgia in my head, but I had to say I'm not going anywhere! You proved IT, as all relationship is in EXILE.

Today's interplay w/ constant SORROW

Winter's air gathers my expectant mood in a failing resolve that I have lost something in a dark alley & then as if I find myself out under a street-light for reprieve, like it would be there for some reason. The coolness is sterile, & a free-fall thru its void leaves attachments unnecessary: No work, no time concerns, but maybe only a burnishing nostalgia. The residue of last night's foray into a somewhat sublime course thru my evening is an open playing field today. I am dying to put things at my center. At my most meditative moment researching, admittedly w/ calm non-indulgent practice, from a book Howie gave me belonging to his Mother, Russian Thinkers, I felt to be the convergent of all the nows: the book, the TV in the other room, the pulse of the shop in a particular generality (which is possible)--& this was like breaths whose report was the traffic noise outside of this front room. The immersion was complete. And then my brother says from his office, "That was nothing of what we're going to have to deal with." At the core I live in interpretive moods--NOW I think I start with nothing, & that was a place of murmured space in the back of my head, & this is what I use to step out into the fray of constant energy without it ever evaporating--a winter's trial. I could be a gallows's bird looking at the hush hush around some personalities, & the assetiveness around others. Why do we do this silent measure of affability?--we are pinballs shocked from the report of the bell's peal hammered submission from boring neon characters: it's excessive, we have to break the silence.

Running TOWARD midnight, backwards

The imagery behind this scenario is the kind-of-event I felt occurring to me down in the basement apt at the old house on Rebel rd. Like an uncarved block showing its potential, because i was insignificant in a way that I, alone, understood/ part of a greater whole no matter how far from relationship I became. In the half-light of chimerical mornings, before getting up & after the light of morning trapped my eyes from leaving their dormancy, I'd dream of the immediate, perhaps of the room in which I lain. Once I thought I actually laid my hand upon the steppin' razor of blood images from Granny (my Dad's Mom) emerging from my heart.... If we begin to set the plates for the mind sore of characters that occupy our world, particularly when it is strictly UN-realism, in the end it impels us to design the realistic.

The Tea-maker's CHIA-NIK!!

At a certain point I decide everything is game; not quite Do what thou wilt. I look at my cousin's sofer(scribe) husband and imagine he would determine something about his green-youth, unless he became mossed over w/ ritual. Even he would skewer insects in the formidable exuding floor of suffering for NO-g-d if THE G-d declaimed a world w/o the nomenclature of ritual & he'd have to live that way--so why do we (I) choose?. Following my mom from the recesses of my enthusiasm for the Old-World made recognizable (not the obvious one of E. Europe, but the Mediterranean one of Seferad=think Zohar, the Book of Splendor), while sitting under the shed awning or near-by under the apple tree (in the garden). I got up one time, all heady w/ colors w/o names for me embellished. An image of my mom walking to the backdoor comes to me in this strictly non-ellipses, no preliminary alarm-like humid summer's day. So like a duckling I was following suit & home in my head, like old brown tucked underneath my bed of acquiescence, then I pick a wall-flower from her shoulder. We may be blooms of poppies & the only religion is homeward rituals/our opiates. The most we can hope for is the finding of the pattern when the mind is rife w/ our hollow breathing. We absorb more, thus we are more acutely aware when we breathe in: the mind tells us the world doesn't know shit about the air, like we do... Now it's ritual--breathe in the black smoke exhale the white!! Black is the absence of color, so it must be the compassionate void.

Aimed toward Ahhhs/ Amos Oz, in fact!!

I seek myself in the moments in which I tarry. I was surprised to watch my mind float in & out of a surface of endeavor, whatever that may be. Getting a plate set to pile on the crapulence of fluid thought--unyielding time--spatial queries--shadowy persistence, I knew at once the dawning of articulated dreams when darkened lids like cinema screens lay desirous of relevance. All I wanted to prove is potential. If I knew that THAT was there, a restive self would be sundered into stimulated ideation/ NOWHERE to go but UP!!