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!!