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!"

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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.