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.