Farmland a street over

Thoughts started with Zadie, as if he was a recipient of long ends of my days spilling headFilled ideas of life back at our original home. Frequently I was going down to the creek or out into our backyard to read in seclusion. I see the paradisiacal Ground-of-Being around the house reeled into the leveling-out of intellectual effort as I proceed back for my repose within (the domecile). Sitting on the tiled floor in my unwell-lit room, I attached some significance to thinking formulaically, which left me wondering how vital Wakefulness was. And again, how few the words are in my mind to maintain a sense of this beginning. All beginnings necessarily suggest everything is possible. But for the fear that the new dawn fades is also a beginning, to a din of restraint. I held a Marcus Aurelius book, its covers in shreds, in my desk drawer--my feeling of resigned "fate" to the exudation of these peeling tiles, probably not the stoicism a solitarian existant slacker could call covenantial. Had I looked out of my basement window & felt my way back the day before, it would have been a gathering of the concept of a Yiddish exercise book & hymnal. The standard for its care was my dream: I saw some thought-image of self go to Mom's bookcase & rip the pages from the crease outward. The intention was to dare the watery materiel to come together back from its opposite=this dis/ease. Only one other floor--stone like Israeli architecture demanded (in Petah Tikvah), but cold in the proximal Mediterranean environs, had seized me & moulded a perspective as tangible as a feeling in my eyes that something Jewish, Sefardic, would herald in time-well-spent of the future coming to pass. The furthest reaches of reflection on todays climate--this air, all a thread til then--MaKiNg sense of headwaters in Zadie as concept toward identity he granted me, a hierophant to edenic philosophy! Down by Kenton's Blue Hole, a natural spring, sometimes in tentative breaths I can imagine Now, it was as if I'd just surfaced in a body of water...& into the first breath of air-in vapors that seemed washed because I Was, & the integrated moment is fresh, vital... The narcotic effect of the glossiness in the obstacles making up my day had me fall into dross matter as if the corporeal body, this physical soul of mine, had to gesture at an ever widening berth of its langour. The "brownstones" mentioned in A. Kazin's A Walk in the City,... a Jew in his environs, lent? to me from Elie Wiesel's eponymous Williamsburg, N.Y., the name also of the street I grew up on, were full of the nationalities we'd expect symbolized by one structure then the next--just as my neighborhood grew personalities & prying eyes reflecting my scrutiny, therein evermore.

The Blue Slumber of the Moon-soaked Shade**

If only someone said Now You know everything... This idea comes to me late in the night sometimes--even now trying to reproduce this seems endless & hopeless at the same time. The zeigeist & formalism that heralded the Eastern philo to the West--I suppose--was the interpretation of the triad force of soul in the idea of Body Mind & Expression... usually til this read, what I'm referencing, I had seen that Spirit was in place of Expression. So, it ensued that a correlative was somehow there, but not implied. That in its (this triad) similar use in Jewish Mysticism, RuaKh is used in terms of Spirit, or Emotion & Soul. But, now I've learned it is also the word for Wind--like what swept the world before Light was created ex nihilo. Expression of Taoism fits nicely w/Emotion in the Kabbalistic sense. The climb to limit the langour of Feeling, to transcend it, is learnt from now knowing the Cntr of your awareness is a span of Outward fact beginning w/that illustration in mind that has to be set free. Just to note, what gives me context is that personification--these Western ascetics--somehow are interpreting all the while, making me look askew at something w/manifold truth, but colored in Traditional language/western lexicon--I end up making Amends that the liturgy would be obsolete in the force of its original intent (a Chinese language), so I'd have to play this game of trailing the ecstaticism while demanding a quieter Mind...
**the title from Artur Rimbaud

Before the gate, upon the the door's rib

Seeing how I or anyone gets caught-up in the fray of gratification giving-up to their on-line due, I can't but hit a wall with absolutely no contours...if I want to turn away from it & toward more encumbent Thought in a read from a book. It's like the nemesis of the ubermensch on the boardwalk--he sees the man w/purpose & faces himself momentarily to proove something to him Or not= all & all his motive is bland, but his infirmary is evident because of his desire to run into the ubermensch & stop his momentum. One Sunday am., going to the in-laws for breakfast, the car I follow across the burbs has the sense on offer that he was off into the horizon, into the roseate rising sun, an overt direction meaning multiply. For whatever reason, possibly thru our dissipation, it may occur to us that we at least want a motive--& it is all too clear it manifests looking toward others, because we don't!!--at least it can start there. The abject reflections are a solarity whose sheen contains us but had just set that other car free. And an Otherness-purpose left my manic rumble taking up the rear while embalmed w/the houses at the periphery, confirming my hypostasis. This am. I reach to the cats, in play, & sense I have a varicolored day ahead. Visiting this one image, back on Transylvania ave (a Univ. of Ky's neighborhood, heavily treed, long wide median)--I'm over for a cup of Red Zinger. My brother looks at me, it's concise his bearing is tethered to academia & the filter of my irresponsibility is perhaps this wall w/so few contours: it just takes a glance from the bookish toil he's used to, to gather the simplicity implicit when we (him & now I) have the wisdom of so much of that effort. And leaving that mt-top is rather having our backs to the peak in hesitant moments looking at others or Something that suggests slack reigns. There is something recognizable about finding our footing in Purpose that we-the nemesis of the ubermensch, call our cntr, but now from withOut.