Repeat of some imagery, but I had to mention Crowley this time

Aleister Crowley painted in red letters--in Up-state NY upon a cliff (@ the turn of last century, thereabout)--Do what Thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law. (&-granted, he is no example of humility) This would apply had someone made a solemn sacrifice: some grandiose measure of self which we could relinquish because it had become a less than humble factor. Bob Marley said, My Head is My Home. We stand tall wanting the puzzle of thought to complete the experential picture. Krishnamurti calls us out--on this--with a practical sense definition that Thought is Fear. If your rule is Thought as Reprieve, then the "valley of indecision" (somewhat derivative Marley-ism) is around you & you have no Higher Ground!! Sacrifice thought, this side of yourself, if it is a means to your security. The answer is outside of Us...there is no autonomy. A noumenon started with Zadie, as if he were a recipient of long ends of my days spilling headFilled ideas of life back at our original** home. He *had* lived in Up-state Ny & as if life "is one big road w/lots of signs" (B.Marley), then the image of Crowley having put his graffiti up, had Zadie written all over it. If only to bare the sense of accumulated & drab of mind drive there, like at its peak, was all a granted finish to the anticipation the Native American land could wash across my epiphenomenal convalescence in the North. (the point being that the episteme--how we know thought--is only in that we do it!!) Also, the map of being on top of something creates a suspension of Will, & yet the energy of thought was more actionable, than the slow-Fi days wiling away all ahead of me (just hanging, no different than the tangible skies & roof of back home). The narcotic effect-as a heirophant of edenic philosophy, had the glossiness in the obstacles making up my day make me fall into dross matter, as if the corporeal body, this physical soul of mine, had to gesture at an ever wider berth of its langour. Up-state Ny--treed & obsolete in my mind, like boughs of protective limbs in corridors of paths thru woods, was a green uniformity of streams whose surfaces I broke & into the first tentative breath of air in vapors, made breathing seem washed because the integrated moment was vital & fresh. Words complicating, even implicating identity are necessarily limited. As an attribute of Higher Ground, my subjective cause, asking who is the atman self--like Our Maker, is querying an indefatigable question...no end in sight. At the home of my growing up**, I see the ground of being around the house reeled into the leveling out of intellectual effort as I proceed back into repose within (the domecile). The brownstones mentioned in Alfred Kazin's A Walk in the City, a Jew in his environs, lent to me from Wiesel's eponymous Williamsburg NY--as if, & also the name of my street, were the nationalities we'd expect symbolized by one structure then the next--just as my neighborhood grew personalities & prying eyes reflecting my scrutiny, therein ever more.

Mind made-up of a dream-dump

Made reference to Louis Jorge Borges' short story in a dream post, recently. How there is intermediary space, just as his character lies proximal to the forested mantles, but within an ampitheater, in the middle of the gradins progressing outwardly. His intent is to dream a personification of his archetypal self--himself as his own son, I think--maybe in a story called the Circular Ruins...! I'm conjuring this all to suppose just how the psychic strife in night vision avails life's path, but only at the point of convalescense--say from exiting a room, across a threshold--outside of it into a bigger pallet. Somehow toward gaining our strain of objectivity from the loam of mind where in fact we become limited from imagination now arguably the colorless space of marginalized sentient greed--in dream imagery! The point here is that you are still every characterization of time & place, & the beauty of it is that that negative space looses its anthropos conjecture. You've become vibrant properties of sensory activity, say "white noise" --torpidity rather than ambivalence. So, all thru the mischief of three conversations the day before this all hit me, I felt I owed a debt of intensity to some better creative explanate moment==thought battling!!! And then after some reading & the cognitive resources having been once-jettisoned now all in memory reflection & at the ready, I got back to full effect.