From Kerouac, to Afro-Asia, & then dreaming Burroughs

In Kerouac's book Big Sur, Kerouac had walked down to the beach & tried to become conveyed by the ebb & flow & splash. He's coming off the mt. figuratively & momentarily in this intellectually enterprising solitude--meaning the Noumenon that is the source of Our intellectual prowess is going to carry him until his demise. This occurred when walking back from the ocean on a path that passes a stand of trees in which he particularly like to meditate. He sits & waits for instruction that surely is his-only as one's loneliness allows. But there he sees the "ancient rosy colours" behind his eye-lids & w/out its portents--look what has done that to him. If our self-realization was orthodoxy we'd be turning toward something rather than away. The void within sought to obliterate itself. On the other hand, I really think I got the "time" on this thing that Jack Kerouac proffered in On the Road. He says, "for just a moment I had reached the pt. of ecstacy that I always wanted to reach, which was the complete step across chronological time into timeless shadows, & wonderment in the bleakness of the mortal realm, & the sensation of death kicking at my heels to move on, w/a phantom dogging its own heels, & myself hurrying to a plank where all the angels dove off & flew into the holy void of uncreated emptiness, the potent & inconceivable radiancies shining in bright mind essense.... I was too young to know what happened." In view of the mystic approach--my experience was Gershom Scholem's texts on the Kabbalah. I've deliberated upon them since I was 15, I turned 42 a few days ago. I remember lying on the floor, trying to gather the imminent FACT as if sounds-arriving--traffic close by, house settling, birds...whatever would convey me to what Now seems to be What Then I was illustrating in my mind as ascendant chambers, called hekhalot. This is what we might call HigherGround & I'd say every excellently translated Rumi poem draws our attention to these particulars, meaning we are at once temporally grounded--moments later, perhaps, we find that we can reflect What-Is=the experienced-Forms, or in the Jewish Mystic sense, energies called seferot. A weird mental apostacy--run for the exit type existence or fantastic illumined escape, because better-Now than-Ever occurred to me in Fustat looking at what I was told was the oldest synagogue in Cairo. Ravens appearing on my shoulders in my convalescense around the ancient histories of an ent het enheh belief (the castle of my Eternity, in Egyptian), like it was parallel to what I solemnly try to be objective about. So rather than assume our unique history, I wanted to be in the presence of it--the Geniza (domestic memory store) referenced Jews since 1200 yrs ago. This new cultural Roof was an African Sun from white heat to roseate, & leaving fly-ridden langour in our minds as if we were equally as ubiquitous & yet expendable, trying to land on noble purposes for the puzzle of a meritable adventure to lend expression. Burroughs seems to be my cosmogony as Egypt is to an alchemically mindful protagonist dealing with mortality. His book Exterminator has 1 story w/the use of pyretheum--an insect agent used in woman's house whose son had died some yrs before. These introductory moments has his (Burroughs') character sit in the son's very chair where perhaps a 1000 of his lives have passed on. The tweezed out lives in filth-real or in mind, like bugs skewered for consumption, figuratively, filters into images of the 6th floor hostel I stayed in in Cairo. Woolen-filled mattresses, no shuttered window--just a door size opening to the oily air of a city riven of dust & desert. Looking down to the street below, we watched a young man in modern attire chase a weasel down down the street whomping it like a futbol. Malaria was a threat we wondered about, as if our shots would fail & yield to the fantastic universe a world apart from any 1rst world preparations. The muezzin hollarin' & throaty incantations we could tune into on the jam box--all a language whose lexicon was as real as the eliminated solace of our motherTongue in reprimand of our American passport functionaries (etiquette)--seems to be something thrown rt. out the door. The internationalism we assumed 'til then had pathos graffitti'd in roughShod ways across this society at the pains of over-population--should have ethnic definitions apropos for this N. African country just how Linton Kwesi Johnson means it saying that it is the chocolate hr of the red bulb, a stain in the brain & the blood flow. The dreamt Burroughs, was my seeing what striving scenario my sub-conscious comes up with, as we were discussing my book--it was that ephemeral. The thing that took my undivided attention was the whiling away moments looking at the 2 opened pgs which had like-colored balloons with scratched writing in them. They said things like G-d is in Prison; G-d is in Exile; G-d spoke & two things I have heard; & if G-d is On-High then every other place is left vacant. Some had lengthier things said in them, but it was hard to digest as everything--see this--everything was in flux. A subjective view of G-d had been a particular persuasion of Weisel's, imparted to me & the impression was made. So toward the notion of mystic endeavors as dreamscapes in self-security, in conclusion, the imminent G-d is actionable thru "the breaking of the vessels," a Kabbalistic notion where G-d recedes from his-self making room for the Godhead=Adam Kadmon/ primordial man, & the ultimate recipient of "this expression"--humanKind. A word anthem for an alliterative trek.

REd Flying past contentment

Surmising the plain hearth, I gathered the concept of having sought release with the musicians I ran with, now yrs ago. The mayhem tree (as such I dubbed) down on campus seemed to be transition in place, of place, allowing me to yield to the CURRENCY of norm, which I now objectify for its strangeness--it's all good, I feel--nothing to prove. Now there is nothing outside of me, drug or otherwise which has a distance strung toward the box Others fill with contentment, that I can't do myself with the florid hyperstatic way my life flows now. I am movement, life's grand reward, a positivist's momentum. Why I sense my concealment at all, as it has never changed, is almost beyond realization: I could be scaling the exterior of this life's edifice--a house, wanting to get in--or already confined to some "bamot" (immemorial worshipped space) w/expectations on par w/the cosmic. Either way I am buffered by exaltation. Lit nerves of floods raising the proximal to mere reference points that used to be so distant invents the psyche as the appearance of yet another satellite. If I only had the advantage of goal orientation, the conscious map I miss out on is all the past langour 'til now the ever present. It seems thru real focus if I intentionally takes my eyes off the ball for only a moment, then all the stimulation around me, like the hum of traffic, the fans of my computer, noises countered off of the immoveable= all go through me at light speed. But I'm looking off still, so my wave of thought is still body conscious of slo-fi. When kabbalists are acceding to higher chambers of belief & knowledge, it is due to their concealment that they can bury the heart of the "other-side"--the sitra arkha. I am the convergence of wanting in & getting Out. I know that a man who had his senses wrenched thru either his own fault or ultimate suffering, had only the blue empyrean to thank, or a tree, the smell of breakfasts, the laundry smells wafting thru the suburban-scape--had no abiding & gave no thanks to streams of social interaction, which could not suffice for his longing. If the ulterior self is the "house" on the otherSide, to revisit it is done in the sense of scenarios we've build up & made affable, like a job, coffee shop, shopping cntr, apartment--et cetera! People I have known sometimes fly into my wonder, & I seek the fulfillment of imagination, kind of instructing the sense we are all present in the threshold of the day, at that very moment. The thing I felt I saw, at once by the house I grewUp in, was ephemeral imaginary of my dad, but only in that that something was taking place under the frontYard tree. I imagined an elliptical hand-held mirror, kind of hovering as if it was held before a face allowing for a look into what was behind the statement of my projection=me walking by an appended identity of my father.

A stain in the brain, & the blood flow. Electric lights consoling

The title is borrowed lyrics from Linton Kwesi Johnson. Niggun is the Hebrew term meaning the intonation of prayer-speak...it is the "chocolate hour of the red-bulb." (LKJ)
This essay below is all the assessment from the convolutions of my manOwar attitude even unto going right up & steeling consciousness back from the side of me hiding in meditations. Babylon, the word, means "gate of the gods." Babilui is a more accurate transcription. Had that there was a mean where I live from its grasp, this much I know, that the cool waters of consciousness is WithOut. That is where it "falls." The feeling that comes to a meet & greet of the struggle to maintain within its grasp is the heat of thought coming to my eyes as I seek to reconcile the view outside my window framing the days past. The beginning to my effort, as beginnings go--some strange motive seemed allied & possible. In effect that I could look at my limbo appearance. The first mystery availing the existence I scrutinized thru some Hindu-query of body consciousness beneath the the rung or limb I was then pinned on, was a multi-armed self ambulating as if I had maneuvered to maintain surface affability. I meditate on Lee Perry's reggae electronica primitive beats & lyricism. I had noticed a clef in my brow, a first visual=just a visual of shadowy self, which fortunately I was aware that images would transition & only up until the point of observation/assessment. It was & is just creating a sense of fluid movement casual non-compliance w/a set way of administering to a day's embrace, or its lack of embrace...! It isn't any formal understanding of posture, visualization, mantra et cetera: eg Aum would have been a lack of embrace, no observation of release so, I decided on Aum tic Sat toc Tot teac. Thinking that soon I'll do something creative has immediacy written all over it. In fact by thinking it, I'm not even in process. Just to conceptualize "wanting" to be in good presence of mind becomes incindiary, as in the words book or mysterion, which sits on the floor of consciousness & I have to admit I'm merely a potential. Hebrew got heavy like this. I had already sped thru the silence of a few Hebrew prayers, which were typified as Un-Eastern (which they're kinda not un-Eastern), & unfortunately ungravid from a kind of refuted familiarity. As of now I believe in liquid skies and expect a sad man to stand up in my eyes.

Saturday indicating the MusicScene's Embrace=WRFL

Monk-like in the final yrs in the house where I lived for 27 yrs, growing up was a Mutual Arising of the look of self supernally--but rarely if only on this one occasion. Now writing this, the hr seems late. Wakeful dreams, but nothing special, just a feeling in my eyes as if the room is in a mirror in my eyes--& this may be all the look of Higher Self I am permissed. I recorded a session of bongoPlaying primitively & laughable, but the measure of the pt. was to grasp the affable look into certain recesses of the day that had otherwise eluded me. If Babylon was falling, I met it at the door, there in my room radiating light in my concealment, with my weight leaving impressions in the blue carpet from the 60s beneath me. My concern was that the peak of a solitarian day made observable--the very crescendo like an arc of the Sun we screw, & thus being not late for it. The patternic bongo beats telegraphed in a conversation I wanted to hear. I wanted to hear what I might otherwise say if only to be neither the habit of self, but recognizable as an ally in time. This claim to division of self was what the crowd enjoined me to grasp the solitude again now with them as one-Body. (April 26th 2008) I could have stood there all night, but alas at 42--as of next month, the recreated intensity all dithery toward the mundane & the norm of weariness is refocused seeing Tony Briggs in the crowd. (& I had thought & meditated on his person(ality) some days before, & now glad to see him.) History of the musicScene real &/or ephemeral gets claimed as just the same conversation (=dread & beat) -- actionable but tilted into my subjective cause now=the hr spat it had gotten late. If not for me, then definitely for him--or it would seem--but regretting this summation. Rob & I met him yrs ago & it's not me that I think the rub of acknowledgement was his glance & stride past me as I stood prone to the message makers--these down folks whose scan across the crowd is a conscious-party, whereas I yield to a jumping off point the first time words were exchanged. Tony was at this gathering over by UK's campus--near the fireHouse, & people were milling about in & out of openDoors & plateauing Minds. There was probably 2 yard bags full of herb on the kitchen floor... I said to Rob,"dude, this guy is pivotal in the creative energy in Lexington's musicScene." My oldest brother's words figured prominently. So, Rob & I went & introduced ourselved out front/asking him what he thought of our own bag of shake--would anybody want this stuff? Still all day unto what was called down watching The Apples in Stereo playing wallFlowered auditive power: I thought, "yes me friend we take the streets again." --from B Marley & the Wailers' Burnin' album. In the ethereal way the Rastas interpret urbanTrascendence, like what The Ethiopians sing: One Day We'll Walk the Streets Forever, it is verily idealistic & antithetical that we would & should defy impermanence.