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.