White Light: Thought in White Heat--corporeal hulking thoughts

Of sound Mind & body==absolutely no drugs coursing thru my body on this occasion, as generally I can say.

Is there any folly in this? I'm trying to capture this one time out in front of the house on Williamsburg, when some innervoice came to a halt & I felt the wind of like a loud gun shot, with the requisite moment of dis-ease like I was floating away. --damned frightening!! We think. I was a "Driver back in Khartoum." (Paul K's song title) Guns were drawn, the iconography of the mind has the TV stupidly play--its antennae reflecting, alarmed. --folks that are more adept than me, and that can mean MORE awake, than folks who can't socially adjust in the first place & tout their physical & financial departure from the pack are the ones negligible in the travelogue coursing me through my condition. And thus I am wondering about who has gotten to a liberated mind, thru inner-peace, and esoteric observations. Take the old man or woman on the block--how do they stand in the wind? What self-conceptualization has given them the mind over the matter? I want light in my world--negativity has no places. Those that alienate a more compassionate perspective aren't in fact an individual I need to alter my path for anyway... I'm the first one there, & it is just me & you & I can't be the last to leave--to paraphrase Dylan.

Sitting out in front of the house, on my lawn chair by the garage, trailing away from me was the garment like the veil of an existential wind...my emotion & solid state that my motive til then was plain, leaving me in a wake of irresoluteness. I looked around and found myself in rarified air. The seat of awareness--say this sorta power spot=porch sittin'--seemes constituent with a floor of consciousness I could articulate, but not with words--but rather reflexively & potentially. I was looking for a solid state, a peak moment that I was a part of a spiritual reckoning--and had kind of an auditory hallucination. I could hear a flangey radio--the conversation in my head threatening that the vocal fountain now scrawling across some projected field around me would soon trail off, but with no clue that an innerVoice is my recorded self. If I were in front of some media providing apparati, it seems only the object in focus suggests I am welcomed when I reflect something like a message in the outward fact, while qualifying I ReALLy would have known & where have I been, it had been waiting. There is something monarchical about being in that much control when what is yours "closed' behind eyelids is just as the sleeping physical world saying contentedly, "go ahead, lay your head--I'm really the dream!" This being a viable notion I felt ultimately determined by, but now has been eclipsed as vast as a shadow behind the sun, rather than maybe my profile as casting a shadow yet by the sun--it has its own, as in the field of reason. Some bird flew across the immediate skyline & was a stark reminder of my sentience having consciousness bound by ignorance that slowly terribly intangibly I'd evolve from it. The corporeal hulking presence of a pathetic mind suggested to be some reprieve beyond the heated conditioning I was always trying to answer for. I look into space like it was as tactile as a hot iceberg, 85 % of its life submerged, but evidenciary just so. I perk up, it threatens denial. I adjust on my haunches, it bobs forward. Then as if hands moulded from my consternation I imagined grabbing some mental nomenclature as if like grandma's couch I am there til asked to go out, outside for awhile, quit lingering--was not the spectral shore I'd get warm & fuzzy about & my languid posturing held high til I peeked into brighter light and out of my constraints. Emotion was never missed, I watched what I saw... "I watched what I saw" is the words & concept I got from the French existential poet Artur Rimbaud. Consciousness acquisitive as the anthropos hand trusted to take what is just proximal in my awareness--like I can grab my objet du choseisma= if my French is correct, this means the object "doing"--a thingism, is cold filtering of the peripheral statement of presence. LIGHT plateau - dark CORRIDOR; white black white black: I watched what I saw! The last TIME we gave ourselves to the moment may have been our last reFLECTion before the veil of tears reMINDed us that IT had been a Karmic death.

I remember walking over to this cemetary, the main one here in Lexington in a similar haze back when REd Fly Nation was making music--the band I was in. Getting out of our downtown abode, book in hand about alchemy, the sun seemed to say I had enough time to find a conscious pocket & commiserate on a Then unknown-- It was evening time, but no social reproach in that I am my own worst critic, would sucker me into being something I couldn't or wouldn't live up to anyway. Like Bob Marley says--my then constant companion--"Music a godly thing." And the good company I kept in the place where humans were interred, was made of an indefinite chorus. There was something in the river of sight to which I belonged...the eternal world was the temporal one. And all the deceased pointed to it!!
***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 street from Lexington cemetery, & sat under a tree in the parking lot. Still enough sun, like I say for the conscious pocket, 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 Madame 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. I could look at her image-the old photograph on the back of the book for long moments sometimes. She was gesturing, seemingly to me, but definitely in some ascetic quality as if iconography was the hand in contortion upon the side of her head--to herself-- maybe that certain energy for sustained meditation is met that way...like the quality of a plain room is characterized=or some tabernacle as I felt to be contained by, painting lightning in the air with my thoughts!!