Where the green ants dream, like pillow armies in my mind

Last night I felt so high on contentent, a singularity was approaching like an awakening seemed in the offing--but nothing in my mind seemed plaintive for holding court with the spirits I imbibe--like I'd be psalmful. I like Russian imagery sometimes in the wee hrs, because the looming encumbrance of the midnight sky portends the containment Russians - Russian Jews, even the ChukChi Natives in the eternal night of Siberia--anyone in the xenophobic lands of this mystic Eastern corruptable disconsolation. Last night I held no key. Had I, then marbled red, bloodclotted jellied emotions would have my familial good conscience warm & fuzzy, as I enumerated so many other times, even lying in twilight dreams when my eyes are dreaming while imagining they're opened... The impulse to grasp the arm of my father's mother, yet not the Russian side of my family, still is the guardian angel of my imagined spirit narrative, made my hand feel like razors were slitting the tactiled pressure points in the severance of the meet & greet I had with her. The cold Winter's heart of the season seems to be the scrutinized self-preserved ideal, too. That I am out of it means quite a little bit to me--the nature & nurture of my instinct is that smoke in neighbors' hearths, had been sensed so many times wandering in the suburban streets since I was a kid, that being out of it, alights a question in my nerve that's lit. Something about survival--how its procured, especially in a world culturally imbued around rituals of seasons in & seasons out...that the impermanent record we transcend & defy would have been actionable nights like mine should have been. Tolstoy per Gandhi's acts toward purity is the utility of the studies' nod east I feel in a direction of the plurality of my conscience, so instructed from my known heritage into Gandhi's lent vision...in a purdah of distance strung, relying upon an ever new message from what only gets marketed to me by my own standards.
~~Nothing dreamt, a solid state orderly green vista, just sky & earth had captivated me, holding out the last rescue of the peace my old neighborhood had to offer—its extension out over by the farm on Parkers Mill not 3 mls from the airport. I read there Isaac Babel’s Cossack stories of deprivation, mystic churches, impoverished Jews, war. The emblems probably a 100 yrs ago of the stumble into the Soviet early days, a percussive revolution in cognizant immediacy, were perhaps a tachanka, a kind of military wagon, not unlike the zeitgeist we associate w/ the military industry as in the US—how it performs in our environment (fashion, culture, social demise), & horses—the sentience-of-promise in front of me there under a pine tree looking off into their field on this ubiquitous Ky horse farm. The loom of an unknown destiny untethered then in my life, had me look closer at what was intermediate space in everyone’s life in & around me & made it important to me. I called it my own, lived up to MY expectations, & gathered no more than wall flowers, but enough of a kind of inner-attention to bring it all to the table when the new day arose. **~~When it is twilight & we're tired sometimes harkens back to childhood, in the pleasure of dream-scapes we anticipate even Now.
Sleep, ethereal dream-time coming over me would be reductive, right.? For instance, we aren't calculating what next must be done, but lingering rather in a place of security--in peripheral dream-scapes of self-security... still, your promise of a thread from youth til now, may not demand that one should replace imagery w/ some concept Now at hand--"naturally" tuning out and emotive comfort. But in fact, daily we've done everything possible to maintain the adventure of self-revelry--and its proof when the kaleidoscopic resultant piece of art is proffered--the thing we scribe in the looming retiring room. But, the memory isn't topical right then for some reason. It IS you and your product--then. But the sleepiness for me only sometimes IS a waxy envelope I--myself, my spindral curiosity, push up into its folds. I read, late (...for me, before I succumb). And the images go on trial, because the impetus to close the circle and live only for that perfect image, is a motive that doesn't go away. But I want that space First--then I would see what it is IN my waking life that would give me dreams & night visions. And entirely IT is one little clue of spatial quality. I notice how my eyes seem to adjust to maybe a glossier focus--instead of maybe this plateauing affect Not occurring at all (this effect would foreshadow what one supposes right before sleep comes on--something during evening activity). And it won't always. So, back to the imagery--leaving your emotions be--and making room for an Awakened state. How does the yesteryear have anything to do with what you'd do to It, NOw--not Once was...? =there, no piece of mind need be left behind.
I had this dream of my pseudo-illness, could have been how Valerie's ill-health now gets intimated in my self-mythologized narrative... More than that it may be what my sentient well-being yields to as a method to promote the health of my soul. She's reminding me perhaps of the doors I have yet to close so that babylon's rules can get bastardized enough to let me get my hands upon its meaning. The deficits in language comes to mind because we all mutually arise, while observations thus are lost because we aren't reading the writing on the wall... It is hard to know what it is that is coming in from the cold, upon the threshold of the life experience we must react harmoniously to, if we are to get over the little trouble. Dreaming I was still sick--after a few weeks back of a recurring sinus & respiratory problem, my mind fired on it about the inconvenience of it all--which that is where the matriculate empathy for others is fully the shared moment... We somewhat turn away from that pivoting crowd who had lifted us up day after day, because maybe like an injured dog, we go to our little forest digs and heal and wonder over our diminished ability to have that physical synchronicity with others. We so badly need others to complete us, fitting the puzzle of the daily grind with those immediate goals we love to obtain. I laid in bed when I actually was sick, longing out the window into the sunny day. The running dialogue in my head a little impaired with dull pain, and then with just enough awareness, it was as if the gloss of all that part of the day I can't for the moment attend to, came to me like I was still being watched over. It was a promise--it is there when we watch what we see, to quote Rimbaud. Maybe I have sought the near & dear enough, but left unattended the more disparate relationships' portents. So, my family may be baring the fruit of knowledge that is of a spiritual nature in the human condition, while others are all mind, some are soul adventurers, still others have the animal corralled = physically adept, and this happens to be their fulfillment of the archetypes of humankind's condition. This is a kabbalistic notion, how we make up the nomenclature of anthropologic creation. The nomenclature of this physical world is sometimes conscious props, messages that certain folks pass to we the receiver of an Ideal set of circumstances. The human condition is about THIS big=I'm holding my fingers a half inch apart, so obviously consciousness will intersect, is my thinking. Hopefully there will be a fantastic universe to apply ourselves to, from this extra-sensory cognition.