THE REMOTE visualization of the jips of pillow-armies

I found out what it is to die. I am not being morbid, and this is no warning about a weird decision as if I was planning to jump off into a ditch somewhere... It is entirely, and exactly what it is to die.OK OK I suggest the sense that we should live unto departure, is DIVIDING what is more easily thought of, and in actuality IS, as ONE world. No thresholds, only eternality. So, all symbols of eternity are in this life, where do you contend you'd know them elsewhere? Lets say we become objective about time. Time is entirely the single most monarchical principal which is merely a bump in the road, and the only sense of material world we'd know. What if upon our apostasy from the "norm" the impermanent record is dismissed? Isn't "time" the only thing imprisoning us, and as such is as much under our control as is the sky demonstrating the limits to which we would go--and we do GO, Right!!?? We elevate our Being with the cadence of the enveloping light of day. We can seek Higher Ground ad infinitum...as the one thing we know is true, is that EVERYTHING is!! Behind any field of spectral thought, the edenic day we mitigate with DREAMS about our very slumber, meaning the dreams of complacent repose, has such profound truth in the life our mind, that all along we have become consumed by louder, brighter, more epiphenomena, than taking our lead from the subtlety of the slow fidelity that these fantastic filmy dreams are the first rung in a ladder into a tree of knowledge


Subject: tell me if you reflect this particular condition?
I SAID: There is a spiritual concept called agonistic ritualization. The idea is that we set-up certain competitive goals, even conflicting with our need for reprieve, in order for the atman self (the atomic-self) to become what otherwise we mistakenly thought were just appearances. Or another way to call these "appearances" is the Outward Fact, the actionable world! We are better off toppling the effect that somehow only one avenue in a dialect is answer enough, despite the fact that some things would be better avoided: "only one answer is answer enough" means we hadn't started with fragmentation, which is the natural state of the mind. In other words there is something there to be believed, even in its confliction of our peace of mind as we would want to mitigate. You described the frayed edges of your condition, starting with that rather than allowing it as something static, would be hard to do...I'd hope it isn't as helpless as that. So, argue with me, it may make you feel better, Right?
AND THEN a particularly cool chic from tribe SAID: "I once knew, very well and for quite a while, a guy who without any doubt was a sorcerer/wizard/whatever -- not that he advertised it in any way, it was the kind of thing that once you knew him enough, you began to notice. It was kind of alarming, actually. His powers were used for his own benefit and protection, period. Anyway, in my observations I learned a lot about spiritual power, which he definitely had. Discipline greatly involved, and deliberately taking yourself to difficult places. He summed it up well one day: "I like to do things I don't like to do." Makes you powerful, for sure..."
(me again)***Now, I'd like to think there was this vibe I'd impart to others--something different, hopefully adept--she's not indicating me obviously... and seeing the Other as a guru, being able to reflect that as in the fine details they themselves in their convention don't remark on, is consistent just enough to make me WANT to be indicated. That someone may intercede on your behalf has alot to do with the messianic complex I feel I'd martyr (*in the verb tense) when liquid language awashed in silence is the scrawl of some limit of its force I'd become a proponent over. People going though the blue blue window of this physical garment life contains us hitherto, makes me believe they are moving from a recognizable power spot, somewhere in my absence, to the affable me before them as now!! This one mind is being able to find centers from without--our little complicated selves aren't going to be as gratuitous an event as this consciousness we move into. Higher Ground is Outside of Us, if we believe relationship is identity as we would have its allegory in thoughts feelings and actions.
I feel I am expanding--albeit in my own complicated way--where I think we are going with this. THE PRINCE, or sultan, or the Emperor wearing no clothes: where does he/she live in your mind? Have you looked (generally, anyone), or do we look to pontificate as if somewhere over the rainbow they'd be met. Mind Body Spirit, or in place of spirit say Expression... at the end of pontifcation does the concept fulfill the need, or do you look at the peak and dodgey valleys of your scrawl of voice reaching and striving for the king or atman self to respond? Had we looked, he/she would be as static as the gloss in your eyes. The limit of my observations is the teleology that this physical restraint allows--the phone always works, something emanates, is emanating, seems to demand I move toward the recepient of my ideal, yet I am a prodigy of my self-possession. The bulbul, nightingale of the Arabias, closes its eyes--its eyes alighted to the singular dweet of his repose in the Tiamah--desert, void. Nothing of the social organism is engendered- other than the rays of the High G-d who receives his meditation or "recitation" on Distance. SElf-consciousness to me is the leaden consciousness that had consumed me, its gravity, 'til I find the place where I can imagine pillow armies again set free. Observable release. And the door leading away from the acquisitive mind, makes the continuity I seek as in graver cycles. That I don't have control, is where I'd reference the substance of ephemeral fleeting identity...

The FOUNTAIN BLUE as OPPOSED to the empty SPRING

During the RED FLY NATION dispensation:
While doing the band-thing now so many yrs ago, makes stand-out just those plateaued moments when I thought I'd gotten away from something I was in fact participating IN. The places of all my changes, is better remarked upon as the places I first saw light. Light in its absence is entirely the "strength" of its properties as we'd want to see. The strange occurrences of having peed blood were always in conditions when I was only seeing black & white anyways. Milky grays around me, really, and black wine urine as I'm screaming, "my soul" inside my head, where home was. That mortality seemed to be on the line, power-spots became believable to me, as convalescence would in the end make me better--with no other treatment for my dissipation. That I'd been in one place a 100yrs was easily defined, but reckless, because I thought I was stealing what otherwise were convergent places where relationship would be found. So, there are two things here: People & their relenting of my woes, & places as in the constant of objectivity in just what I could find centeredness in my solitarian existence. Like the guilt in sitting in a chair where you had died a thousand deaths--asking yourself, if you ought to have. I took solace in reggae anthems saying, "one day we will walk these streets forever." Knowing nothing stole my revelry for life-well-lived, I'd begun to answer what it is to live. Just know that before treatment for my schizophrenia, lucid ideation of really essential moments about Ultimate Reality was the stop-gap before I found it, as now, acceptable to ask of such relevance as I deliberate on below: OK OK I suggest the sense that we should live unto departure, is dividing what is more easily thought of, and in actuality IS, as ONE world. No thresholds, only eternality. So, all symbols of eternity are in this life, where do you contend you'd know them elsewhere? Lets say we become objective about time. Time is entirely the single most monarchical principal which is merely a bump in the road, and the only sense of material world we'd know. What if upon our apostasy from the "norm" the impermanent record is dismissed? Isn't time the only thing imprisoning us, and as such is as much under our control as is the sky demonstrating the limits to which we would go--and we do GO, Right!!?? We elevate our Being with the cadence of the enveloping light of day. We can seek Higher Ground ad infinitum...as the one thing we know is true, is that EVERYTHING is!! Behind any field of spectral thought, the edenic day we mitigate with DREAMS about our very slumber, has such profound truth in the life our mind, that all along we have become consumed by louder, brighter, more epiphenomena, than taking our lead from the subtlety of the slow fidelity that these fantastic filmy dreams are the first rung in a ladder into a tree of knowledge.
Excess all around, but I'm some gypsy--a hurried presence, maybe there in Newburgh, on my way, on my own, ready to see the planned vacation spot for me & my lady. A steely glance from this guy carrying a strapless suitcase & guitar seemed to indict the picture of me--now even less of a mendicant. It is foggy out this am., a quizzical look on my face records Valerie asking me, as if she is there, "Doest thou love the fog?" Dirt on pavement, puddles on the unproffered way across the parking lot, I'm muddling forward to the bus station. She says, "If you fear it, you hate it, & if you hate it you love it." (Evgenii Zamyatin) I'm drudged up from the bottom now, she's Rt, but there is no afterward. But a bird lunges at the run over pack of crackers at my periphery, like it was belched out of the mist. Aunt Eleanor's house is only a couple of blocks away--a neighborhood adjacent to the shopping cntr. I've seen phosphorescent fungus growing out of a tree there two houses up from hers. The next day someone smashes it in with their foot: nature as art has chaos with which to contend. I'll need a key for the bungalow up in the Catskills, Valerie will be waiting for me there. "Dip in, dip in--to the sea of possibilities." (Patti Smith) --language is the valley of tongues, the spirit decends to correspond with the obvious=the quantifying of surfaces--but our babel wants more. Paul's music, like Aaron--brother of Moses, is he who speaks as if digging a ditch in the sky, where "pirates of the airwaves" (Lee Perry) can be interred in their graves burying the encumbrances of the fine "liquid language awash" (Wallace Stevens?) thru music & its details, so it will rain down as the communicating ancients making known the world-to-come, if there is one.
Ok, Language in as holy a vein as music gets, is the thing that carries me over like this Coltrane thing I guess just called Coltrane, not a compilation. --from Prestige. He recorded this rt after he gave up H & got into Buddhist thought. Now one might think this makes him a mental apostate like the rest of us in our reconstructive efforts whatever they may be, & that means an IN on his creative motive. But, Coltrane has the language of Jazz, and thus his version of truth which obviously can reach us--clearly. Truth is static, & we're implicated by our listening & nods of approval= we're the ones destined to be changed by it. He is always the observer of what complicates our assertive egos, & makes it simple & easily solvent. IT's like Oh G-d he kept doing that. That's what I mean by static. I'd say like Kerouac, the observer is never sacrificed, even thru his dissipation. We're right there w/him, nowhere to go, our baby steps to his Giant Ones.
The meditative moments last night had one of the things I put on-the-BACK-burner as being the thing that would typically impel me to construe a night ardor. (So to speak, my motive was floundering.) This being torpidity, thence made realization a struggle but no less a pay-off toward now, of course--though I paid for this feeling then. It seemed all I could do was strike a vertiginous pose and all I wanted was a babe-on-the-lawn seeking the brighter atmosphere, looking into the light. I looked at my hands for what really is a conciliatory image, not unlike a geometric-ploy of a Mohammedan in their tantric response to a world of over-bearing images: scripture as pictorial design conveying the adherent out of the cosmic to the conveyance of that & Other-things. Images symbolic of sound e.g. the language of G-d's mind, are just as UNIQUE as my hands as IF they made pug marks on a path in the Wilderness and explanate of an instinct to be consoled in the distances we achieve to resume an objective cause. This would be a spiritual exercise, if not for linear thought bringing me out of the angst of LOSS of inner-attention. Inner-attention is always a godsend, but as that Higher Ground is what it is--some OTHER place/ the existential, I am typically deliberating on the exudation of some Lower Order of things. --a trifling ordeal, and the simplest to contemplate."I cut off my hair, and I rode straight away--to a wild & unknown country, where I could not go wrong." Dylan is an ascetic uncarved block, I chip away at an idea I think is me to the T, and yet I remain stalwart & unbounded toward the similar goal, still on my own.We are so blind, what there is to SEE gets divorced from what lens we USE & begin to adapt to. If you tend to want to learn from your sorrow, in the end we cease experiencing a refrain, thus a convenant is born. Sitting down by the still waters, looses us in the fray of normalcy, where it is best to be lost. Dylan claimed something in affiliation with Jewish identity, that Now you could call him a Zionist for life--this last pubicized trip he took to Jerusalem. This artist yet iconoclast, who has create a profound compassionate edifice for the underdog, takes a lable for a political movement, albeit cultural & now appertaining in a new voice that the conscience of those who may have only heard their own hopefully would have learned that still he couldn't leave anything behind. So, as pregnant a term as Islamo-fascism in the minds of the Israelis mutually arising neighbors--the Muslims, I imagine, wouldn't be part of his agonistic ritual before what is the convergence of the Big 3, The Holy of Holies.

Finding Otherness while stolid Faith is jettisoned

Rule # !, there is no meaning of marriage that I can understand. The remarkable thing was all that leaden country of consciousness that was a dreamscape, as if I couldn't be denied that I really do have something to offer someone. **I have to refine the evangeline of my coffee-table, as compared to the one I sat before just up the street when an exact oppositely conflicted life I lived, all pointed to the transparent table before "I, me, mine"-- as the pallet of a day's currency now almost entirely evident. How evidenciary (then) was the wooden basketball backboard, to contain what I'd become: my only view to its leveling was some belief something behind a pale shelter, its veil--seized and pried upon, & a look emanating from a sadhu's pantheon would be written in my presence...somewhere in gray shades of verseless thresholds. Yet, leaving family, is what I did first--finding them--or really being indicated as something creative amongst, is still my balancing identity as grave an effort as I anticipated. The very brick of my consciousness is a certain comfort I have felt with myself. There were and are times, let's say, looking at some object as innocuous as a shoe-untraveled -- easily is maintained as only a rudiment thought--and transpires like it fluctuates, as if my hand willfully turns it prone unceasingly...! But, as before it--not like a fluid dream at all when sentience is the nature of all the intermediary space--but rather something inherently stolid is at least patternic, if not a soft machine. So, we are a a nation of 1 - to borrow a line from Vonnegut's movie MOTHERNIGHT. Yet, self-knowledge is found in the ledger of events as unresolved as they become--still I'll lose & find my religion at her behest, because, "Like a tree that giveth forth fruit, by the rivers of water. Every life finds its purpose, has its reason--in every season." Something biblical from B. Marley on UPRISING. I take it to mean, each stone shall tarry. So, what isn't right & proper for someone now, like the stone we refuse, later our minds get less complicated and we presume for the other it MAY have worked=say the institution of marriage. That there is no substance to those fantastically ritualized traditions imposed upon a couple, doesn't mean it isn't a simple notion for them... again LESS complicated, we are reductive, because life is merely a celebration & relationship is yet another pause for the cause. We have certain ritual belief so that some social requirement seems meaningful. FOr SOME, this is as creative as it gets... for others a union of these mutual arisen personalities is highly symbolic.
REligion creates an imaginative narrative, the imaginative narrative construes Higher Ground (whatever that is!): Higher Ground hopefully doesn't dismiss any Other. If it does, then their god sees no glory right? Hence our argument against Organized Belief system. Upon the approach to purity as some goal with no ill consequence to deflate us when its met, take collectively some proto-Semitic word, maybe the ONe of a # of deities--a LOrd, that filters into a recognizable term where it is meant as a sense of the sacrifice of the adherent's atomic self. "Kaddish" is the "furthest," the sense of Other--the "separate," and the existential - as in how we define being On, an On spirit. The temple High Priest preserves the emoting of seasons' change--how social living is the best here. And him as the Originator of the Festival's inauguration, imagine him as every bit answered for, the peak of social rapport--but his only agony is he can't be lost to this example he sets down. In the temple chamber, the silence that ensues allows thought imagery to give him insight into experienced-forms as some conscious prop, more vital than, than maybe the Way he had set out toward renunciation of anything intermediate with his objects in ritual. The "object" may be the self, and it is sacrificed at once becoming the ritual, becoming the symbols of Eternity. So knowledge of self is effectively turning out self, sacrificing it, so that we are utterly compelled submit to the KNown. It is certainly known that we hold in high regard these things we can't control. So an object at hand that represents these awesome Forces whose subject we are, is the compelling rhythm of ritual, prayer & so forth. Religion has created a narrative--these are Thoughts Feelings & Actions, the allegory to Higher Ground--being ourselves is unique when we are converged upon by Time Place & Community & thus becoming the imaginative narrative. I develop the babel of deep asides from the context of an endeavor toward biblacy: Kabbalah & various studies of Jewish mysticism. When we seek what is a sense of our gravest attributes the subject must be an idea in the verb tense=a progression. Maybe the ability to imagine ideas washed up upon the shore of solitude, in their refined pieces, has certainty in its pallet of the very intermediary space, like white fire subject to the black fire of literacy. G-d is a Verb, the Infinite is contained in the receptivity of the House=the house has fulminate stacks of books where I'd gather the concept of antiquity whereas today, in contrast, has merely 15 minutes of a sense of penultimate week's passing.... These artists, writers, & musicians must have a jumping off point whence you’d admit a truth from an ancient time. This may not be your focus to deliberate and enthuse to permiss this direction, but I have to guess there is something there, a note of transcendence for anyone looking to ask the right question...what has this life Become? The context of two thousand years past is a referendum of the norm, sustaining looks & whispers about the anthropos of Our condition, for me. I am heading to the sad-eyed low-lands, minus the lady though Mercy is her domain in the Infinite. It is Mysticism and its flame where I will kill stale moments & reflect on the advantages of patterns of the mundane.