GHANDIJI, hai hai

IF RELIGION is self-actualization, and self-expression replacing spirit in the grouping w/ MIND & BODY, is maintained as this goal to seek that understanding, then I think it is ok to say, IF someone understands YOU, YOU understand yourself. Obviously we have to jettison the trappings of identity & ego--but as it ALL is ego, then we should commit ourselves to the most educational relationship we could endure. Have teachers as friends, in other words. A friend related: "Stand upright, speak thy thoughts, declare the truth thou hast, that all may share; be bold, proclaim it everywhere. They only love who dare." I responded by saying, "what about Gandhi's & Elie Weisel's talk-embarrassment--each in their own right?" He questioned my motive, but said something about Voltaire after what I wrote as follows: It's creative--is your perspective to get beyond the vanity (perhaps) of indulgent speech. These guys who have mastered just how language is received--in their cases they are pointing & committed to why people suffer--indicates the speaker in painful ways. Language as some perfunctory destination in a pocket of my mind, seems to be the thing I've held out for--waiting--like "liquid language awash/ed/" (Wallace Stevens) in the silent compulsion from gathering the concept of titles lingering in the libraries of babel--mine, my mother's, the ubiquitous shelves I've seen in Oxford, or more realistically Univ of Ky's. We wander thru words like trees are its captors, and we languish residing below its hallowed canopies, alone & born of concepts our minds contend as pre-immanentSubject: back to self-mythologizing, less of the doctrinal tip...maybe a lttlePorch-sittin' below & amongst squirrels in the ash tree & maples in our frontyard, ants at my feet seemed palatable weirdly, because I was consuming the day's horizon. The ants were like trickles of thought running benignly in & out of perspectives of self-hood, like the right of sensual personality in the Hindu moksha (liberation) sense was true democracy furthered. Pillow-armies but upon the repose of comely sidewalk has had everyday breathing the good air just as much an echo of my stays at the bungalows in Up-state NY--in the Catskills. There, once when my cousin came with her large 8 kid family and husband all in from Israel, I became aware of a bigger conscious-map, as in Russia infiltrating from her outback lands in Dostoevskii's scenarios from The Brother Karamazov book I was then reading. Like animicules in my eyes, I was skewering characters like Papillion under starvation circumstances reaping the cockroaches scurrying through his melancholy locked-in-a-cell silence. Woe, silence is golden, but things get brighter, the earth groans louder, and I am more & more impacted by subtle temporal gravity...like being pulled into the peaks & valleys of the chimey voices of family, but rather than soft & consoling, it was saccharine & corrupting. But to turn from it left me with almost no stimulation--so the abysmal self was no reproof of a free-fall into being understood... DReams all a path giving me self-preservation, since I saw the thread from the power of Russian literature in its yellowing pages, as gray middling efforts in hazy summery days--I was alone & monk-like.
Like lying underneath an air-conditioning unit atop an office building, say, on some metal grid—as in one dream of mine, I am a sensitive to sounds arriving from out on the wet pavement reporting on waves of traffic. Some evenings after intense, but unrelished studying, I am hyper-sensitive to light & sound, any & all conveyance OF the norm. The electricity coming from other planets, these threadbare norms of otherness come in hot, & if I knew how to duck, my footing on this precipice of strife contritely would no longer be merely what it is=a direction meaning multiply (meaning I can’t simply duck it, there's just too much...). Sometimes I take a gander at the movement I’m calling self, & it is as conditional as something tantric—cold & distinct--like continuity is yoking myself to the solarity of some static presentation of this concrete Immanence=some call it G-d Consciousness, I call it the yawn of time I watch the tent-poles of consciousness collapse under--the blowing out of the Candle. If I flipped it over (the tantram) all the emotion would seem indulgent-- & demanding transition I can’t just guess at. Still I read on!!

SElf-Mythologizing into ascetic doctrinal deliberation

Porch-sittin' below & amongst squirrels in the ash tree & maples in our frontyard, ants at my feet seemed palatable weirdly, because I was consuming the day's horizon. The ants were like trickles of thought running benignly in & out of perspectives of self-hood, like the right of sensual personality in the Hindu moksha (liberation) sense was true democracy furthered. Pillow-armies but upon the repose of comely sidewalk has had everyday breathing the good air just as much an echo of my stays at the bungalows in Up-state NY--in the Catskills. There, once when my cousin came with her large 8 kid family and husband all in from Israel, I became aware of a bigger conscious-map, as in Russia infiltrating from her outback lands in Dostoevskii's scenarios from The Brother Karamazov book I was then reading. Like animicules in my eyes, I was skewering characters like Papillion under starvation circumstances reaping the cockroaches scurrying through his melancholy locked-in-a-cell silence. Woe, silence is golden, but things get brighter, the earth groans louder, and I am more & more impacted by subtle temporal gravity...like being pulled into the peaks & valleys of the chimey voices of family, but rather than soft & consoling, it was saccharine & corrupting. But to turn from it left me with almost no stimulation--so the abysmal self was no reproof of a free-fall into being understood... DReams all a path giving me self-preservation, since I saw the thread from the power of Russian literature in its yellowing pages, as gray middling efforts in hazy summery days--I was alone & monk-like.
Like lying underneath an air-conditioning unit atop an office building, say, on some metal grid—as in one dream of mine, I am a sensitive to sounds arriving from out on the wet pavement reporting on waves of traffic. Some evenings after intense, but unrelished studying, I am hyper-sensitive to light & sound, any & all conveyance OF the norm. The electricity coming from other planets, these threadbare norms of otherness come in hot, & if I knew how to duck, my footing on this precipice of strife contritely would no longer be merely what it is=a direction meaning multiply (meaning I can’t simply duck it, there's just too much...). Sometimes I take a gander at the movement I’m calling self, & it is as conditional as something tantric—cold & distinct--like continuity is yoking myself to the solarity of some static presentation of this concrete Immanence=some call it G-d Consciousness, I call it the yawn of time I watch the tent-poles of consciousness collapse under--the blowing out of the Candle. If I flipped it over (the tantram) all the emotion would seem indulgent-- & demanding transition I can’t just guess at. Still I read on!!
~~**The Lay of the Land**~~
Strangest WRFL station muthoi:--Ok remember in Basketball Diaries when they had the game and dudes did a bunch of uppers & downers, & Riders of the Storm was playing, rt? Well, imagine my head as the b ball but in terms of a deflated winter Sun--I just walked back over to the station from Buxton's Bear's Wax after eating...yes, that's correct: Liquid Sky. Now, I DO NOT advocate this behavior, really--I was miserable. And the station's Dj on air during this intervallic insane ride, between blue pears & dismal weather, granted no reprieve. Still, confusion is a pattern=this I knew, but I'd opt for white noise as the vibratory properties in Alumni Gym over Smiling Knowing sighs glances & whispers--than to subject the Utility of RFL as my model for Drug Haven... it ain't what Ascetic's do to their minds, but rather where in the temporal kingdom can we ever find a Power Spot. I'll stick to sensory Input from the auditive universe--& less from Rimbaud's formula.

You'll probably hate the seriousness of this=just know Affable-me is behind door #1. I was reading The Closing of the Western Mind. It's an apologist account toward real knowledge in biblical exegesis. And why one might be apt to tout his/her apathy of religion, is essayed here & not smug like the tendency to marginalize G-dThought has become--definitely validated in this book's rappore. It's about our very language & when I worked at RFL, it *language* was about the parallel course to the Zion Train (my radio show) of message-music. Parallel implies something unbridgeable. I was full-on socially disfunctional/ I'm kinda an insane story of RFL. Hulking conscious displays of ear-dimensional "horns blowing in my face w/scorn" from forced-thought scenarios, all illustrates my distraction. So, meanwhile the music played & language of the Rasta patois variety, says to me, belief wasn't here to be learned, but rather how to think, was a better goal. The other deejays all seemed to have on-spirits & clarity imparted from language headwaters as if people were communicating to me thru images that barely remained still, had the languish I felt--illumined. We all have to be willing to become distracted internally (Rimbaud) so the natural condition of the mind="fragmentation" bares its knowledge. Faith starts w/the subjective & (according to this book) it isn't about the direction any One institution might deliver, but rather about knowledge. I'm just sorry I didn't indulge folks all the more over the Sounds-Arriving. Nothing is worth the effort, unless youre catching up.
I am entirely speaking from a rational study of religious subjects. Symbols of our belief are like our effort; or the Music; or the people behind the message. Basically all belief is in fact Loss. What happens if your nation fails & your god was its goal in faith for the nation's success? What then happens to you? Or your god, or your faith? Therefore I say don't believe, as I said above, In a system of Thought (ism-skism), but rather aiming toward LEARNING how to Think is my deliverance.

Dreams in their demise--just not mine!!

A good friend embraces "nothingness from time to time"--I say what better than to see space as your final frontier. Pour yourself into the void, material or abstracted. We are energentic & substantive, so pick your vessel. I am a vessel too, and aquatic and evasive...to paraphrase Patti Smith from Radio Ethiopia. My mental apostasy, call it ascetic deliverance, was baptism by fire--the embracing of Nothingness, as Railsback says, was the norm. So, I "cut off my hair & I rode straight away, to a wild and unknown country where I could not go wrong." Imagine if you will Dylan's head wizened in its profile, face obfuscated, so the translating mask was mine to define!!
~~Made reference just over a yr ago to Louis Jorge Borges, in a dream post. How there is intermediary space, just as his character lies proximal to the forested mantel, but within an ancient ampitheatre in the middle of gradins progressing outwardly. His intent is to dream a personification of his archetypal self--himself as his own son, I think--maybe in the short story called the Circular Ruins!! I'm conjuring this all to suppose just how the psychic strife in night vision avails life's path but only at the point of convalescence--say exiting a room, across a threshold--outside into the bigger pallet. Somehow toward gaining our strain of objectivity from the loam of mind, where in fact we become limited from imagination now arguably the colorless space of marginalized sentient greed--in dream imagery. The point here is that you are still every characterization of time & place, & the beauty of it is that that negative space looses its anthropos conjecture. You've become vibrant properties of sensory reality--say "white noise"--torpidity rather than ambivalence. So, all through the mischief of three then recent conversations, I felt I owed a debt of intensity to some better creative explanate moment==thought battling!!! And then after some reading & cognitive rsources having been once jettisoned, now all in memory reflection & at the ready, I got back to full effect.
Motivation is MY game this morning, getting ready to read the rest of R K Narayan's autobio., just a few more pages. Its uncomplicated, the guy is a taciturn dude--died in the late 1980s I think. Lived in Mysore some--Brahmin decent? can't remember, but the father was an educator. Speaks to his writing agenda, path. I'd go read this along with G-d is a Verb (Rabbi David Cooper) at the coffee house (Common Grounds). Definitely in front of busy minds, I felt I recorded a life in its rich pageant... The page 181 of Cooper's book stood out as my meditation became immanent, stuttered, and had me reach for the availing moments in its symbolism. 181 seemed to indicate the 8fold path for the Hindu stages one goes thru in Yoga practice. For me I am just in the peace of my mind & just a few constituent facts about how language captures those-coming-over=social-thing mitigated, and giving them their due gets jettisoned.
Anyway it all boils down to the soft-machine trammeled from our media-driven distractions--a good thing perhaps in the end. So this is what I imagine as a bridge, me to some other image of a day unfolding. ***Train comin' 'round the bend...like 3 times a night, sometimes more. Last night, I didn't notice tho'. We both live proximal to the long distance traveler (literally), a symbol of life in all its impermanence (says Freud). Tracks running thru skin-scapes moist and with soul-force, has my thoughts revolve around Ben Kingsley flight out of character like he was on a 6 Flags ride (in Gandhi), just affably surveying India's Bharata-varna, this World as it proceedth in its ancient quality.*** Old garments are shed, new bodies are donned like new garments... Humankind's path is earth, the temporal kingdom, tho' he/she has the freedom to stop inertia, & the Celestial Bodies don't. So our path may be more dynamic, a so-called Conscious-Being. We see the Sun, but the Sun is turning out of blue, it doesn't know we call it, nor does our reason surmount. Our dialogue w/the cosmos is yet impermanent--therein do we live the ontological record.
Aleister Crowley painted in red letters--in Up-state NY upon a cliff (@ the turn of last century, thereabout)--Do what Thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law. (&-granted, he is no example of humility) This would apply had someone made a solemn sacrifice: some grandiose measure of self which we could relinquish because it had become a less than humble factor. Bob Marley said, My Head is My Home. We stand tall wanting the puzzle of thought to complete the experential picture. Krishnamurti calls us out--on this--with a practical sense definition that Thought is Fear. If your rule is Thought as Reprieve, then the "valley of indecision" (somewhat derivative Marley-ism) is around you & you have no Higher Ground!! Sacrifice thought, this side of yourself, if it is a means to your security. The answer is outside of Us...there is no autonomy. A noumenon started with Zadie, as if he were a recipient of long ends of my days spilling headFilled ideas of life back at our original home. He *had* lived in Up-state Ny & as if life "is one big road w/lots of signs" (B.Marley), then the image of Crowley having put his graffiti up, had Zadie written all over it. If only to bare the sense of accumulated & drab of mind road-trip there, like at its peak, was all a granted finish to the anticipation the Native American land could wash across my epiphenomenal convalescence in the North. Crowley may have expectorated Kabbalah my way, but only in that sense we are a shapeless mass & a book of rules did I hearten to a deep aside from his immanent release of the consignment to the norm...the stolid English passport functionaries. It is a stale enough view to take Euro-ethos to the perimeter of my rebel-composure and pitch it into his nod east where I am ever ahead of his sensitivity for the low-caste. Case & point, the word Ren, in Chinese, is like co-humanity, actually just human--but in its context Kongfuzi (Confucius) shows that ritual is altruistic in its highest esteem. So, I take these varied & colored words, as from the East or my/your backyard, and see that it is a ways yawn back to its impervious beginnings as folks used words thru utility as though I can ascertain my own motive. There is its evidence, this book before me saying self-actualization is bestowed upon us from the ancients. And it is not merely desire that the word yields the glory of material language making the aspirant find equinamity with appearances...even emerging from spirit and becoming One with the Outward Fact...you or your semblance/ all the same. And my ignorance in its throes has me land on wherefore art thou expression, as answer enough found in my query. The generalities under which we live is plainly from looks back into the ubiquity of history. There in that boxed context we see of the subjective antecendent, a word in fact that solicits the mind, makes its stupor unyielding to the objective present. We have no choice but to believe a point in the loam of lives predeceased, as that things go away is ever present because reckon this: all symbols of eternity are IN this life. And LIFE all the same is my reflection on a fine detail in the singularity that is the conduit to language's root interlocuttors...the Originators of godtalk as well as easy-speak (meaning the Ancient-Ones).