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!!