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.