We've had a ton of rain in Central KY all Summer, and over most our Winters we have maybe a total of 12inches of snow, a few inches here a few inches there. But if this is any indication of things to come--Greenland melting!--our Winter will be a doosy. I am entirely anticipating this. I was walking at our Arboretum over by the Univ of Ky 2 days ago, & the Fall leaves had that excellent decaying smell & gave me the first hint of nostalgia for this season. I like the words, Blue slumber of the Moon-soaked shade, torn from the pages of Arthur Rimbaud, because I can imagine similar collusions of the transitional climate I endured while running around my old neighborhood as I did for 27 yrs. Houses became personified, and weren't anything without the veil of cool Autumnal nights. **I intensionally went to the sink-hole at the local hillocky park--just grass & trees (Beaumont Park), and sat under undistressed dormant trees there hemmed in by a security fence, all encircling the earth's depression... I'd read National Geographics as if the alliterative could subject this real world nature scene with veiled eyes, like I could stand IN them higher than the sweet air would already permit...
P.K. USED TO PLAY OVER AT LMNOP. Back in the day there was a dark orbiting feeling I thrived on knowing all that these people cared about was release & no pretension of who I was. I liked being the junction toward that effect. And if we observe "the-letting-go," we surface with the experienced-forms of self, rather than ultimately sacrifice ourselves in the fray of less serious moments. Over at Montmullin (right across from Campus, nect to the old Theological Seminary) w/the Weathermen & then Also sometime later the impressions were thus: Surmising the plain hearth, looks like a spectralShore--I loaded it up w/ideas, toyed w/it. The smoke is the philosophy & the sky so vast, waiting, but not much can be seen! The sky is the mind, smoke gives it dimension. We go & lay our head, something tells us to do that. The fire burps & spews & we're not surprised. We think. And I felt I was a "Driver back in Khartoum." Guns were drawn, the TV stupidly plays--its antennae reflecting, alarmed. I set the bottle of whiskey on the table. I had bought it earlier that day intending upon a slow drunk--I give it away instead. Back toward the door I'm borne out to the streets. The Autumnal sky created by the architecture of birds over-coming, evading the smoke, clinging to tall trees--mayhem in some, like the breathing constituent mind, pulsing. Taking shelter in the warmest regions, I sit down & watch awhile. My ride will be there soon. Damn, I remember walking over to this cemetery--in a similar season's gray, the main one here in Lexington in this haze back when REd Fly Nation was making music--the band I was in. Getting out of our downtown abode, book in hand about alchemy, the sun seemed to say I had enough time to find a conscious pocket & commiserate on a Then unknown-- It was evening time, but no social rapproach in that I am my own worst critic, would sucker me into being something I couldn't or wouldn't live up to anyway. Like Bob Marley says--my then constant companion--"Music a godly thing." And the good company I kept in the place where humans were interred, was made of an indefinite chorus. There was something in the river of sight to which I belonged...the eternal world was the temporal one. And all the deceased pointed to it.
**I believe in ultimate compassion. The Narrow-minded might say, sure--I feel ensconced in sweet whiling away moments, too! I'd tell you the sky is the limit, and maybe moving from the Personal You to the Objective furthest reaches of what is numinous before You, IS Immanence & not an Indefinite Chorus of Mind's path & meter, but actually is a brave narrative, the best. And I'd yield to the Moment finally & with no reservations. I'd Go. I'd Go!! And the sky would be met--not just the whisp from a log beneath the hearth. And for those who persist on the passport of epicurean designs as upon Responsibility & Mitigated schedules, I would tell you it is true--my time has no reward and no punishment!!
**I had a dream last week in which a horse bit off my 2nd to last finger from my right hand. I just stared at it all bedazzled in the dream wondering at the implications. We were at a farm/ranch & the day was gray like in summary of what these last couple of weeks have been. My pinky had the distil tip missing too. What does that mean? The horse, Ashvin in Sanskrit, has been a subject of my reading over Hindu's episteme of late. But how I interpret this beautiful animal in the recesses of unconsciousness, I could only guess. I've had magnificate dreams in the past few days--lazy weekend and all. And this langour makes me unmotivated to get on FaceSpace (sic). Are you still studying?! Being a student has everything to do with expense of our ability to proliferate what it is that compels us to learn. So, my capital is all this ascetic derived ideation. However, usually there is NO IN for me in the human marketplace, because this stuff is conceptual and almost contrived...and yet there are two women authors whose depth with which I keep getting inundated beyond my norm. Karen Armstrong gives me fantastic dreams (her latest which I purchased at Morris' Bookstore down the street, is called A Case for G-d), but lately I've dreamt about something Wendy Doniger related: the Horse Sacrifice. My ex's (Alison's) Mom made silks, and I've dreamt about horses, and my ex of late. According to the Brahmanas --early Hindu scripture, I think, what it is we do IN this life will be done to us in the World-To-Come. If we eat rice unceremoniously now--or a fish, or a horse, they will eat us in the next world. According to the Hasidim, the animals that are our denizens surrounding us in our habituation with intercourse & ritualization with them & G-d, have the souls of our ancestors mitigated thru their sentience...which is why we treat all creatures with respect/halakhah!
Monday, September 28, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Phala Shruti**Sanskrit for The Fruits of Hearing
When I first indulged reading Elie Wiesel=the "train" left me off at the station of self-identification.
The circular ruins of the mind's library--the entirety of a life's history as before me, was the visualization that ascented my lethargy just in work-a-day few moments at a Dairy Mart where I was employed right there at the Univ of Ky's campus. (mid 90s) Like a train upon its tracks, the apparition was almost tacit, and the symbol of what a train may be thought to represent was its impact as well. That being a long distance travailing life. And even a few moments which may inevitably be the divinic dynamic of the vital life well lived, can seem interminably long... Think of an ants life, or insert anything sentient, supposedly awake--and theirs is no different than ours. But as to the halucination, I could anticipate that I was giving up on one open book, only to be received unto a No-book resolve, meaning I'd become destined to an unstaged and un-fated trajectory, because I couldn't "fulfill the book." (so the tracks were shelves leveling out into infinitude) The void within sought oblivion, because that is where I could find freedom from having to answer for all that which was all too soon availing my senses... I selected a book from the shelf, looked to the front of the store feeling exposed as if I was an open book, and folks could dismiss this or that word or this or that page, without the consent of ME the author. I wasn't wanting time to deny when and where I would catch the ambient wind of contentment, as I knew right then standing next to the icecream cooler, whatever book chosen would fall to a sense of identity in an inopportune time. Just the sense that I had to make up for something and thus ceasing to deliberate on anything more recent would not have been made room for in the book's fulfillment. Strange but compelling, disorienting yet impossible to stop the impact of the train in its slo-fidelity as it came to my depot. Wiesel allows for a sense of exile, and has us wonder who would accompany us: G-d, is the obvious choice, but alterior selves drummed up from the recesses of experience in this temporal kingdom may intercede too!! It was in Elie Wiesel's writings or perhaps his contemporary Primo Levi, where I read that a "musselmanner" was the term employed to describe the wasted human specimen in conditions from which there was no return in the lagers. That we intrude upon cultural relatvities is enough for me to reflect on the honesty behind the fact that we indicate the"other" behind the stereotypes. I'm feeLing like a cryptic Muslim: not in the sense that frenetic media depicts. The denouement of superficial status, is merely looking at things as you do--we are safe, buffered in fact; A kind of concealment from those who pay their dues as we do. And... we try to reign over that distance strung from our commonalities. Do unto to others, duh duh duh, tis enough.
The circular ruins of the mind's library--the entirety of a life's history as before me, was the visualization that ascented my lethargy just in work-a-day few moments at a Dairy Mart where I was employed right there at the Univ of Ky's campus. (mid 90s) Like a train upon its tracks, the apparition was almost tacit, and the symbol of what a train may be thought to represent was its impact as well. That being a long distance travailing life. And even a few moments which may inevitably be the divinic dynamic of the vital life well lived, can seem interminably long... Think of an ants life, or insert anything sentient, supposedly awake--and theirs is no different than ours. But as to the halucination, I could anticipate that I was giving up on one open book, only to be received unto a No-book resolve, meaning I'd become destined to an unstaged and un-fated trajectory, because I couldn't "fulfill the book." (so the tracks were shelves leveling out into infinitude) The void within sought oblivion, because that is where I could find freedom from having to answer for all that which was all too soon availing my senses... I selected a book from the shelf, looked to the front of the store feeling exposed as if I was an open book, and folks could dismiss this or that word or this or that page, without the consent of ME the author. I wasn't wanting time to deny when and where I would catch the ambient wind of contentment, as I knew right then standing next to the icecream cooler, whatever book chosen would fall to a sense of identity in an inopportune time. Just the sense that I had to make up for something and thus ceasing to deliberate on anything more recent would not have been made room for in the book's fulfillment. Strange but compelling, disorienting yet impossible to stop the impact of the train in its slo-fidelity as it came to my depot. Wiesel allows for a sense of exile, and has us wonder who would accompany us: G-d, is the obvious choice, but alterior selves drummed up from the recesses of experience in this temporal kingdom may intercede too!! It was in Elie Wiesel's writings or perhaps his contemporary Primo Levi, where I read that a "musselmanner" was the term employed to describe the wasted human specimen in conditions from which there was no return in the lagers. That we intrude upon cultural relatvities is enough for me to reflect on the honesty behind the fact that we indicate the"other" behind the stereotypes. I'm feeLing like a cryptic Muslim: not in the sense that frenetic media depicts. The denouement of superficial status, is merely looking at things as you do--we are safe, buffered in fact; A kind of concealment from those who pay their dues as we do. And... we try to reign over that distance strung from our commonalities. Do unto to others, duh duh duh, tis enough.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
POTOK, POE-tawk, po' folks talk, Poor rock was my bed last night
At this point, you are still making the choices, but you are needlessly burdening yourself with the idea that there is a right choice out there to make, and if you don't take it, then you have made the wrong choice and will suffer the consequences." THis is crucial and very well developed point in Krishnamurti's discussions. In the river of sight we see our peers move from point A to point B. Thus we think and assert ourselves in the fray where the action is. Now we are goal oriented as if to obtain that figment of intent we associate with normative circumstances. If we thought for a moment we'd see there is no norm. That it is observable that the other is answering for you, takes discipline to say it is good enough they do things for themselves, yet you have no place to be. Here is where I wonder at certain avenues of thought folks encourage toward nostalgia: if someplace is a comfort and sense of security. The now emerges, the past must be projected forward in the pattern of what this life has become, rather than maintaining a belief we should encourage the illustrative thought into the corner we look out from... In the corner is necessarily NOT in the middle of the room where the potential is greater.
******* "I'm beginning to appeal to all the sincere metrics-good folks are telling me of their artistic acquiring of self-knowledge - its effort--like dhammapada is what you know: and knowing what I acclaim as the best reggae album I have ever heard, gets me sprung from under the hand OF all that Marley having informed me--that context I see--many days as a student of his moral strain. So, "Third World" has enough Swahili, or Ibo like the guys name takes on--all that rhythm of resistance... Ayi hlabi nyo ngo kunsima, is probably Swahili, not THIRD Worlds song title, but one that impels me to wonder at the cant of Semitic language having trickled out of these language streams of northern Africa, into the Valley of Tongues. (I didn't say they relate, I say, IT makes me wonder!!) Seeing this example of babel's gate I know has my mind remark on what is "There-Above"...the Higher Will chosen from a Jew, who didn't know he was a Jew=AbRaham--sometimes good enough to begin with him! Marley's dad was a Semitic Jew, a Syrian--Bob is more likely to have that secular crowd in Israel listen to his influence than radio provides in our middling America. Reggae was what rooted me more than anything else, and the Jewish thing as the root in ascetic self-knowledge, meanwhile, added to the conscious music--the train to get on, like life portending a long road is Rasta ideals having me pace the long ends of the day's river of sight. There is a lot of jamming on Third World's first album, a singularity if at its terminal auditive universe, we look up from what Marley calls "intra-mantra slavery," and see it speaks right to us. A statement of presence, the presence of Mind sublimating us in relationship, soooo unlike the Jewish tip if we appeal to Jah like the Greater Reality compels us from Without...the Ineffable, as we become His experienced-form is but accessible when gods are looked upon as Layered-Reality=wherever it is we FIND ourselves the convergence of I & Nature!! Integrating what is actually disparate notions in Buddhist thought--speaking of gods, looks to me like immense powers mutually arising as I forage in Eastern Thought langour supposed piece-meal by the likes of Kerouac, or indicated by Alan Watts, yet thru my jaded lense. If Avalokiteshvara laid his diamond hand upon the numinous impulse looking at black fire abstraction lying on white fire pallets (this medium here in cyber-space), then the semblance my mind allows for is vipassana--a visual of deep-aside that carries me thru patterns of remorseless days...IS just freedom transpiring. ON THAT BANG ALBUM, REGGAE music & the requisite sense of the Third World that sublimates the trappings of identity:
***Oh, I can hear that Madness-esque thing in my head now--but I imagine this band may be better musicians in the end... slightly more dynamic. That album is heavy to me--came at a time when my monkhood life was granting no reprieve. I had begun to read Potok's (pronounced POE-Tawk) In The Beginning around then, probably some Salman Rushdie as well. Potok did The Chosen, if that rings a bell, but In the Beginning is definitely more complicated and left me in a well of some heady contest of wit with mysticism & cold law... critical study of biblacy where the Orthodox would have rather not seen it go... Love that guy/ he past a few yrs ago. Had a connection in loci to Krishnamurti's powerspot, in Ojai, Ca. I visited that town--very auspicious in my mind. Potok took his pen name as such I guess because it means GATE.
The Inner Meaning and the Outer Meaning, however that is applied, came from Philo--a Greek-Jew, but seen as a Church Father, appropriated as such. Jews weren't used to this "method" til Muslims & Christians reintroduced them to it. In Spain, Jewish Kabbalists began to reflect on the Song of Solomon this way. Zohar is the prime example in our mystic literature--was written in Spain in the 1200s if I remember correctly. POTOK, as he'd deliberate so fluidly, had all the stones tarry of my sense of heritage & faith in its esoteric divide from the norm, so that as the plurb of thought clashed with the cold immediacy I sought the very places the ideas were buried within. I have much thanks & praises for what his characterization and authorship does to my mind. ~~``So, I've just been peddling some music to some friends, walking abundantly like at the Arboretum. I read out on a couple of the path's benches over last weekend, and found it extremely cathartic. This is in light of a Tolstoyan ideal. He said he loved to go to the town's square to read & write, well I'm guessing to read, but definitely the writing would occur there. And well I am trying to scribe skyward under the pretense of anonymity, as if social disaffection had not contained me (as it does a bit). But, all that this means is, I get involved in my reading & imagine an audience that is more elusive than the norm from how I feel about the conceptuality I pull to my center. Potok, who made my alliterative realization what it is, made religion damned accessible without a refrain of weird manufactured holiness, like I'd have to put MY salvation in the hands of something like an institution. He made words for G-d a really juicy academic adventure, anthropologic, critical too... This following idea is case and point:
El, Elohim, Eloha is invoked 100s of times in the bible--is suppose to impart a sense of Justice most often. As opposed to Eternality which would be Ayn-sof for instance. I always wondered what those concretized thoughts had buried underneath the institutional pages of prayer books. Like subconscious imagery had episteme dialogues, irresolute langour. When I sat there in Hebrew school while Rabbi Schwab instructed us, I saw an incredibly slippery path when the power of this language of G-d's ?? mind would have my comfort zone demand a new meaning (& thus implode)...
*^^The Arboretum there across from the Colesium. Stopped and read awhile. The impulse I get from the consciousCrowd, as I flip pgs, is immanent transition, because the historical characters seemed easily reflected in those moments, as having made a difference. "Life/People in Transformation." **Powaqatsi, as the movie's title is defined by!! If you feel your "constant" is always having reached the surface, then "concealment" in terms of the trappings of identity is your spirit reckoned, if only briefly. Those who intercede on your behalf maybe thru antecedents you aren't aware of yet... So from abstraction to action, I just love looking at all these strangers, beyond all judgmental caprice as is my nature when the human condition gets depressing. Case & point (getting past that!), when it was dark a few weeks back & I was over there, these Hindus were sitting off the path and liquid language abided my gait as I stepped past them. Like in a current, I couldn't break loose from their sing-song voices, and I sorta watched what I heard as they trailed off behind me & the thick cool air of night blanketed my senses. Then this last Saturday night my buddy Howie & I walked for a good hour, but starting at his apt. rather than just at the parks perimeter. Over hillocks & through traffic, crossed on past a duck pond & construction site--our convo was unstressed & at the constant rate of our looks yon & hither. An acquaintance of ours, from now years ago had said (cyberly) "if you're not catching up, it's not worth it!" This seems to be concise reproof that things are going away--it is the kind of thing that lodges in my feelings of inconsistency, as if I am supposed to anticipate reception from some social recourse to the high air upon which I am lying fallow!!
******* "I'm beginning to appeal to all the sincere metrics-good folks are telling me of their artistic acquiring of self-knowledge - its effort--like dhammapada is what you know: and knowing what I acclaim as the best reggae album I have ever heard, gets me sprung from under the hand OF all that Marley having informed me--that context I see--many days as a student of his moral strain. So, "Third World" has enough Swahili, or Ibo like the guys name takes on--all that rhythm of resistance... Ayi hlabi nyo ngo kunsima, is probably Swahili, not THIRD Worlds song title, but one that impels me to wonder at the cant of Semitic language having trickled out of these language streams of northern Africa, into the Valley of Tongues. (I didn't say they relate, I say, IT makes me wonder!!) Seeing this example of babel's gate I know has my mind remark on what is "There-Above"...the Higher Will chosen from a Jew, who didn't know he was a Jew=AbRaham--sometimes good enough to begin with him! Marley's dad was a Semitic Jew, a Syrian--Bob is more likely to have that secular crowd in Israel listen to his influence than radio provides in our middling America. Reggae was what rooted me more than anything else, and the Jewish thing as the root in ascetic self-knowledge, meanwhile, added to the conscious music--the train to get on, like life portending a long road is Rasta ideals having me pace the long ends of the day's river of sight. There is a lot of jamming on Third World's first album, a singularity if at its terminal auditive universe, we look up from what Marley calls "intra-mantra slavery," and see it speaks right to us. A statement of presence, the presence of Mind sublimating us in relationship, soooo unlike the Jewish tip if we appeal to Jah like the Greater Reality compels us from Without...the Ineffable, as we become His experienced-form is but accessible when gods are looked upon as Layered-Reality=wherever it is we FIND ourselves the convergence of I & Nature!! Integrating what is actually disparate notions in Buddhist thought--speaking of gods, looks to me like immense powers mutually arising as I forage in Eastern Thought langour supposed piece-meal by the likes of Kerouac, or indicated by Alan Watts, yet thru my jaded lense. If Avalokiteshvara laid his diamond hand upon the numinous impulse looking at black fire abstraction lying on white fire pallets (this medium here in cyber-space), then the semblance my mind allows for is vipassana--a visual of deep-aside that carries me thru patterns of remorseless days...IS just freedom transpiring. ON THAT BANG ALBUM, REGGAE music & the requisite sense of the Third World that sublimates the trappings of identity:
***Oh, I can hear that Madness-esque thing in my head now--but I imagine this band may be better musicians in the end... slightly more dynamic. That album is heavy to me--came at a time when my monkhood life was granting no reprieve. I had begun to read Potok's (pronounced POE-Tawk) In The Beginning around then, probably some Salman Rushdie as well. Potok did The Chosen, if that rings a bell, but In the Beginning is definitely more complicated and left me in a well of some heady contest of wit with mysticism & cold law... critical study of biblacy where the Orthodox would have rather not seen it go... Love that guy/ he past a few yrs ago. Had a connection in loci to Krishnamurti's powerspot, in Ojai, Ca. I visited that town--very auspicious in my mind. Potok took his pen name as such I guess because it means GATE.
The Inner Meaning and the Outer Meaning, however that is applied, came from Philo--a Greek-Jew, but seen as a Church Father, appropriated as such. Jews weren't used to this "method" til Muslims & Christians reintroduced them to it. In Spain, Jewish Kabbalists began to reflect on the Song of Solomon this way. Zohar is the prime example in our mystic literature--was written in Spain in the 1200s if I remember correctly. POTOK, as he'd deliberate so fluidly, had all the stones tarry of my sense of heritage & faith in its esoteric divide from the norm, so that as the plurb of thought clashed with the cold immediacy I sought the very places the ideas were buried within. I have much thanks & praises for what his characterization and authorship does to my mind. ~~``So, I've just been peddling some music to some friends, walking abundantly like at the Arboretum. I read out on a couple of the path's benches over last weekend, and found it extremely cathartic. This is in light of a Tolstoyan ideal. He said he loved to go to the town's square to read & write, well I'm guessing to read, but definitely the writing would occur there. And well I am trying to scribe skyward under the pretense of anonymity, as if social disaffection had not contained me (as it does a bit). But, all that this means is, I get involved in my reading & imagine an audience that is more elusive than the norm from how I feel about the conceptuality I pull to my center. Potok, who made my alliterative realization what it is, made religion damned accessible without a refrain of weird manufactured holiness, like I'd have to put MY salvation in the hands of something like an institution. He made words for G-d a really juicy academic adventure, anthropologic, critical too... This following idea is case and point:
El, Elohim, Eloha is invoked 100s of times in the bible--is suppose to impart a sense of Justice most often. As opposed to Eternality which would be Ayn-sof for instance. I always wondered what those concretized thoughts had buried underneath the institutional pages of prayer books. Like subconscious imagery had episteme dialogues, irresolute langour. When I sat there in Hebrew school while Rabbi Schwab instructed us, I saw an incredibly slippery path when the power of this language of G-d's ?? mind would have my comfort zone demand a new meaning (& thus implode)...
*^^The Arboretum there across from the Colesium. Stopped and read awhile. The impulse I get from the consciousCrowd, as I flip pgs, is immanent transition, because the historical characters seemed easily reflected in those moments, as having made a difference. "Life/People in Transformation." **Powaqatsi, as the movie's title is defined by!! If you feel your "constant" is always having reached the surface, then "concealment" in terms of the trappings of identity is your spirit reckoned, if only briefly. Those who intercede on your behalf maybe thru antecedents you aren't aware of yet... So from abstraction to action, I just love looking at all these strangers, beyond all judgmental caprice as is my nature when the human condition gets depressing. Case & point (getting past that!), when it was dark a few weeks back & I was over there, these Hindus were sitting off the path and liquid language abided my gait as I stepped past them. Like in a current, I couldn't break loose from their sing-song voices, and I sorta watched what I heard as they trailed off behind me & the thick cool air of night blanketed my senses. Then this last Saturday night my buddy Howie & I walked for a good hour, but starting at his apt. rather than just at the parks perimeter. Over hillocks & through traffic, crossed on past a duck pond & construction site--our convo was unstressed & at the constant rate of our looks yon & hither. An acquaintance of ours, from now years ago had said (cyberly) "if you're not catching up, it's not worth it!" This seems to be concise reproof that things are going away--it is the kind of thing that lodges in my feelings of inconsistency, as if I am supposed to anticipate reception from some social recourse to the high air upon which I am lying fallow!!
Friday, September 04, 2009
1000 OAKS, AT Home, And Abroad back in '87
****To give praise is the Good thing, to rejoice I am reached. The Other Shore, or the Big Convivencia, which are one thing--a passport to being as alive as any- when what your feeling is is that you've gone alone and at the present-bearing behest of who was the indicator of what lies beyond... Now my very conscious map is a clear view of too many opaque soft-machines, me falling through the arms of embrace--lost in what no longer preserves my sanctity. One Heart, One Mind, No Meaning (if plans are foiled), No Creator--(if we thought? something Otherly compelled us to act), Heart open, Light Mind, Step.***Just watched the rest of American Splendor. When I read Pekar's comic that had made up his narrative when he committed to the yiddishkeit (Jewishness) as his topical dis-ease, I happened to have been reading the same author. Eroticism in our DNA, as unstoppable as Dali meant it, had nothing on Isaac Bashevis Singer; think it's called SCUM.
~~~At the end of the bastion of responsibilities, I got out on my porch--across the st. from my work, right when I got home , hungry, in a neighborhood just a spit's length off the sidewalk's distance from Nich'ville rd.& played my too brightly colored djimbe. The river of sight had margins of wheels on pavement reporting like the Other Shore had more convivencia than the passport of my willow and lightning-wounded-big-tree before me. Didn't play long, but at least my pulse was skank mode by the time I was done. If we believe folks like Richard Gere are real chumps, the fact is that they are impressed with beauty, whether liturgical or otherwise...they're motivated & I can catch the vapors from that. His book called Pilgrims, a big coffee table thing, is where I got the above statement with a litttle bit of my variant in parenthesis--& at the beginning of the phrase One Heart, Mind is a Rasta or I suppose sense of biblacy rhetoric. Tho' in the end saying NO CREATOR & NO MEANING, is damned therapeutic--has value.
*~* I have to say, when I was in THousand Oaks CA. where my bro lived, and I was toting books back from their bookstore, it is a sense that I see now, that I am rooted to the constituency with folks like you...in a kind of "independent" mindfulness, the way we meet the world. I see it in the dusty corners of my mind in this immanent domain, man. Fact! I look at these broad-scape images from merely reconciled visits to some place mundane yet decidely a loci-unknown, and advance the placating mind unto discernment as these places gain meaning laterally from my hodge-podge moments as I surfaced there & amongst. Just taking things apart--so that I feel as if I am projected into consciousness in its varied physical sense, & gotten a message from my path all-through. I hope that makes sense--it is my only recourse to a life lived less than zero. In *~~Oxford: Sitting out by a church courtyard, across from a man in a wheelchair. He dranks 3 bottles of wine, just tippin em back, that I witnessed. The strangeness of the environs had the evident bubble of experience around me on trial. Kept finding the liminal moment. Like home--in contentment, but distance traveled said strange translator faces looking past me. I'm peering thru turquois rimmed sunglasses--the weather is a lot like this morning, coolish & the sun on the rise. My motive was to coalesce around something there in Oxford that would be my power-spot... & then to commence to study Yiddish, which was an evaporating center. My professor came cavorting by, noticed me--asked me that shouldn't I be in class. To which I just muttered something about getting caught-up, & not feeling well... The yet bland institutions--libraries, classroom bldgs, registration offices etc--still had the techni-color academician world that divulged a history of knowledge that I wanted to reckon about Jewish Eastern-European life--these places were head-waters. What I wanted in learning Jewish ideas til then were what I felt needed to be adulterated by something that consigned motive upon the more grounded apposite study. So, Rastafarian thought was the thing I felt indicated a seive that would make the Jewish effulgence more particularized. To make reference to the repository of Jewish lit in Mom's bookcase at home, was the microcosm of a more immense plan for this Ideal. My Zadeh had a book by Scholem Aleikhem called Tevye's Daughters (where Fiddler on the Roof comes from), --Mom had something of a span of Jewish authors, including him in The Jewish Caravan--a piece taken from his book The Song of Songs. So I finally went and found this book, which is a mystical endeavor--even for me, as aloof & stale as I've become . The boy, who is our protagonist, with his cousin, & she'd be the Shulamit, together they run through the hills of an eastern European setting outside their village--& they decide picking barley greens for Shavuot would be their task (Shavuot is known by X-tians as Pentecost). My question for this woman living in Israel, I emailed about 2 months ago, is: what does this reference for this holiday--oh, and this may be really dumb, but do we call it a "hag?" I guess I am curious because the eastern European of dank vistas, and lost continuity for our religion's survival, has light at the end of those days, and how things are celebrated in Eretz Yisroel (Land of Israel) leaves me wondering if this fragmented history is attenuated? I remember my Rabbi here in Lexington Ky, as we students learned chumash (bible), said our pronouciation could be Sefardic (Middle Easterner) or Ashkenazi (European)--whatever we chose is fine. So, in my less than detailed way I tried to say "tav" (one of the letters for "T") rather than sav, etc. (written the same, but pronounced "S" rather than "T," or sometimes "Th," I've seen in transliteration. Sav is Ashkenazi!) But, in the end, I know next to nothing about the diversity we could embrace, hence my question. By the way, I am so not religious, but consider myself a ready student for Jewish mysticism and the more. Zalman Schacter-Shalomi was first introduced to me in a read called "The Jew in the Lotus." He'd been to see the Dalai Lama with a JEwish delegation discussing our success as a community having lived in exile, but primarily the book was a Kabbalistic study. To the head of Babylon, this would be what I reach for (mysticism, I mean) at the expense of jettisoned ambience.
~~~At the end of the bastion of responsibilities, I got out on my porch--across the st. from my work, right when I got home , hungry, in a neighborhood just a spit's length off the sidewalk's distance from Nich'ville rd.& played my too brightly colored djimbe. The river of sight had margins of wheels on pavement reporting like the Other Shore had more convivencia than the passport of my willow and lightning-wounded-big-tree before me. Didn't play long, but at least my pulse was skank mode by the time I was done. If we believe folks like Richard Gere are real chumps, the fact is that they are impressed with beauty, whether liturgical or otherwise...they're motivated & I can catch the vapors from that. His book called Pilgrims, a big coffee table thing, is where I got the above statement with a litttle bit of my variant in parenthesis--& at the beginning of the phrase One Heart, Mind is a Rasta or I suppose sense of biblacy rhetoric. Tho' in the end saying NO CREATOR & NO MEANING, is damned therapeutic--has value.
*~* I have to say, when I was in THousand Oaks CA. where my bro lived, and I was toting books back from their bookstore, it is a sense that I see now, that I am rooted to the constituency with folks like you...in a kind of "independent" mindfulness, the way we meet the world. I see it in the dusty corners of my mind in this immanent domain, man. Fact! I look at these broad-scape images from merely reconciled visits to some place mundane yet decidely a loci-unknown, and advance the placating mind unto discernment as these places gain meaning laterally from my hodge-podge moments as I surfaced there & amongst. Just taking things apart--so that I feel as if I am projected into consciousness in its varied physical sense, & gotten a message from my path all-through. I hope that makes sense--it is my only recourse to a life lived less than zero. In *~~Oxford: Sitting out by a church courtyard, across from a man in a wheelchair. He dranks 3 bottles of wine, just tippin em back, that I witnessed. The strangeness of the environs had the evident bubble of experience around me on trial. Kept finding the liminal moment. Like home--in contentment, but distance traveled said strange translator faces looking past me. I'm peering thru turquois rimmed sunglasses--the weather is a lot like this morning, coolish & the sun on the rise. My motive was to coalesce around something there in Oxford that would be my power-spot... & then to commence to study Yiddish, which was an evaporating center. My professor came cavorting by, noticed me--asked me that shouldn't I be in class. To which I just muttered something about getting caught-up, & not feeling well... The yet bland institutions--libraries, classroom bldgs, registration offices etc--still had the techni-color academician world that divulged a history of knowledge that I wanted to reckon about Jewish Eastern-European life--these places were head-waters. What I wanted in learning Jewish ideas til then were what I felt needed to be adulterated by something that consigned motive upon the more grounded apposite study. So, Rastafarian thought was the thing I felt indicated a seive that would make the Jewish effulgence more particularized. To make reference to the repository of Jewish lit in Mom's bookcase at home, was the microcosm of a more immense plan for this Ideal. My Zadeh had a book by Scholem Aleikhem called Tevye's Daughters (where Fiddler on the Roof comes from), --Mom had something of a span of Jewish authors, including him in The Jewish Caravan--a piece taken from his book The Song of Songs. So I finally went and found this book, which is a mystical endeavor--even for me, as aloof & stale as I've become . The boy, who is our protagonist, with his cousin, & she'd be the Shulamit, together they run through the hills of an eastern European setting outside their village--& they decide picking barley greens for Shavuot would be their task (Shavuot is known by X-tians as Pentecost). My question for this woman living in Israel, I emailed about 2 months ago, is: what does this reference for this holiday--oh, and this may be really dumb, but do we call it a "hag?" I guess I am curious because the eastern European of dank vistas, and lost continuity for our religion's survival, has light at the end of those days, and how things are celebrated in Eretz Yisroel (Land of Israel) leaves me wondering if this fragmented history is attenuated? I remember my Rabbi here in Lexington Ky, as we students learned chumash (bible), said our pronouciation could be Sefardic (Middle Easterner) or Ashkenazi (European)--whatever we chose is fine. So, in my less than detailed way I tried to say "tav" (one of the letters for "T") rather than sav, etc. (written the same, but pronounced "S" rather than "T," or sometimes "Th," I've seen in transliteration. Sav is Ashkenazi!) But, in the end, I know next to nothing about the diversity we could embrace, hence my question. By the way, I am so not religious, but consider myself a ready student for Jewish mysticism and the more. Zalman Schacter-Shalomi was first introduced to me in a read called "The Jew in the Lotus." He'd been to see the Dalai Lama with a JEwish delegation discussing our success as a community having lived in exile, but primarily the book was a Kabbalistic study. To the head of Babylon, this would be what I reach for (mysticism, I mean) at the expense of jettisoned ambience.
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