NO WAY THRU THE NEXT EXIT// DYlan as Saddhu archetype

I thought a few yrs back that he was laid aside--who am I to suppose thru the windows of my concealment in my car, I'm audience within the same crowd anyone is in, namely coincidentally w/Dylan, to some transitive bucket of endless water, this cosmos, & I move because the bottom is failing--It's a metaphor for this floor as I lean forward to my knees, propped in the stale cold of this heatless-mostly house; I'm not paying utilities 'til I need a cure. Situating on the kitchen rug, broad windows here & fore, I read this Geniza documentation--1000yr old texts translated, translating...everything ancient is become reductive in giant leaps 'til moments like this upon our walmart rug, Or as in the RED FLY Nation days, sitting upon my Israeli rug & reading about the Kali Yuga. A definitive Time-context, we currently live within, lasting 432,000yrs. It is an age when everything contrary to your sense of the true & correct is actually advocating for its opposite. E.g. Your mother becomes a sense of exile rather than the home that receives you/Or a politico advocating for peace & compassion is really exclusionary & devisive. Also, as in the case of the Hebrews. Rather than a G-d in heaven, he is in Exile, while his people also wander. So heaven as a goal is usurped by the immediacy of intercession on behalf of someThing (or someOne?) more temporal. ETc. The refrain availing us w/its contrite pitilessness is ubiquitous. I'd end up surfacing w/some image of the room I'm in. Thesis+anti-thesis=synthesis/some vagueness that the room wasn't exactly as it was 2moments before. Which darkened me into becoming the negative of deeper approaches to things a little more plastic. The man mentioned in the Jewish communities' store, in a murmur of mental imagery of a 200yr old stereotyped icon of his image, done in pencil my bro reproduced, creeps into the ditch of mentality that I am He He is She We R It--the I & Thou of fear that I can take on a new face, means I am younger than yesterday. Gandhi reprised my motive to endure apophases, but his guidance said I'm never through. In that vein, the Kali Yuga stirred in me the sundherbans of S.E.Asia: heavy air, the lost time of nights caused yellowed light of long ends of days to remain unapproachable and =ly as esoteric. As I sat reading in front of my window/at the Red Fly apt, back then, yielding to numinous eras all invading my presence--made me feel the millionth in a million souls accounted for in providential vistas just OUTSIDE my window. But consciousness explodes as Maimonides (of the Geniza) loads the furrows of minds in spectral shores I go & leap toward, in stale light of no social reproach that would source my motive to be One & Other than everything I'm not.--I can't be Jewish motivated, ChristLOVED,Buddhist meditated, friend of Weed, yours truly--unruly, but only shadow upon plain self, & stock upon a shelf--in colours of well-trafficked oedipal steps, only for a glympse of security. Scott Abraham- Lakes October 12 at 9:58am
I felt lucky something so low energy and sweet & mild at times, particularly lyrically, as what Neil Young imparted to me, was clearly the ally it was meant to be. He always has that dreamy dream discussion in so much of what he writes--and that is right where it is at, in my book. I thought so clearly his persona couldn't be contained, but merely shared, whereas Dylan around this same time was the mind in the room for you to take note personally. I remember thinking that he COULD be speaking to so many folks in so many voices, but because I could see "me" so insignificantly his message or sensual body perhaps, had just-so come thru that sieve and them asses--the masses wouldn't be an obstacle to make his acquaintance. Dylan & Young both were trialed thusly. **The chic who started WRFL once told me some kind of perception of those who wondered at the esoteric life of DYLAN. They said, at his door, I guess the facade at which we would come to his "house," a large dog was at the watch. If the dog was Dharma, and the rajya or kshatriya born adherent/ warrior was me as Arjuna, the Brahmana abode we'd enter was the fat soul of plenty in Dylan's womb of language and music. And as a boy sitting under the mural my brother put on the wall--seeking what was beyond the framed portal out of the flying carpet, the Semitic purveyor of distant travels, all appealed to the logic of seeing Dylan's wizened head from the side and obscure on the blue blue G.H. album. Like looking at clouds and imagining images that bring closer the affect of the details of the mind, I thought I could see half the hidden face but this was all I projected. The songs supposed the details of the thing from which he translated the world ...the illustrated face in the abstract, which unjustly, I couldn't help but not be able to see in its entirety, was replete with vision only in expectation... The concourse the magic carpet takes is unto the blue pleroma, where I concede the sky is the limit. But I'd take to my wings if only to sacrifice this liminal threshold, knowing the pay-off was night-visions in recompence.

Martin Buber, Kerouac, Avalokiteshvara>...^^^

G-d doesn't roll dice, said Einstein. So, continuity is only unity because of patterns of essential language we use to attend to our respective worlds--as in describing G-d as saying, calling, separating, or creating...would be our displined minds wanting to believe somehow we are charged with the fundamental capibility of recognizing this state of suffering--having to be concommitant with this interplay of yin and yang=karma, that we have limitations from our desires and ignorance.
"An extremity. You are defined by YOUR OWN conception of "you."" Martin Buber defines the I as ultimately in relationship with Thou... By extension "Thou" is the world, he says, and IF you like-- "Creation," by very definition of what we call Higher Ground. So, My Own conception of me doesn't exist, and nor do any of the Eastern philosophies agree. There IS NO self. Yes, we are a bundle of reactions, so is an osmotic tree--and a tree is not consciously aware. We are but again thru relationship with the OUTWARD FACT, where ansers lie, Consciousness is procured, relationship is DENIED or relationship is re-affirmed. The ultimate symbol of the self is Nothing--there isn't one. ANd, we as living beings live in a symbolic universe. Symbols are our only means of transcendence. It is what we meditate upon so that the awe and vastness of a Mountain would seem captured--thru language, which is inadequate, but IS symbolic. You say how can a MT be a symbol=well it's not, but we have only to wonder and it becomes rich with life, immense BY comparison, ominous by desire or ignorance. ***Buber says the human mind seeks the world by language, the divine mind seeks Ultimate Reality thru the world. If the body is the law, then the mind is procured by the body, just as we know the community with which we are a part of =I & I, I & You, I & We, I & Nature--thru the ego, defines consciousness... Community is body, Consciousness is the Human Mind reflecting on what IS, that being what is manifest. And I can't say I AM without YOU being YOU FIRST. LANGUAGE is CHEAP and it is vain! Avalokiteshvara "laid his diamond hand" 'pon Kerouac's reality feigned brow, and he wants to do something out of the box...believing the Buddha shares the Way. Except for my body not yielding to bliss, one may think a shapeless mass were the goal. Giving us freedom from the physical prison, our bodies delivering us to the force of nature. Still, we're talking about disipline. And if G*d would be shapeless, then beyond form is essense, and He'd be what the soft machine is when senses are propounded with the nature of Thought. The soft machine... IS that which contains me, but that which is No vessel.~~~Feel blessed to endure something like a vision, Oh clearly it's schizophrenia in the haunts of my mind. But THAT extenuating happenstance is still lucid. Thought really intently that Barack, Muhammed's horse, was out the front door of my cuz's house--this back in about '93... It wasn't quite like a up and ran to the door and witnessed Mo' and Barack transpiring at the Autumnal gates that day... and then their "flight." Rather, I am pateintly waiting off of the front door foyer, in the living room... My cousin is gathering things toward a work regimen, so not coalescing as if that room the living room was the power spot it seemed to be--and would have been all the more if two more eyes saw the white light of day with its career thru streaming curtains. Anyway, having my imagination take over like that, was quite the temporal activity and not, again, a fire ill-contained--a flight--whatever... I think it was more like a sense of "inner-liberty." Rumi's expansive translator Coleman Barks quotes Abraham Joshua Heschel... it's his words that give this context: Inner Liberty.

An Ode to Dr. Zolondek= The Taboo of Influences

I am reading Martin Buber's biographic book about his letter writing, including his letters. The constant revolution that makes sense to he and his reader is the exchange in inter-humanity--a term he conjured, and is the case for deliberation on a kind of martyrdom for his students to seek by means of giving away the only thing we can solvently say gave us understanding in his or her (teacher/student) eyes: what they understand about the teacher, is the instructor's point of convergence of self-understanding, so identity is marytred, its trappings at least...and "given away." Pilpul is a Hebrew term that depicts the exchange two Torah students indulge upon in argumentation. Over biblical reality, of course. But, I can't deny the warm & fuzzy that ancient scribings are seen in a continuum of ideation while advancing, but also using this language that had been breathed and consigned to a time & place very much like we see today and has been for 100s of generations. **Upon my arrival at Ohr Somayach yeshivah in Jerusalem this healthy proximity to learning was something I wanted to witness. Actually, in the room where Torah and Talmudic learning commenced, I walked past trodding on cold open-to-the-outside foyer floors, looked into the shul where the arc dominates, but only saw individual students davening (=swaying in prayer). My mnemotechnical reckoning was brandished from the thoughts of the only (then) living Hasid I knew--yet wayward and thus more up my alley, who I could suppose digested these kinds of settings: my older brother's Arabic professor, and my Islamic Civilization professor--the same Dr Leon Zolondek at the Univ. of Ky. MEMORY was the internalizing of a procession of thought i.e. time & parallel to experience, living then in my mind--as to say then, which is a fallacy: you are either NOW or you are in conflict, there isn't any alternative to that. This particular trip to Israel wasn't for study however--rather I was going to meet up with my friend who in a few days would deplane at Ben Gurion airport. The Moshav, communal farm, was to be our longest stay in any one place while traveling for the 2-3 months in Israel and Egypt--and Zolondek was in the survey of my mind at a poignant moment. I was out on the perimeter of the banana fields--there on Moshav Fatsa'il, facing the noon day sun, thinking with impudence that Zolondek had socialist or Zionist values not alien to what I could absorb for myself there in Israel, a calling for all Jews I'm innocently but emphatically assuming. Zolondek, raised Chasidic turned his critical eye toward Islamic studies, so my yeahs could not be in fact my yeahs, hence the distraction and what came next, which I almost interpreted as my comeuppance, though the minefield around Zolondek's "person-ality" was only a phantom assumption on my part. I'm thinking out there in the hot sun, "Yeah, Zolondek would... " but I don't know what (over & over again in my mind) & then whack, I cut my thumb with my machete, but good--leaving me the rest of the day to do nothing, and imagining the damnable stereotyped sense of a finger pressuring the earth like to your side, as if I was G-d Damning something...something, but didn't know what, from the infiltration of agricultural implements and dirt from G-d's green into my permeable body.

Conscious Maps and Travelogue's Transects

G-d doesn't roll dice, said Einstein. So, continuity is the ultimate unity because of patterns of essential language--as in describing G-d as saying, calling, separating, or creating...would be our displined minds wanting to believe somehow we are charged with the fundamental capibility of recognizing this state of suffering--having to be concommitant with this interplay of yin and yang=karma, that we have limitations from our desires and ignorance. Avalokiteshvara "laid his diamond hand" 'pon Kerouac's reality feigned brow, and he wants to do something out of the box...believing the Buddha shares the Way. 'Life is one long road with lots of signs, so when you're riding thru the ruts, don' you complicate your mind." (Bob Marley) Except for my body not yielding to bliss, one may think a shapeless mass were the goal. Still, we're talking about disipline. And if G-d would be shapeless, then beyond form is essense, and He'd be what the soft machine is when senses are propounded with the nature of Thought. That the ego is the goal of the exercise of observation, of what our senses made us aware, I merge just as emerge from the soft machine... that which contains me, but that which is No vessel. It is apophasis that I address here. Knowing Higher GRound thru negative statements, like shapelessness. We can't say G-d Exists, but that Existence is construal of Ultimate Reality. I exist--"well, God is a shapeless mass? how do you presume to put God in a box defined by human beings?" THROUGH HIS ATTRIBUTES with which we assess daily with symbols of Eternity, for instance renunciation of what LIFE portends can be death and silence, nirvanic, thus Dying a thousand deaths in a chair of awakening is assuaging Eternity!! "...clear the area of resentment out of the brain and use that space to for better things." That is called catharsis in Greek thought. All form being consciousness is what I got from Platonic writings. It also can mean that while we aspire to eternal attributes of Higher Ground, their form is captured in our Minds as representative of the psyche... So thru our awareness Form isn't merely abstract but is an Idea, which are not convenient ways to think of the world, but are Motives for entering into relationship, because it shows THEM in the best of all possible worlds. The "psyche" is the Soul according in Greek terms. All form is ekstasis. All form is consciousness!!!
All form is ekstasis. All form is consciousness. G-d is a shapeless mass and a book of rules, but these rules are what the human condition defines as we intercede on behalf of Higher Attributes to which we only barely have a glimpse. If Coleman Barks can cite Abraham Heschel in his deliberation on the soul, likewise I can acknowledge wisdom per Islamic values, because thru my Jewish lens Wholeness is understanding the Mutual Arising of the Other. I read a few words from the Qur'an in a book about Jallaluddin Rumi's father. (If we believe life is for the Living), "then we must die before we die." Look out of any window, feel your way back the day before. Just don't leave trappings of identity cluttered in your 4 cornered room...
Luxor Egypt is a place the void within sought liberation from illusion!!! It had a village life quality when I was there... It happens to be where the Temple of Luxor is--and my accomodations were the TiTi pension, and I have no doubts that it is still there. This town is right on the Nile, and across from the town proper is the Valley of Kings and Queens. We were there in December and the weather was like 80 degrees farenheit. The oblivion that would have been my look forward into a life of study or professionalism simply drifted out to sea because of the serenity and the remoteness that one could feel in Egypt, so far from the trappings of convenience and abundance here. We lived with meager coin and still preserved our comforts, having a fried egg in the morning with pita, marmalade & feta. Then maybe tamiya (falafil) on the go--or kushari, which is that lentil onion and dits of pasta mainstay in these regions. The electric hour of the red bulb we might associate with the conflicts abound (Germans were shot up at the Temple of Luxor this century) had no grasp upon our pulse and commiseration with the folks there... where we watched a wedding--and on another occasion smoked hashish with a local clerk, white collar guy in town. We stole into an empty mosque in an out of the way part of town, being sure not to touch the prayer rugs... nothing within anyways, and my heart feels bliss that I stood in a holy chamber at any rate!!
Over to my bro's and his ex, when they lived on Transylvania--I'd sift thru their teas and various Co-op goodies, have a cup of Red Zinger. The filter of my irresponsibility, perhaps a wall w/so few contours that anything I throw against it refracts from its resonance in echolalia moments...and leaves me off wondering why the academic intension transitioned so little as I translate my motive in concise bearing to my brother's professional student example. What role do you play as you act out of that box of time...the transpiring of antecedents, like language with jumping off points in a 2000yr Western context--the impetus of our education? It has to be anthropomorphic: the midnight sky that Rory Stewart lies under, in repose, during his walk across Afghanistan, is every bit the thought-scape I practice as ideas linger in mind about remote travels of mine. Though not as stark as his, but definitely as solitarian as I feel given to. Take the ecstatic sadhu in the ghettos of Mumbai, or Euro-peasantry from 100s of years--these personalities that may simplify our motive to see life as a vital thread from one human context to the next: their belief thru our symbolic nature!!! So, now we have history as a pattern. And we are the spurn of it, its proffer if you will... we graduate to the norm then we make the observation we are its product. So where IN that understanding do you see your own experience personified? The mood gets set just as certain music from those languid moments when real release from the same ole same ole is observed in the distance in terms of relationship: Think archetype. That is all about projecting into the Now, yet for a commiserate moment you could think a truckdriver HAS that road plan, divulged like he bares the horizon in his thrum past you, greater than yourself. Being part of a weaving transect of some map in your head, and the mass organism of heavy metal traffic becomes its ominous sign. Then looking into appearances of brief flurrying faces, our instinct is to personify, no doubt, the anthropomorphic model.

The legacies supposed painting me in my youth in the corner

Da Vinci wrote right to left--in the "Orientalist" way--(with Latin characters). I know that includes Hebrew and Arabic, but also perhaps Asian languages as well. Using mirrors would be laborious to edify what ambient thing he was coming across with. In Madrassahs, young Muslim boys read from all angles into a single text. The alliterative resolve is a pathless land...comprised from any point of entry--in my view. In subsumed states of meditation, described thusly because in hindsight the impression left is gratuitous deep asides, I'd reflect upon the cool exuding basement floor and seemingly at certain heights of attention I'd discourage just how transparent I'd feel I had become. That we can only manifest what-is, the sense I'd gather from my immediate environment was in the penned-thought (symbols again--so think the "book" of the mind) of my mind collaborating, so without looking, the yard behind me through my ground level window began to transpire. The floor was intensely appealing, like loam in an arbor when the hush of earth makes urban-scape stimulation lessen its grasp upon our cool breaths--in & out of layers of humidity and filtering trifoliation. The BRoken BRidge and the DReam, a Salvidor Dali painting is on my wall--with whispy persons, ghost-like and I imagine the possibility of walking the streets forever just as it is captured in the bluish haze of the chimerical poster. Letters like in a repository was my heady response to "reading" the pug marks in the lay of the land---or actually my own footprints in nods toward a youthfulness unshaken...really something to be believed in. Sitting out the days at home, Christ-revelers out encouraging societal norms--I'd rather quietly listen to The Baobab Orchestra. (last night, I did revel) Reading & hating my fixation on time "well" spent, I'd record a motive in mind, that of maybe a yr ago when I thought about-reading but in the presence of an-other who flies the proverbial thought-kite. Kite flying, conceptually borne in space above our heads (would be) like the room in full regale of perspiring efforts in the balm of unity of Thought. But, today I can't reconcile that anyone is interested in the illumined notions of space I alone see & spitefully get my kicks equalling. 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. The Reply is none other than the last look he'll take before the seduction of the prodigy of his self-possession. **Saul Bellow is the devisor of words "nightingale & self-possession"--but I flank it w/the Arabesque iconoclasm. Saul Bellow had a proclivity to wonder about his his youthful relations--and if the later emendation of self-scrutiny in my view was to be pasted over the ragged existence in my confused child's mind, the Musselmanner (Muslim) attribution from those in the Holocaust--the particular ones who'd been left in heaps of toil, was the description I assess my own running colors washed away from all that stuff in the filthy sink of existence...(yes, this is a stereo-type, but it was one that the victims felt attuned to, because, say, a bedouine would be wrapped in robes and that last convention to confront the elements, which is what clothing does, seems to be a buffer strangely encumbering and in my mind stifling when NO veil of existence left me in convalescence when I was a child.) then now, I study the Orientalist (a very dated word, indeed!) with relish.

Under the Autumnal tree w/ the D'jimbe drum on Rebel Road

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's True--my time has no reward and no punishment!! ~~I dreamt someone had asked me what it is I got out of meditation: I heard my motive in my head as I walked to the front door of the house I grew up in then out under the night sky. Something vaguely out of control and something like a pronouncement of lethargy, but given context. Those long yawns past a midnight seance would be a Point A, which is some "time" I jump from til I reference freedom of consciousness--Point B. In that rational thought is a subject of dream time even as much as fantastic imagery has antecedents in a cognitive adjustment I have eluded to as a kind of exudation of ground Zero. When I get ocular migraines I used to think cognition had lapsed somehow--and that relevance was less persistant. But as it occurred to me yesterday while listening to an Ojibwe article on NPR, to describe it - it would be intense light like caustic blaring fields of vision closing in on me. If I close my eyes, which sometimes is only done by placing a hand on my eyelids, the light intensity is weirdly pleasing, but plainly I don't imagine it ought to be trusted. Usually if I am among family or friends in this condition I can't quite find the liminal moment: everything is illuminated, yet uncomfortably so--and I can't find anything to add to the stream of conversation. Yesterday I was alone--which is the usual case! In the middle of this time-unyielding, the News article had the ritual drum playing and chanting as just one example of "meaning" conveyed in language unique from community to community...but there was something complex and readily contained in the patternic beats carrying the vocals into great heights. Like tearing myself from half of a quiet stasis, I grabbed my d'jimbe drum and went out on to my front porch and seemingly played well in continuity from the abstraction of faceless auditive universes coming from the regions around the Great Lakes!! ~~Staying within this look West: If I were to say it had been in my political nature to have crossed the USA & get to visit Ohai, it would be because I thought Potok would have turned a token eye in my direction (now I'd like it to be Krishnamurti, yet Chaim Potok is the more provident gate). That this would be community is strange in this age of independent thought. I don't know what community is, but somewhere I gather identity when action is my mysterion--I merge, or continually emerge ad infinitum. If all those who would not be left behind were action--but characterized as what I sought to sacrifice, quickly transcendence is its becoming symbolized. Give away "identity" and we cease living to give away other things: You, Contentment, our Life together, Yours as a Mutual Arising. You said compassion frees one's soul! To do that we should esteem ourselves, and let no god come asunder--as its says in the Rig Veda.