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.