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.