JUst Judgment or Unjust Beatific Epiphenomenon

#~# I look over to this prescious woman, disrobed- suspiring* (I saw Kerouac use), perhaps expectant like I'd draw some formal map to these moments, this creative thing we thought we retrieved like no other...! I look at her back and see a man's back. Not just any man, but MINE. Now how deeply ensconced in my own flesh-felt rapt lost on whatever I could say someone should understand me through? Moldering like hay on fire within--feeling kundalini detached. How through with toxic talk-sick confused spittle belched laughable sublime bridge to the Other's heart, whose heart is but a trough of blood, that I throw body and mind to its banks til I am pulsing freely, reckoned, sweetly, lair convened, did this prison mind cease language-liberation thence attributable?
#~#On Who do you Think You are? I watched an actress--Jewish heritage--find the memorialized places whence her family trod (I suppose that's grammatically correct...) in eastern Europe, and then kin who survived haShoah=the Holocaust. I think ...to look across time into those images, see face's sheen, dogs terrorize, humor is illegitimate-- An inner voice arcs, "I'm sorry--I could have done something--I think on you now--what you leave w/me in this vacuum of of self-serving, would make me give that away, because it's just that I'll know I wouldn't give up on you, give up ever at any rate... ever." I see film footage - a child, a girl, one tremor of expression in a momentary glance out of her pale shelter...and fucking clearly it is the only vestige of what sadness mEANT. Just of a sense that Yeah, she willing to cry again, "please let me cry," she wonders. the tremor is indeed a rarified event; there's not enough spirit left in her mind-body for her to realize the still waters she'd beckon. Just give her the bread.
#~#Like I am the principal, I tell myself what we all endure - the work-a-day scholarly student of life, are the means to the ends of how I look at myself as before the same books. The books are fateful, I am the grim reaper, and the harvest is defined by the commencement of fruition furrows clueing me in from some house maiden in her spring rites, whose warnings are about just how long we have til we starve. This is information I hear from the lips of her sublimated earth denizens. I hear my bros & sisters and they tell me without authorial realization that she's condemned them. I receive their comeuppance plaintive cry, I realize the implications. I wonder how it is I got to know what it is that sues the sufferer of their vital norm.
^^My confrontation with letters--the deepest cuts now furthering comely acceptance of self, has impelled me to want radically One thing and only One thing to stamp my need to define transcendence once and for all. I keep anticipating this One thing as if my will would be triumvirated--spiritualized by authorial bodies of mind, body & soul-- by the Climate of the Greater Will.

^^IN regard to the world in its dormancy--the following is my take on a mind delivered to the first step up to the dream-scape::: I LIKE READING when my weary repose is getting the "better" of me. This feeling of sliding off the fly wheel rat......her than sticking to it, is quite an interesting box of rules to adjust to if only without the certainty of our measure of effort to make the conceptual feeling the author imparts actually last. So, I find I have an impulse of being negligent, or rather that the task is negligible so why persist? But, the pith of mind is still prepared to be manifest if I'd only look. Something like the sofa striking the bat rather than a thwack of the bat with its gratuitous purpose to land upon the dull animal of "the chair of thousands of deaths." I instigate the conduit thought-field and where it leads as if losing my way from exhaustion is part of the multiplied direction... THe new yr in a few days, a so called Yr's end sabbath might be a direction to be severely adduced!!
^^*If there's hell below we are all gonna go... But really there is a tangent concept here. Hellish albeit. Just been reading the author for The Last Temptation of Christ. His auto-bio in fact, called Report to Greco. Dude it is beautiful. He considers himself to be X-tian, Communist, Buddhist (or did.). He was writing about these communities of monks on Mt Athos--somewhere in Turkey I think. Greek Orthodoxy enclave--Europe's first I believe. These guys believed--many of them I mean, in the cruxifiction, as opposed to the Resurrection. SAying: LIFE is Cruxifiction. Really bitter old Christian aescetics. But that they were so devout and believed in Stern Judgment was to my mind instructive. Thinking that mankind is on the road to hell, well in fact creates huge visuals for me--that seems like a thing to cultivate. So by doing that limits the veracity of the conception WE all may go there--X-tians are asked to Witness, to be Initiated--not merely believe--and Jes didn't say that, 'cept in the King James version. So I don't have to go to the vertex of a world of displeasure just because there is such a world, or absence of this one that I can imagine. Right? And instead compels me to imagine a reprieve as only the relics of experience may have us do (endure).
*^*Reincarnation or Channeling? Seems reincarnation is the samsara vehicle of what happens presently. We know we incarnate in this life, that there is one world, we live on the threshold of this imminence front--so I am as much Barack as perhaps Saddam Hussein only a few years ago. But not those who have died in this life of so many more years ago that their tidal wave has content but no form--has color but can't be said to exist... You die an existence, you don't die there again--doors close.

the blah-terraneans!!

I like these few band names just in their plausible open-community sound of it. The Soul Syndicate singing King's Highway, who are Dready because Times are irreconcileable to deal with tribally (hypothetically)--and so these acolytes say I-man is More Dread than that. Peoples just called the People--reducing their self-emulation to farce in one way, and in another way in a place without anywhere else to turn. Soul Vendors or The Israelites--Christofarians, name whose definition means Those who Struggle with G^d. Strive for G^d=Yisro'el. Names imparting being found as the millionth of a million souls, like there are more opportunities than soul resigning us to obeisance=soul seeking that which has no concept or word, so that is to say an Unknown--a thing that we can't say would exist. And the fascinans is utter musterion that one feel compelled to act in behalf of mention of the Absolute--The Provenance of said community, but never having asked for its prohibitive restoration. Prohibative in knowing that This is imminent is liminal, and motive a priori.


^!^Left my Korean Buddha at Alison's apt, back in the day. She was my second, but really the first. I parted ways with her, remonstrating the intuition of her lasting with me, as I knew the same for the collegiate thang too--I'd leave out and knew I'd not have these things followed thru like the world doing and going by me, people meeting goals & each other, moving forward....
I lived on Rebel Rd. eponymous in a way that I'd call it--soul rebel, because "the sun shall not smite I by day, nor the moon by night." (B. Marley is where I heard that--suppose it's biblacy) I woke up coming down from the sincere mountain of the life - 3yrs of it, I spent with Alison - & the tally of where I'd come from dissipates just as the availing path forward was ackwardly precipitous. Ackward, bound by momentum, but contrition in my heart that I wasn't deciding. In the basement barely looking out to the backyard--here on Rebel, the morning of the dubious past and irrelevant future, grappling with the tether of dream-time, I got punished in receiving the day's beginning--light brandishing an awe in my face, too ill-consuming, and literally I heard bird calls emanating from my bird gullet. Freaked me out--not even laughable now--but will be after I read this here in a few days...
I was reading about the Indian girl, in The Subterraneans=Kerouac enthusing motive.

You seed your soul - that's what you shall reap. The coldest varietal of denizenship--me in this habitat--had Valerie sitting there as unassuming as my being innoculated in more desperate climes. Nothing to speak on around us, only glossy fracturing light that I wanted to cut me. If I'd been to hell, the static-dust and cold coming on to this Winter, had colors just so, and Valerie sitting right in the midst of hell's declination. I saw her there waiting--seemingly saying as bad as I found things now or as a mark against my fate, she is THere alas.
::
If someone's doctrine for self-actualization be answer enough, we may also infer I want to recognize that it isn't OF just one condition that you meant to share it with me. The answer here is not that well thIS OR THAT gospel is dynamic, and you would have never supposed only one door to that Light. You may, but under the sacrosanctity that Self-Actualization goals are shared is like the dust in our hair never washed til we change our hearts, and passion & praise has what is dear in its clutches because its content demand approprotion...give it more where it is lacking. So, I wanted the mechanics of your belief's letters to What-up & scatter but as star splendor, --the dust at our feet, however is as upon a well-trod land, we fill up every available precinct of space memorialized with our martyrdom of time--its dispensational floe yielding to effort's recompence: our feeling received in the LIGHT of Actionable Cause. You have One, sir--I want to observe that as I can, in my way, perhaps...lazily too, but in moments that allude to spiritual endeavor so that Compassion is our vehicle and is arguably thru our episteme exchange in weirder moments than that, so to speak if notions about the Light-Fantastic are complex and are observably releasing the dross rendered patterns in our more self-serving mind back to its source. Not all of which I can capture--lazily man...too bad perhaps or really a languid pattern to listen as my response becomes hopefully more eloquent, or rather just in hopes to respond: I & I & I got to fulfill the Book--and there are G^D-Fearers, People of the Book etc with different ledgers with which we feel G^d may finally oBserve us in prescient awakening thusly, knowing & assuming it happens ALL of the time...evolving.

I look back and sense having been ejected from one 10yr span of life into the next that has no even mellow steady flow like my incarnation previously. Sitting in a bookstore there in Fl. over the T.giving holiday the academician personas I've trusted like yellow withery pages in its throes of hero-protags, are actually gray pulp matter and still I am seeing every other color thru some convenient lens. I sometimes have to be reminded that I give myself over to a life of study. Images are fluent by this convention, and I gather them so that when my body is in agreement with my yawn of effort--it won't otherwise surprise me...

^^^Falling falling in the seconds a feeling elapses like I am being pulled aboard some foyer, a chamber perhaps--stone deaf but sensorily felt like a pure auditive allusion to the present line of jive. Sound-scapes are interupting any authorial body, because the presumption of having been called to stake my presence. **Neighbors dog arguing with the sounds of my mower in my mind's eye--an interlude of grass cut which I want it to go like that, but it is like that. He doesn't achieve toil with me, but snaps at my finger--I let him bite me. I knew he was frantic from grass-cutting blades whirling mischief, and my hand was not its provenance... Clamped on my finger for a second but in a toothy kiss.

!#! I love some strange equinox when I fish for just how wrong I am. My own worst critic--I am not. Rather I look to hear someone deny my verity. In that flight of concept denied, it's hopeless to meet my own motive anyway. Their vehemence is enough--makes my yeah's yeahs. Mundane bridge to awareness.

!#! If you say you have a life, you are miles ahead of me. But in my self-professed insignificance, I get a full-spectrum bird's eye view. AND: in memorium, many we have lost--I am thankful for a flimmer of hope that possibly we are still only talking about ONE world.

BURN your books you've written-+-in the Himalayas

Folks get all incredulous that we may make room for them at all. The sense of it is that now perhaps they would likely need to do the same for you. Up near Ellenville NY, Catskill Mts where my aunt's bungalow colony thrived, then later nose dived, I spent 3-4 weeks hanging out in a sorta seclusion, but w/minimal familial interaction. Visiting w/Didra my Orthodox cousin seems only to anticipate a certain "in" with which Jewishness would be made the point of reference--as she sees it. Anything else is non-negotiable. I had this movie's CD soundtrack--the movie is called Little Odessa. Has Tim Roth, Maximillian Schell, Edward Furlong and two others we'd recognize. Anyway, the soundtrack has Judeo-Russian themes, opera, folk music, somewhat klezmer sounding in one or two songs. I tried, yet succeeded to give this music to my cousin. On her part that she finds herself giving out Jewish persona, to vaguely imagine this sense coming from the other direction was only apropos because her starting point was her propriety--a view to higher ground without the surfeit of nuances that any unreligious person could consign. Her look distantly to warranted purity was deliberate enough that I could meet it. To be the target of that--would actually be disconcerting, and something I had avoided...

~~
The thought flourish from Kerouac--maybe more like homunculus languid reality floe--that there is "snow" around this preponderant image in iconographic setting--he says snow!--his now departed-from the earth's melancholy locked in this atom-ic cell--a picture not delivering his friend's essence, like, static unsustaining the currency of that love **THAT LOVE INDEED is the point--is taking place in Mexico City. And in similar ways that having read Patti Smith's liner notes in Radio Ethiopia, is the "undoing" of contemporary unwelcoming from all identity having become a commodity there/or anywhere and leaving very few memorialized spaces where I could accede to--to run around imagining...the intensity behind the slumber of perverted godly images--but rather as magnificate! This intensity is one thing--his proliferate consignation where mostly most of us can belong is thus!!

If you burn a book, it shoUld be your own....feel a meaningful restraint than to shadowy & hearty thought--in the valley of the tongues tonite. An expectation is realized, but by this tableau-bound author where his intent is provident. And my opinion that I wouldn't have Dostoevskii's dank student or dispossessed doing-what-one-wilt man becoming demon of his self road written in certainty for me head-scaped in his studies back-when IN my grasp now & again & anew, is been rebuffed. (so, again I am appreciating Fydor D.) Myth --as the layers of alliteration bespeak of hand in hand transcriptional freedom IS not time & place, but is practiced reason. The spiritual narratives of the Alteros Yamomamo Natives in S. America are indeed myth--but at variance from the west's convenient false measure of its import-- to me--it is not myth's ploy to expunge lesser cultural acumen as the sarcastic poets froth over, but only they the myth-teller's lives are exemplar at its vertex (peak). The Yamomamo haven't that media to afford such breathless spittle. That earth denizen speaks of his world on-going--myth paints every day grasping for a lunar (painting the heavens spiritually truth-baring) sabbath of generations uniquely accomplished of eternality, as his gods deign succor.
~*~You better get out yer grave. Your friends don't fuck around, 'cause they as dead as you. You better reconcile to be brave, getting it together in any kind of weather is a leap into the sighs glances & whisper of the climate of the greater Will. Bukowski said he was in better co. waking up in a cemetery every morning--the night had been strangled by duppies (doppelganger). If more than one it could be reason enough to feign interest in a mind of multiplicity. The first observation is that we are fragmented--the mind is. So faced with (1) doppleganger--it might cold I Up, 'pon that bridge... If G^d is oNe (not 1 of, but unique!), I want to fall abysmally thru the wilderness tabernacle ......since the proud land is merely trying to meet each step as we expand across, lumber onward, it does my gait like giant leaps are imminent yet progressively. The following is with a sense of what this entry may mean. **Bukowski seems - thru the eyes of his frustrated hero - to be chased by a doppleganger. And it is his fault perhaps, but he really... is compelled to face that part of himself--the distorted look in the mirror which is a pain very close to the bone... Maybe a serene showroom dummie, Foool on the hilll transparency making him validate the least of his self---meaning "appearances." There is something lovely about disappearing if only into The Good or The Beautiful (or as he did into the Unknown mystery of the hereafter), because usually the problem is we see ourselves too clearly and it is without our knowledge of self intact.

**Zazen=sesshun=sitting=asana...Dude told me that he wasn't willing to change something he had well recently relished written. I said language is transformative, not that we aren't vessels for the only thing given away, but if "liquid language (is) awash" the speak easy breath of word is water w/undeniable attribute of mercy, and water is the vehicle for incarnations of everything seeking time's relevance. Showered of the thrill that we capture relevance, language to measure adulating over its supine lethargy, is language in the surmise of the Other.

**Being restored to a state of knowing: any author, my words your words, media flurries--like it is a vomitorium only to go relish again the victuals of my sensory greed... Even subtle appetite fulfilled like tea-head, dust in a cup--"forest of life underfoot" to quote Patti Smith. The village quorum at precinct edge sifting loamy thoughts, dust kicked up, indecision where silence is resumed. Blood silence & the medium is sand--letters drawn from learning in school ledgers written with tree-sap and charcoal.
~~kAFKA says, It's still OK just living at home. And perhaps his feeling of denied anthropomorphism, but rather as an insect, or in a letter he wrote as becoming bodily like a snake with finesse enough to slide past and into wall crevices, had the absolute consignation living-with-father & family as a necessary escape. His embrace of diaspora ideology and Jewish insignificance, may have sacrifice of self at one's father's hand--like Abraham and Isaac (the akeidah, meaning the binding of Isaac) prescient in view of the melancholy reality that has transcendence out of man's accord... Abraham's Get Thee Out verity, when he left home, trappings of identity et al, and family may have an implication more conventional than thoughts over self and self-annihilation kAFKA otherwise convened. Obviously things in the industrial complex and sweep of history as before him may have subsumed exile as the apropos alternative.
~* Is the spectral shore, meaning mind's furniture, symbolic? If thoughts feelings and actions are allegory to higher ground, whatever that-that sense of peace may be called, so if we FEEL that at our seat of awareness that it is the chair where we have died a 1000deaths, then certainly we become more sincere about the regard for consciousness= ours or anything's!! But symbolic life is the only contending of truth with which we suffer... if we put down the menu and just eat, then how do we reconcile suffering w/o enjoining relationship with the fEElings of its conspiring, expiring, whatever IT does TO us???

A yoga interested fellow says the following in quotes "...self inquiry (?) it may be pertinent to learn to ignore feelings and detach or become numb..." My response was: Well, to this I'd say we move into consciousness and into relationship and when this is not possible or the price is too high, we might have a view to what it is that we can't control: LIfe is out of our control, even as much as it is a transcendental bridge to awareness. It is the material void, 3/4 of what we see seems submerged, like hot icebergs...the essence eludes us. The mind wants an actionable cause, it is the hardest thing to do to compartmentalize "emptiness." To court the benumbing of our condition. Abso--fucking--lutely.

#~#Lepids entombed in crystalis underneath a bridge--two communities sundered by the divide. Or on a veranda door jamb, (Nabakov...) and recognition of parent's concern to have prodigy survey such happiness. Mom on one side, father at the other, a door antediluvian - the wherefore of mom & dad's historicity mind current as entrance to the new day...and the exiting door yet as Unknown and as locked with which samsara keeps us guessing if meaning will avail ! "Vapors to vapors," even the least of ourselves in the wake of exemplars to good enough or not Identity cosmogony, all is vanity--as Solomon calls it... The orchards of Jerusalem, the 6 yrs in the deerpark where Sidhartha attains the name Shakyamuni denoting his "seeking." The knowledge of relationship as relics of impressions that clearly aren't the ends of man.... If immortality is our becoming appearance--mind appearance, didn't the riven parent's tenure deny our exile as iconoclasts sometimes with which presence-ceased is the report of idols destroyed...

Subject: I don't see one religion thru the lens of another

I don't see one religion thru the lens of another. Being a Buddha is not saying emulate a Christ figure. In Buddhism you want the Greater Will to witness you, see you in reverence and sorrow, propitiation. Messiah is to intercede, be a witness, suffer your consequences. One would observe Him. In Hinduism gods are subject to impermanence as any acolyte would--I wonder what they think of my path's disappearance?
Rob & I got bit part jobs for a movie filming in the Sinai desert, in Israel's southern most region. Dressed as bedouin enduring pretty cold middle-eastern Winter's night, in inappropriate dress, we just swilled coffee from early evening on & not getting much in the way of supper. Rob scored some scant hashish pieces and I rolled it up with some tobacco--what a ruinous high especially as observer of a crowd of whitenecks, so to speak--feeling every bit as out of it, I guess I'd call these British street urchins--a bunch of slackers then literally stuck in Israel, lots of street hassle standing on corners making trouble. Seeing these boys crawl out of doorways, no shoes & sometimes a rucksack, but usually not, we all converged on the Peace Cafe, where we had come to get hired.

The Present line of Thinking is interrogative from Jazz's list/tilt Prone

~~*Malamud's* Pop recites a few verbs learned in nightSchool after his immigration here. Lights a cig. Melancholia is the report of his visage. Rosy-colored mourn: his progeny feels a Winter's sun every bit in its deflated ill-capacity; the three oranges of Prokofiev's symphonic delivery roll across his pillow in dull dust ridden brownstone. An ocean above making satellites into these celestial rooms emptied of our respite; noble work the give & take of places you ought to be.... My office is, my office is, a hotch-potch of prevailing motives in ambulations thru work-fields, I transverse as if its geometric pattern gives way to no perimeters. Rather I cut a path like the thrum of yarn.
*Malamud actually means "teacher" and naturally to unwilling students
**^**This native american dude (part N. A.) hanging around Common Grounds flipped out one night, not on drugs, but very lost in his wooden eyes in his manner--thusly out of relationship, most formidably the one of I & We...--his I & Thou is likely quite profound. I spoke to him earlier that night in that cooler evening of this Fall/fall coming on. Literally he disappeared from my periphery, and to turn on him & to suppose why seemed utterly the wrong thing to do. Then. But, next time--as I gainsay weirdness--so a thing like this will happen again I'm willing to bet, then, like I say next time I'll watch the pillars of consciousness=his, & mine as I dissipate in the mirror, yield to the magnetic draw I otherwise withdrew from in this occasion. A friend characterized this guy's mindblow-out just right. He was speaking his inner-dialogue, rather than translating it to deny the remoteness one so easily recognizes as the distance qualifying relationship. His eyes are currently before me--they're welcome, have no foreboding...he was taken to Eastern State after a few weeks jail time for observation, probably took it for what it is=stricken w/unfamiliar self-adulation. Kerouac untethered my eyes sharp rapt vista tree canopied moment from sight's unrest otherwise under streetlights, for me. This the untranslateable retreat to lightning vox fiery abdomen, the Dharma people's tApAs, is the sHsHsh of making a fire, which is unlit when symbolic currency feels dear. Now he's out on his own recognizance.
Probably won't see 'em again.

^*^I'm strong, but I want to be weak. I'm the yr's sabbath, but I want to be the week. I want to awaken, but losing vague accounts of affirmation. I want to be a fern, but stand in extreme clime as acacia. I stand against pillow army invasion, but can't haunt memorialized space occasion. Don't like spirited nationality demarcation, most are Eurasian. This is sad, I'm felicitas & thank G^d for making me mad. Anything smacks of consciousness awry, my body tells me everything that's true. The measure of physical soul, the mediate surfeit of angst, is mind's recourse into strewn anthropos; her lavender key in every hill's loom, maternal episteme to laud--she's Kerouac's broom.

~*~don't know how useful this may be, nothing really to turn off
I've seen both of tHem, and there is only one of me now. I have some friends and they don't fuck around, tho'. I thought you knew how inclined you were to suffer me and appreciate how much better you'd know them-- The flash of big Os always portends colors, and colors are the content of form. If eternal forms were present, I'd thank Valerie to look thru me with wooden eyes, because her trees are the people, she's the denied sky with the turning out of earth. I am a wanderer not wanting to find her anymore than wanting to seek with her. Firth's perimeter moldering makes excellent proud land to transect to determine origins or to change fate. She's the climate of the greater will, and the liminal starting point is imagination listing like transcriptional nonexistence (think the allusion anything mechanical provides=spokes going in the opposite direction; the valley below looking escalante' because an outcrop segregates your view from quickest way down--before you, and what is lost in its distance strung). The wave up, that color form portrays, my reflecting on the still water with which we sit nigh, makes the voidant compassionate body the consciousness the Other Shore/Ultimate Reality or G^d met.

*~*The back of my mind looks like a crumpled grocery bag--brown, multifoliated, pregnant. The proffer of Mom's domestic profile is just like a sweet savor of chocolate eaten when the day's long ends are exposed. I carry the bags in, the supper eternality lurches forward a sense of purpose corrupting the sheen on my tiled basement bedroom floor. The digestion of NPR articles, Salman Rushdie books, & Potok books about core-cultures explicating the drift toward apologist values (like the doldrums in watering down--those values--to the contrabearing Other) about my non-orthopraxy is my dispensational whiling away days then. Those Others doing a community's biding, me with no authorial self-responsibility--no one to make complex the promise of spiritual actualization--like we'd integrate witnessing the mean of spirituality with no chimera makes my security an Acculturation of the Attainment of the Other Shore...perhaps in a glimpse, but weirdly temporally. I'd want that much more: the broken bridge AND the dream.
***Askin' the angels in my youth, was permissed because I suppose I got to ask for a reason. The angels around now thru lens of magnified spaces with meaning that elude, but merely giving me deference to ask, only ask--that entering the interrogative, would render angels' wisdom always the same acquiescence, just submit to the weary Doest thou love the Fog? Because if u fear, you hate it-- And if u hate it, you love it...
**‎10,000points of light: read this in a Jewish/Buddhist book. Sitting in the field of self-discovery: as close to touching the earth as haunches on the ground permits, I thought of a weird exile from the heavens, like people tear themselves from the limbs of star tincture, just to see who else came along for the ride. Seeing faces in chandeliers, everyone crowned in lights. The idea that we all are stars, is seen uniformally, yet one's light may have been emitted from a point of its progress light-years prior to the mediate engaged point at which their relevant presence is adduced. The shapeless mass as g^d's being may be defined seems every bit the consignment of inner-space conflagrations--it is considerably apposite to imagine that nothing evades being exposed to wholeness undenied...
**It is just that I am believing it entirely possible this chic knows when a dialogue ensues so late at night, and from across water, I'd have to defy the times when we pass-by & meet the sense that the normative presences are becoming the truck of a deeper aside. Seeing her is as sweet as the feminine flourish yet on my dreary sounding board, and what I want from her isn't accelerating. Not really my business because I know I show her the floors of consciousness that my pondering mind is acquisitive over til the closed crowd of selves personified need its vehemence, and my carrot reward demands that I'm the first out the door. She's not my woman, but rains down like the message from ancients--and I have to tell her I regard her present status as my career of my lessened persistence. The night we met when saying to her if thou wert as my sister is becoming languid blue slumber--I would've kissed her cheek, as I did, but at the more precise moment. G^d damn, I have a sister, and she's been coming, now she's over (this threshold)--I can't get enough, and I can't know to want more...
**I wish that this one self-expression, kind of asserted-knowing just why I know verbiage out of theophanic mind's vent in some other trumpet than voice's truck with my body vehicle could be heard. As in the convening of silent segue-way from one song (the songs generally are interoperable w/Coltrane's stuff), definitely something ridiculously numinous, where I find I am finishing the thought of the last syllable and lightning-vox note, with a precise cause. A be-causality--a causality--a casual reality I & Thou-flourish, me to the friend present & all the heights of minds clung unto that high chamber. A chamber of the just-so language of selflessness & identity kindly clearly but radically dispelled. It is self-utterance out of dream-body thus eluding, evasive, aquatic, and ultimately perfectly sustaining had I found the limb extruded from my center where "liquid language awash" -Wallace Stevens, was bowing off of the bough and reach of compassion in bloom...
**Have you ever woken up next to barren railroad tracks, endlessly prevailing of time's sequester over your dire need for convalescence? The other night, similarly, I thought it must have been someone out in the street as if I'd migrated there among them, but with the bird's eye view from my bed next to the window--looking out... and they were all the emitted thought energy surrounding the train-ing thru train-rail-rumbling my mind begins to follow and anticipate. The feeling was a sense of pink or lavender shimmering lamp light shone on my face, and the weird wakened feeling like someone standing over you as you sleep is the self-consciousness I can't otherwise steep in the conscious pocket, because since I am the one doing that--it is an especially compelling reason to wonder at the light then personified. Mummers thread thru my brow, and even in this surfacing, I deny not knowing just what is being said like it comes from Without--saying what is conveyed & having the complete script of chimera corrupted - putting words where otherwise just sighs had gotten my mind's lingua franca in the common denominator of thought's impute, as loss of my interlocutor is dawning.

Kafka-esque & the floor of consciousness

Big fat Adel was the first Egyptian I ever carried on with--the polymath dude in 7th grade biology class doesn't count. His 3rd world body stench is an insensed memory impression which I do actually want to conjure. It has the frank persuasion of death somehow, yet contrite Thought- mine- that was my ascending momentum circa 1987, was vital and Yes alive. His diabetes and obesity is plaintive and dispensational of some era-mythos in my sentient greed re-enlivening the empath notion that most of whom I knew at this time were the mettle of kaleidoscopic Certainty. I can only abide by these familial presences looking back at pieces of me Then, as opposed to weird equanimity and habitual levity things are recorded with Now. Death certainly has taken Adel, but the open book where his life is narrated remains unfulfilled. And he, like my rabbi with stale bookish breath, together in every other solemn occasion, gives me a paper cut on the finger of the mind after grabbing the book of rules and resigning their oblivion to my shapeless mass & mind-sore.

^^This may sound strange, at first, but stick to it til this paragraph's end, and you'll see it place us back on our feet w/no constraint or depraved moral compass:
In Dao thought it is called "shu"--a kind of self-scrutiny, self-analysis to enter your lowest common denominator and be transformative. I have had thoughts of aggression, as if I was the one thing between someone & his doing harm to an innocent. I even compulse like I am physically stopping them.... On the flip side, I've imagined someone trying to elicit from me something that he'd use toward deletorious advantage--& again I hesitate or shutter as if I am violated against somehow. Like he's Hitting me, cutting me (general themes of suffering & torture I have only read about)--all the while in the sanctimony that I ought to hold in high esteem a supposed reprieve from a state of dis-ease. The strange discerning is a huge body conscious type endeavor. Feeling heat here and there, incredulous at the numbness maybe that would have otherwise just been temporate, or normative. I avoid this psychic incursion now, but it was strangely informative on the odd occasion. Like the shifting around of leaden consciousness, just to catch ourselves on a different limb, pinned but as a part of the tree-community...an extremity way to disabuse certain attributes in their mutual arising, as the example of Mercy and Judgment are. To mitigate judgment, and fall abysmally into mercy.


I remember something tonite. I've dreamt about you. You were one of the 4 souls peopling the profound 4 cornered room--to call it the inner-temple is too reverent. Because it is the ghetto of the mind that one sifts thru before blood is blood's truth, and I want to paint my sister, you and all the earth's agencies of benevolence w/the kindest least of myself...diminutive selves! Somehow I thought that there was little that I could do for my person, these animicule apparitions needing to breathe sentience in the light I'd forgotten about. Thou wert as my sister, and in temporate moments I look forward into that mirror. You're there in a capacity that begs no adulation that I am top-ranking (in BMW's Survival album's sense). I would imagine turning out of the blue of her personality's shade like I am soul-sublimated by a wisdom creed so familial, but mouldering and dumb too as if I can't make the decision to have courage my mind is proliferating on the same conditions she is wont to lead me thru. But, it's my room I saw her in...or is it?

Subject: thinking about a book called Burnt Books, about Kafka&Rabbi Nakhman
I want to believe, but not tote it around in a wheelbarrow. I want to be initiated thru the gate of light, unto the Opening of Truth/Ultimate Law, but as Kafka had in his parabal, rather than the door closed behind us, I'd want it left open after I've entered. Because equivocating the condition in this yah dispensation, is fulfilling the expectation of our usual fare: The door is ultimately closed on us here too. Yet finding oneself in the yawn of release from the clutches of symbolic life, into Infinitude, necessarily locked the temporal reality outside of the equation whence we adduced relationship. Law or Truth, then necessarily--a destiny w/ astral existentialism--plays a cruel joke... We enter thru the frontdoor where we have just exited thru the last hallway meandering on the margins of the cosmic house.


"My body tells me anything, everything that's true." What a great line in a Fleet Foxes song. This would be praise easily and lament as motive. I use it the lyric below, but referencing the lavender mood, and climate of the chimerical slumber in repose when Valerie is delivered to this man's first cause: Beauty.I just give up...submit. Someone says your in, in the door--and I just what door? "Your feet are on the ground, you have legs." And I see myself pinned in the tree, don't know how I'm hanging. This sweet Italian woman tonite, she looked up, caught my sighs whispers glances, and I just fade in fear of vanity. Her name is Valeria, & I'm stark-ridden, Valerie--my lady--whose eponymous name had foundering starts with this woman and the last one I came onto the last time at the pub. The other chic's middle-name is Valerie's, and her girl-friend showed up with the same name as my first long term girl-friend's name. That particular night Howie & I went up past the skateboard punk hangout to piss, and Valentine's Day was on a flyer, jumping out at me. If she's insinuating herself into my sight-seen it is just as well to believe tHat as it is that I solicit the project of my worth, and give myself up to seeing her bedroom eyes in the mummer of star tincture and tell myself that she's anything, everything that's true.


This below I am trying to piece together in a sorta bird's eye view of selfhood/self & body as I am rendering unto maybe even a sleepy blue slumber of you & I as we would lie in bed--and that damned TV would play into the wee hrs, making me get up and turn it off.


Awakened to presense is usually a top heavy exposure of my whole body--more dreamy breathless and fearful views were of a face, but for content and unrarified air seeing the measure of trunk, limbs, cup is reifying enough to call it victory. Anthropos for the vehicle of conversant lapse into apophasis (silent oracle and negation of distraction), has perhaps a quick shutter, and bones are the last presinct. Bone valence thru propitiating Pte Indian gods, were drug in a field, vernal trfoliate life over-coming and the earth's gesture is new life, in a way that makes Native American plant hallucenigenics easily supposed even w/o inducing them. When doing Salvia Divinorum, the 40x product, then at home with Valerie, made me hope to contravene in the norm (w/o this sage herb) that I had cemented a sense that waking up meant petting her and then getting ready and breaking those morning thresholds. The sorta "wakened" state in a repetitive motion as she sat across the room as I was tripping for an interval of 10-20 minutes, made me wonder if I could arrest that same sense--coming out of a dream into her arms. But of course the affected thought patterns, and her looking at me like I was a mad man - I guess I was laughing uncontrollable - wouldn't artificially let my caprice prevail. Just a stale high, lugubrious like the dust in the house was catching up with me. I tend to insinuate a downward trend on these occasions, and naturally think that whatever happens would be anticipated, and thus having foreknowledge means I could have done something different, to make it work. Maybe, maybe not...I'm only looking forward now, and adamantly macrobiotic in the present vibe and love thru our distance but in a kind of osmoses anyway.

**LIGHTwaves ~~MOSES' grave's oPen**

The Book of Ethics, Talmud, in Jewish canon says a sticky point that one should pay for his teachers/friends as such. Literally doing this has the appeal to my warrant of not having steered toward them and then formidably not being found-amongst so worthy--but I burn that down soon enough. Dude is is is off & on on the street--now w/another friend and having to come up w/125.oo dollars to stay there. (I'm giving him a 100.oo) No contention that he is a good dude--never exploiting our goodwill. I relate unwaveringly to resourceless long days...cold-lampin' (sic--meaning my definition may not be ebonic). Meaning, coolin' it somewhere, a lighted room, nothing beckoning without, nothing sustaining the hunger within---sitting convulsed in meditation. It woUlD seem possible that I am right outa this situation, maybe right out of desperation at any rate. I'd tell ya', I've never left it! I can't say I have ever wasted my time, tho'-- Brahmodya in Hindu thought is the "parlor" social thing, and finding the silence resuming after words aren't any longer martyred, our sense is that "electricity comes from other planets" (Lou). I'll have my brother around as long as that is the appeal, there is a lot to be said for whiling away (Paul says as much--can't remember the precise lyric... Blue Sun??).


When rastas say someday we'll walk these streets forever---I loved the denouement of an Orchard/Garden/Paradise maybe because formlessness is There. But man trod fully like a mega-transect. Determined to imagine the material void, & the path meets him--stays conflagrative. Form is liberated since wisdom --a masculine principal of the godhead--arises with "knowing" sooo w/self-realization--the maternal womb of binah and now man can't any longer seek the mt tops, 'cause city too hot... Pretty soon he can't, but live entirely conceiving of his power spot as good enough. His path meets him, the Himalayas are moving.

I have a techni-color thought. I have this image of "a sad man wanting to stand up in my eyes" from Elias Khoury, a Palestinian author contemporary with Amos Oz--the Israeli author/Peace Now activist. The sad man is the sand's collapse like "ancient rosy colors behind my eyelids" (Kerouac) where something called Mine sought oblivion.
Momma home in a empty house, son is gone to the Himalayas, just out of the IDF--she wanders the house now at night listening to an umbrella of peace, sounds like "narayme, narayme" the call of a particular bird. From Amos Oz's book The Same Sea, and similarly my aunt, having endured as long as she did, had a sense of theophany as if she pressed her ear to the wall of temporal and flat mortal denial. The message crossed water, watching elders ambulate concertedly, pointedly, leaves no excuse for me to languish: they could tip over like a top heavy glass of milk, but at the same ttime what seems evident is that they are long distant runners, and have been living next to a extolling river, scribing the message of slow fidelity.

The reproach of unrevealed resolve, musterion--like now suddenly it is on the line, is only less victorious if I think so. Tending to resolve the need to think, bodes for rather well for listening instead. Sounds arrive in shallow water, and yet seem synaesthetic in the spectral aircell a room takes on. Just like the appeal pitch shadows & depth are - filling us up w/every languid goal to look again under the street light for the key we lost in the alley, I'm comfortable saying I don't know (or am willing to think how fire/tapas was light of the quality that only my heart fuels), the light seemed good enough. Since cosmic significant light demands just what ought to douse the heavens with now this season a deflated ball/Winter's Sun, light rays ensuing anything Of me or by extension is the Climate of the Greater Will.

Subject: lazy, or maybe actually kinda decisive--derived past stuff--but added, edited

Train comin' 'round the bend...like 3 times a night, sometimes more. Last night, I didn't notice tho'. Living proximal to the long distance traveler (literally), is a symbol of life in all its impermanence=the journey & the journey-made. Tracks running thru skin-scapes moist and with soul-force, has my thoughts revolve around Ben Kingsley's flight out of character like he was on a 6 Flags ride (in Gandhi), just affably surveying India's Bharata-varna, this World as it proceedth in its ancient quality.*** Old garments are shed, new bodies are donned like new garments... Humankind's path is earth, the temporal kingdom, tho' he/she has the freedom to stop inertia, & the Celestial Bodies don't. So our path may be more dynamic, a so-called Conscious-Being. *(P.K., my varietal with some of your language) We see the Sun, but the Sun is turning out of blue, but our reason does not surmount. Our dialogue w/the cosmos is yet impermanent--therein do we live the ontological record. This is the self-hypnoses sung about--I have heard: the ground is magnificate & I am at the top of the world. In our theoria, the thing about dreams is your having perceived that the world is moving around you, you are a quiet-static moment, & you'll sense THAT when looking at the observer in that moment as things move in flux--Kerouac says, big floats take notice, which is the Observer in the dream, everything else lives in the demand of the fray! The content of my goal is only the elements I gather from this trail, and I'll know my destiny as long as my first step remains the singular advantage it purports itself to be: "Forest of life underfoot"**.Patti Smith's words from R. Gere's book Pilgrims.
In a dream your path meets you, feathers falling like perpetual acquiescence to the epiphenomenal...looking up & in, looking up & in, until the requiem of change tho' confused aerial sight-thrum, is compartmentalized in torpid vessels we opt for rather than an Unknown having been diagrammed in the dream's end!
Sorting out having slipped into days dispensational just not on my watch, the enumeration media thru an exile from eclipsed cosmogony bares the fruits of hearing. I hear an acolyte beware of an extinguished norm, like sign-posts in his retreat from solitarian pleading for days end. Get off the path, "Truth is a pathless Land." Krishnamurti's observation of truth concealing reality.

G^d O' Propitiation

At the house where I grew up, out in front of the garage door I'd play the cunga. With no percussion theory, one lesson from Tingo Lee, and radicalized from observation, then until I thought neighbors were paying attention, I'd take to the neighborhood to sit in Beaumont Park. Rhythms just dust-like in my head, I learned how resolved and acquiesced visualization was to what needed to be moved around, sitting right down in my favorite place. Thus telegraphed beats hung, its valence undeniable, unassailable as old brown meeting streets no more...the day erased as below the current of the imminent fact. --that's not meant to sound defeatist!
Life as I knew it was superable--I ran around imagining life. Now I sit here and imagine life after death. The death would take place in much the same repose, as upon a lawn chair or likely a 5 gallon water bottle cask, just dreaming of acorn trees/oaks like their tannins were swathed across my skin. Then something draws me out & I take to the air, and the suggestion that I ought not any longer remark over the simple dwelling having made my time & place is strictly adhered to. Mnemotechniques as this term I read in Nietzsche's Writings, would be method for absolution into the new dynamic...the born anew day only reconciled if I do the recommended thing--getting good at forgetting! Tho' forgetting may seem to be like burying my head in tufts of bluegrass, the chthonian earth as it receives my face is yet a perspective toward the material void, and not denial but positting myself there, and so rank and file my march into the "recesses" of I & Nature...even when she speaks thru an indefinite chorus.

He started to call myself "in" as opposed to "him." Couldn't hear Mem, the letter root of mayan meaning fountain, or mayim meaning water. But I'm not IN like a fish unreincarnated. Nun is the word for fish in Aramaic, its number is 50. Medium #, and still I think inundation. I'm in the world, it before me & not below it; so few thresholds to keep me on strode road, I cross the proud land like I know it, home in the distance & what needs to be crossed is appropriated to get there, permissed at my yawning gait of twice the half-step. Emergent, meandering, in mendicant-ation... the intra-mantra slavery is being subsumed like Obediah/Abdullah doing just what G^d tarried in the stream o' propitiation we have agency within. Fields of the sea, a sure vista toward Oneness, Wakefulness, & the Other Shore.

Remembering the sense that I wouldn't imagine studying for my bar mitzvah as opportune, Kabbalah, meaning what is Received, is become an expression for my cleaving to theoria as a yoke (think yoga) to permiss my imaginative limits. At 15 and reading Gershom Scholem texts had ideas like the Absolute portend a Result... A corresponding visualization inhered because sounds arrive from without and my complexion would be a center with expanding peripheries. Skein over my eyes at once making this one morning when I'd arise have dreamt antecedents of the physical space I was used to, now embellished by glossier proximity to it all. I clearly saw a stairway lead off from the middle of the backyard into the blue of the dome. Maybe 2 people upon on it, and then otherly just glistening figments of iconography / apparitional things in my mind's conscious map thither and giving distance its tangibility. From the middle of the yard where the pyramidal log pile was stacked--a place convened by me so many times under Winter's sky..., by the plum tree & the sink-hole. Zadie lowering his hands down upon the kitchen table--abra-cadabra--has the heatherly skies of agriculture and horse farms assert a new ideal sense of just these domaines, no other place to trod...home is evidently an imminent front!! Personified, painted, a Pasteur of feeling diminutive, this large backyard of ours has a name, and all its guests are in a vigil -- I only feel out of its magnetic principal if I adulterate it with denouement.


The Tzaddik in what his affluence can't deny, the Saddik the same shaman-esque Pious man on the core-community's side, arabs and jews in a convergent past have one and the same principal for a Saint. Whatever can be said, it plainly feels weird that I'm in a community sublimated by the progress jews owe from islamic merit. I think that is why the gesture it is to speak of feeling higher spirit, is placing your hand as if reaching outward off of your brow. And is as islamic cryptic as it is the jews' efficient Cause.


Pot to cook, the yood nah 'nuf--or in my case food is plenty, but the pot that it is served out of is the dialect from Val's promise to me that I should feel this comforted... But tho' she is comforting me (in my mind)--her sweet womanly archetype and as the lens I looked through, is love as I've ever known & now it is time to try a different serving vessel, so evasive, aquatic... my longing to be fulfilled. Something macrobiotic had been my goal. She & I would attend to diet consciousness, the victuals being something of an empirical nature and of course actual food is just the lust for a deficit in our second mind--the stomach, to quit defeating us. Kill the appetite (the excuses for our ignorance, the over-wrought escape into desire) by diet consciousness makes sense... It had taken me a long time into our thing to fall in love her: didn't feel it, wouldn't have said it much..., so now I see our life together (as it was) in discordant days spent, and love always slightly unfulfilled. The lavender mood and climate of the greater will, is her bee-catcher sentient sweet song-bird life creative in my long sought after consciousness in getting it together in any kind of weather!
In the mixed up mind of me: Oxford 1987, at the youth hostel about 8-9 o clock at night, I was preparing--or wanted to prepare for class the following morning, but couldn't. JUst sitting on the floor matriculating clumsy paths people were making around me, indian style with book on my lap, I am desperately trying to pick up a thread to the Yiddish language (mama loshn) before me. A tripartite path to me was rather the core-culture obsolete, at arm's length--dissuading me Euro-ethos was as good than instead looking in its east (the Islamic wisdom bridge), & it--the Sferadic faylasuf/philosophy & Golden Age had to mean more in its renaissance as mysticism became tantric. Secondly, my assumed root culture--and thirdly, the first two as wholly unrecognizable. Yiddishkeit/culture is construed/assumed and possibly not demeaned at my lapse in scholasticism--and still I wanted to add to it. Israel soon enough would have thoughts of my running a parallel path as if "culture culture swooping down like a vulture" *H.R. from Bad Brains, would be foundation enough to steady my gaze into Jewish whatever. So, yeahs need to be yeahs--I wanted to pick up the black fire off of the white fire, the print and page before me...but my mission was not possible. Like a sieve that I might unadulterate the leaden Oxford Jewish studies before me, what spilled onto the pages of my Yiddish dictionary was torpor, leaving confusion as an option toward something much worse and that being voidance, leaving very little to seek. The talons of the environs had the evident bubble of experience around me on trial.
Met up with a Jamaican dude --Norman, and he hooked me up with a dime bag, but I musta paid 15 pounds for it. That release was momentary, but at least I was wizened from the mottled discomfort inevitably to be bridged in the stain in the brain and my blood flow...ascending!!

Zadie--Egypt--Fresh Translator Face--Stephanie

Zadie said make lists: my rebbitzin cousin (a wife of a rabbi) in her husband's attendance of study was who I met in a dream. He read Arabic, however my mind contrives to hear the youngest & most sophisticated of Semitic languages, out of my prayer book. I didn't realize I would collude Judeo-Arabic thru the filter of a kehilla (Jewish community) as if I answered to one, resolved to call asceticism any humility by anyone who'd submit...

Within generations' dialogue , the field where everyone's change took place, right now is Americana. Agreed material gratification is been smote if you are lucky, but the tidal pool having traced our steps upon it, gets interesting when language is in reference to alliteration paths. Landing on language. Etymology, because it felt right to say: words sometimes as context, yet no concept, because the word-feeling thing-magnified has as much of an impulse as what the tool acts upon. The semblance we connive out of our senses, these images--IKONS, cannot be what we know beauty to be, because saying "beautiful" doesn't deign why its grotesque at once, or really just beautiful. Language is cheap, is vain because it talks about inward things--itself, and outward things as if! But responding without is where the least of us is sacrificed--the consciousness relay into which we descend is relationship with our nature. To thwart what traps identity in plain view of indefinite choruses whose verbiage is imagery, arights flesh in language awash - its current swept into emotion and spirit.


Fresh faces--remember this face. Whatever veil lifted in my dream looked entirely consumable. An expression (on this face) thru the geometric Amish sign in the Catskill Mts on Casten Rd. above a barn's door, by my Aunt's bungalow colony, had enough color, some verdant opaque green, flat, with something intermediate about it so I wasn't eliciting an omen. In Buddhist Thought the face is a translator. Dreamt these faces, it is as looking thru a glass darkly. Eat the glass. The mask had cranberry glass vase-like quality, not chandelier like--like a King presenting his magnificense--but a vessel w/candy in it maybe. Biting something from a perfect surface, as this glass! & then harvesting blueberries out of conscious clouds.


On may way and going past my x-girlfriend girlfriend's house, some out of mind sense that the thing eluding me was that I woulda presented a figure of Stephanie just her, like she'd been faffing about all her live long day, as anyone, because I was proximal to her domicile--struck dully, oddly, finitely. IT didn't strike me the way a convivial soul contrives his spirited pantheon of friends. Marley's Don't Rock My Boat from Kaya was some music I was tuned into in those moments: this album has a clear bravado of something mystic and timelessness--I seek something esoteric just hearing how " feels so good in his own neighborhood" and " feels so high, can even touch the sky" Just like college, just like my x, I was well aware they--school and my thing w/her wouldn't last, yet the persisting of academia and her mutual arising to be sure is to remain in the air... So, then here's Stephanie--and yes I knew! That one may think I celebrate my own exile is entirely the efficient cause from loss and its certifiable new day when it is pain that indicates me in my morose langor--so celebrate? No, but establishing "nobody above " ("there ain't nobody above you!"--P.K's lyrics) represents victory. I thought she wouldn't make it into the world-to-come. No, indeed, as I live this pedestrian life, the maps I draw are thru the features of bodies liberated LIKE mine, ...and if somehow I sense the grim reaper is my sanctimony in the dispensation unavailed by my peer, my guess in these moment has been THEY were not going to make it... Sweet woman, if only had I only known her better!!

SMACK in the middle of my garage floor

Remember Papillion, that he had skewered insects for sup, under the only remaining light, the tether to material success...that map he'd trod! Just like as I had lain in the parent's garage, my parents--mind appearance, scraping down to the bottom of the barrel. Laying in the dog blankets, trying to sleep, smoking cigs off of the electric heater... she sparks, decays to ashes too quickly-- The moon edges closer, reminds me that life better seem a little more dear. My mettle is in the perusal of Crowley's Confessions in my life of denial of purpose, but I think hard about reteats. The Sitting. The 25yr span they can take. In Crowley's Book 4, dhyana developing in my mind that results were succored-by-everyone...whoa the potential, whoa my union past the transperancy of walls. The angel of the room, devatas in Hindu, guardian angels called ophan in Judaism, makes the white noise vibratory properties emanating therein a refuge..., but things around me like the work bench soaked in motor-oil, car parked w/front bumper at my back, a bike or two, a basketball, the moon and purple sky looking all glossy, glowering even, are all in the way and I am prone to falling into its agency. To the extent that I was using tobacco and psycho-tropics, an unhealthy unknowing would not subside--I thought I was bumping into things. The same white dot throat pain, an image that wouldn't go away before my eyes, made introducing any new moments to imbibe release rather full of languish and w/nothing restored...to milk blood would no longer have an encouraging result. Alternatively I mused over the third and last times I had tried to shoot up. Green dreams in my weary mind, still were green of vital proponets in belief of my having turned self into a demon--singular and stereotypical/ new yet old terra-firma in sentient greed. Danielle sat across the room from me--this occasion, Rob spiked me twice, missed twice. And tho' I felt my body atrophy from what I wanted to do to it, this retension was movement enough that my visualization acumen seemed credible, worthy of the rapport I could imagine with some inner-antagonist & my response to self-guilt. The mantra, I'm Not Going Anywhere, and all the certainty it preserved in the question of finding oneself in the fray, had lessened value...almost done, verily I'm concerned, my attitude also seems too light for the edutainment I expected in my reckless behavior. Hard to laugh at myself then and there, so I receded back into a chair of a thousand deaths. The garage would subdue me this way, too--as public an event as the intimations of family would get--my languish was impossible to penetrate. And all things are possible when you are really unable.

Thoughts on otherwise un-Realistic Eternity

On campus I'd go and read stuff like Gandhi's history, Elie Weisel's Jewish episteme, Dostoevskii, certain looks at the Eastern philosophies, and then on the occasion when orange lights lining sidewalks around M I King glowering with a bhakti cadence (devotional), Rimbaud finding [his] "mystics in another Arabia" *as Kerouac had said in his own view, had my bro's voice in my head saying, "Do what you want to do." My thoughts were lessened in its fiery impact, because residual voices with their cross current in my translator-face, weren't the call I expected & wanted out of a remote sensation--hearing a voice. The academician my brother was, a professional student, is my example -- how I hold out to a life of study--eternal study, like Chagall's The Jew of Vitebsk, his smoking Jew, my gut bucket moldering goal. What reminds me of school-life intruding upon a better school of life requiem, really is Rimbaud's thinking the "blue slumber of a moon-soaked shade." And all the yellow-orange lighted paths had animicules dormant and prone just out of eyes' reach--in shadows, harboring no ill-will, yet heralding a lightning bolt and a thunder crash.
Voices in its arc, like synesthetic appetites, halloo'd a taste of stale consecrated bread in Eastern European churches, my taunt of core-culture identity/rejection of identity... the edifice unreflective of culture more likely intimated: Russian literature was in the main just the kind of world's conscious map I kept embellishing. So, spirituality is a rational choice, ultimately an academic choice, but our feelings of "finding" one's self in Time Place and Community, like a pilgrimage thru time, holding those moments in high esteem; place as power spot/memorialized space--just being in the right light; and community, this nation of one being united in University as Rastas call Universiality... This is the imaginative narrative, our dialogue with the old throats of dusty antiquity.

Upon the approach to purity as some goal with no ill consequence to attain when its met--like the problem w/assuaging what is profane, take collectively some proto-semitic word, maybe the ONe of a # of deities--a LOrd, that filters into a recognizable term where it is meant to sacrifice the adherent's atomic self. "Kaddish" is the "furthest," the sense of Other--the "separate," and the existential - as in how we define being on, an On spirit--encouraging Holiness. Arabs use this language, as in al-Quds= K-D-S!! The temple High Priest preserves the emoting of seasons' change--how social living is the best here. And Him (just for convenience sake, let's not worry about gender) as the Originator of the Festival's inauguration, imagine Him as every bit answered for, the peak of social rapport--and the Priest's only agony is that he can't be lost to this example he sets down, to glorify his G^d. In the temple chamber, the silence that ensues makes thought imagery give him insight into experienced-forms as some conscious prop, more vital than, than maybe the Way he had set out toward renunciation of anything intermediate with his "objects" in ritual. So knowledge of self is effectively turning out self, sacrificing it, so that we are utterly compelled submit to the KNown. Hannah Arendt calls these bits of self Semblances. It is certainly known that we hold in high regard these things we can't control--the Mystery. So an object at hand that represents the awesome Forces whose subject we are, is the compelling rhythm of ritual, prayers of vigil, lament, praise & so forth. Religion meaning self-actualization, has created a narrative of imagination--these are Thoughts Feelings & Actions, the allegory to Higher Ground. Moses had imagined discourse with tremendum et fascinans--tho' we reference his efforts as cold strictures, these laws were yet the terminus of what he was quite imagining. What was beyond his adjudged reasons for a people's exiles, was an Unknown...therein lies his awe. The awe to which acolyte or an-other has nothing within the Mosaic covenant to deny, necessarily. Rastas, in their Old Testament perspective, lament, Man shall not be Mindful of his Covenant... So, NO-one may speak for our Path of exile, but oneself.


I affected my thinking that new days were not set off into an unknown future, but rather the fact that I had had no thread to the balance of weeks & months etc til then in my 4 cornered bedroom...everything I thought fit this sensibility, that what lied beneath was being erased, & meditating on no one thing in particular, was a kind of sentient greed in itself... If we ever think what we do is indeed a departure from our norm, I'd have to say, the surprise in store for you is walking in the footsteps of another. My eyes in its gaze seem more tired than the phenomenon of the lighted field lifting up from the reflections off of my broken tiled floor, as predeceased as the settling house, and beggardly as the drift of thought pulling me back to the wheel of my mind.
Marley's Kaya was a constant companion--the On spirit's light switch, the lighted field that I saw clearly as a staticky projection of what had been absorbed for so long by my body... now a wall with its proximity an enumerated sense of just what places I haunted daily. I see it closer up, on this occasion, viable because I saw it upon my casual air & in not so conscious space.
"Running Away" had everything chthonian with which I'd answer for, these phantoms from earthly emanations, subtle bodies in their crypt surrounding me like silence abject in corners with more magnetism than the splash and plurb of media. Great thing to opt for, but its antecedent was the glitter/gold of senses feeling over-wrought. If torpor would be an advantage, it only is in an arising from confusion, because one ought to jettison the valley of indecision.


No fire on top, the book of rules rather what I am supposing should be On Top, actually traduces my mind's event in my pre-occupation. The book in question is Kerouac's Big Sur. And I took it out to a rocky bluff out in Red River Gorge at a place called Koomer's Ridge. I'm denied the sense that I OUGHT to be lining this frenetic wooded sensory burial out in the wilds--my sense of it--with a narrative that draws my voluntas, Latin for impulse, will--psychological & philosophical term, into the train of this fertile abundance. Sounds arrive, arriving stinging my face, mostly just noticing my sweating, but all senses ultimately is me taking notice of what is entirely not auditive, yet interpreted as such, not visual but visually bridged so that I may "feel" as remote as my hike had taken me, et cetera. Kerouac should've would've been colluding in the glazey, weary looks into the world seemingly entirely present... with nothing that I'd rather persist in getting past--nothing was irreconcileable!!
Strange little ferret came up to me once in the Swift Camp Creek area, while camping with my oldest brother. We were eating Zadie's rye bread with that loamy tasting freshly ground peanut-butter from the Co-op. It is comparable to xleb, the black bread of Russian diet, & as musterion-induced from Zadie's hand in it as were the little pieces of organic material being dropped on us while we lain meditatively below the tree-tops. They were the droppings of centipedes up in the leafy boughs, what these bugs were eating and digesting, making us consider for a moment that rain was ensuing.

TRAVELING: If our self-realization was orthodoxy we'd be turning toward something rather than away. The void within sought to obliterate itself. In ON THE ROAD Kerouac relates: "for just a moment I had reached the pt. of ecstacy that I always wanted to reach, which was the complete step across chronological time into timeless shadows, & wonderment in the bleakness of the mortal realm, & the sensation of death kicking at my heels to move on, w/a phantom dogging its own heels, & myself hurrying to a plank where all the angels dove off & flew into the holy void of uncreated emptiness, the potent & inconceivable radiancies shining in bright mind essense.... I was too young to know what happened." This conscious void into which he and or the angels lept? Where is that? Entirely visible, for him at least--me too, but it is an enquiry over distance and the relationship throughwhich we conceive to travel only so far. And I'm telling you we people that distance. It'll be the yawn of mind--yes--but it will have the map deliberate as an arm stretching unto another arm, a body heel to head with another body.......or just one body yielding to hill and valley of the discerned physical goal where we would dwell. We see this world thru the anthropomorphic lens. And that lens, our potentcy is the availing al salah al badan - liberation of the body, its purification in denying anything to stop its access to where we would have presence announced...

The HOUSE of THE GATE of LIGHT

Hallucinating on a stela announcing Beaumont Park. Stale libations succor the winter-scape. Just coming across a hillock, grass showing in the warmer stratum. I suppose my shadow just like a hunkered down cat pacing his in neighborhood streets. I look at it and see stars, it clearly wasn't an absence of light, but had clusters of sheen & I hear the blue of the dome say, "You'll be up here tonite... Laying in the floor-board coming back from Jimmy Cliff's show in Cinci, everytime I painted on "ancient rosy colors" *Kerouac again, behind my eyelids, all that intelligent energy in star's blanket and its light-report kept making imminent facts just a pretense for midnight sky. As opposed to sounds arriving from Cliff's reggae (he's Rasta as much as he's Muslim, by the way). So, leaden thought, this nomenclature of numina, may as well be traded for seats of awareness that a familial body instructs us to enjoin. Get out of the house, the floor of consciousness needs your tracks leading to it, not on it... No place to go, in medius res, so just move this star instead--that one, the one taking notice, the one like it's a result. Thought is plastic, a vehicle for self-preservation, or to foment fear. Clearly not an end. The conscious satellite=this is an end. Innundate by the sky's fountain, I'll move it into discourse.
So, consider the best thing we'd ever realize is a mutual arising. Like usually that "Other" does her thing, has a silent holy path, not unlike yours, maybe unillustrated, yet yes we know she did--it's there. So, if we were comfortable with ego's decisive consolation that we are not alone... if if, then we see her before she pierced you w/the offering of identity--credibly identity--that we sound out as our intuition they'd be met. I dream of folks before meeting them, for one thing, it may be my intention, but I didn't will it, I feel they did. Or something numinous over both of us did.
...because I'm certain ad absurdum reigns, I don't control the climate of the greater will! I like the Hindu prescription for Brahman. He can only manifest what is, and there is nothing outside the known. So, Nothing IS. I'm certain not much is going on around here. Most folks would agree. War War & rumors of war. Not much I can do about it. (a whole lotta of nothing, boohoo!) I'm certainly not going to dream my insight into a political animal's mind. That may mean it would get in the way by imagining, like in the Song of Songs, this Orchard (think paradisiacal new day) where beauty is courted was instead abridged by Authorial fuckers. This place comes to be a ghost town til the government comes along and pushes it down. *Marley slightly paraphrased. Ghost equals spirit, and my spirit is in the material, I can't control the material void. It controls me. If the white man is destined to wander the forest alone, and the "People" are the trees, I have to thank G^d I ain't that white man. Just an endless cycle of tree birth, a total product of sweet sun, the extinquishing hush of fires, air, and water's mercy.


Maybe neutrinos are throughly space pervasive
because it has an emanator. Its easy to see light as emanated, why
not everything else.The sun's shadow, the thing that may cast
its impression on to some other piece of cosmic pallet, means that
the stuff of space is as abundant as the light of reason. It's reason w/its place lording over energy. Observing the allure
of singularity--the sun, makes it supernal. Reason, the modus a priori, must in fact be more illuminated than the life insulating solarity.
Shadows in tall trees: the trees look wrought upon our approach when its space is conjured by the sun's pre-eminence. The tree will necessarily look more devoted to its reach toward us, because its presence is dependent upon colors and specifically in its absence of space. Krishnamurti depicts observation of a tree in its unmovable eternity--my desciptor, while the day heralds our transience. As the tree fills with apposite negative space, rather than imagine a dialect with it from its liminal architecture, indeed we are only anticipating the emanating space heralding its absence. It looks closer than the wit it takes to imagine our extremes as upon one of its limbs.
A couple of yrs ago--EXPANDED, editted:
The other night, profiles in the constancy of having seen Howie, as long as we have known each other, then-yielded to neon-like perimeters surrounding him. Memories of looking thru the banana leaved canopy, in Israel--the West bank w/ his partner (Rob Olson) w/whom he grew up & me converging then in those few moments into their group, we had looked at the polygons of light coming into the ground where we stood, always dismissed & assumed--lest it matters that I imagine them now. And this looking would be toward people when we gather after a while only presence & gratuitous image... as that has changed too! It was like I had looked up into that light--on this occasion, a practical remonstration of personal history now opening up--during an episode of Salvia Divinorum effects. The cult of personality, yours mine anyone's, seemed to become an objective cause: consciousness now ironic because mental space becomes obviated--a discreet sharing of adventurous prowess of psychic drama; killing the norm together! (vexation and something chimerical after smoking S.D. w/ Howie) This looking up into light interests me. At the laundro-mat the day before the last day of the year--and about a day after smoking Salvia D., I had an intuitive homeward feeling because I sensed time & place contained in the sheen of lights in there, as I immersed myself in an Israeli author's biography (Amos Oz). Now I am back the other direction, because everything is a "before and after" with my occasional thoughts on my travels in the Middle-East, and the hellion of light intensity, which at times has humbled me, making me turn off & tune out. These moments were a layering of brightness stewing above me.
The showroom quality of stiff agents in the pharoah's chamber (looking at these Mexican housewives, & their whitebread counter-parts) is more my castle of eternity--a great journey--home is perhaps the goal, but as the light blinds and while I'm getting ever closer to formidable unplacated inner-sensei, I realize I am more about how it feels to be on-my-way. Nothing to plead in defense of having been captured in emptiness, sweet nothing, on these streets a ghost-town lastly "til the government comes along and pushes it down." Marley's language

My goals made me, when I stepped to the path--I looked down. Never knew the distance strung.

Imagine no Majesties in society, crystalis under bridges linking others together, lepids in metamorphosis beneath reaching for soon to be florid forests... Two communities in conflict on opposite sides and eternity in the whisper of a creature in the sabbatical of that which has become what it is when everyone is answered for: the Sabbath of lives in their yrs' beginning and lives ending...! In all Beginnings all things are Possible. And all things are possible when you are really unable. I am unable to imagine, or have ego do anything but supplicate social awareness. The inability of my intuitive capacity to take on solitarian days--as I once did--and as Kerouac notes of the hipsters behaving like 12th century monks, is yet refining the example... tho' I don't go into exile. Watching folks get lost in the resistance of my sight of them, disappearing from across I & I. His/her (the monks) example of gathering elements, dear to themselves, may be what I relish in the recesses of day's long ends. Sitting til the loading is imminent--if I dream thereby I exist, then the Principal to existence is somehow Cosmic and ultimately received by me sooo in my Subjective/Efficient Cause. CAREFULLY, I suggest to myself that my floor, ground zero, floor of consciousness, is restorative. A tinny radio in my ear--I'm closely listening to it. The gentle static makes a SHHHH sound, air being released to combust and have a fire feed fertile truths. Lastly, truth is denied ministration--it is found in the furthest reaches from the Transcendant. In dross matter, dross existence, equal to it but w/one thing on its side: fire and how it cauterizes our wounds, how we sit in it but never get burned. How I watched the licks of self-effacement consume everything around me...while I begged for anything to say Yes to, to submit to, to sublimate for me personally what ought to have been sacrificed, except that it was and I never knew the proselyte. Because ITS not NEW, Right?

You ARE MAGNIFICATE!!!!!

LAW of ATTRACTION or Future INSIGHT...


So, consider the best thing we'd ever realize is a mutual arising. Like usually that "Other" does her thing, has a silent holy path, not unlike yours, maybe unillustrated, yet yes we know she did--it's there. So, if we were comfortable with ego's decisive consolation that we are not alone... If If, then we see her before she pierced you w/the offering of identity credibly identity that we sound out as our intuition they'd be met. I dream of folks before meeting them, for one thing, it may be my intention, but I didn't will it, but they did. Or something numinous over both of us did.
...because I'm certain ad absurdum reigns, I don't control the climate of the greater will! I like the Hindu prescription for Brahman. He can only manifest what is, and there is nothing outside the known. So, Nothing IS. I'm certain not much is going on around here. Most folks would agree. War War & rumors of war. Not much I can do about it. (a whole lotta of nothing, boohoo!) I'm certainly not going to dream my insight into a POlitical animal's mind. That may mean it would get in the way by imagining, like in the Song of Songs, this Orchard (think paradisiacal new day) where beauty is courted was instead abridged by Authorial fuckers. "This place comes to be a ghost town til the government comes along and pushes it down." *Marley. Ghost equals spirit, and my spirit is in the material, I can't control the material void. It controls me. If the white man is destined to wander the forest alone, and the "People" are the trees, I have to thank G^d I ain't that white man. Just an endless cycle of tree birth, a total product of sweet sun, the extinquishing hush of fires, air, and water's mercy.

In Israel met up with Ellister, this man from Sud Afrique who had fought in the South African army fighting Cubans in Angola. He told us a story that'd be bleak if not for his stout delivery, incorruptable--deliberative as Saharan wastes and our reprieve. I think about his mention of interogations, but the prescient moment is actually the "terrorist's" self-scrutiny and my window on it was irrespective of Ellister's intent, perhaps, yet to actively say honor someone's own personal struggle--I give him all due credit.
An African man is bathing in a stream--this "terrorist" in fact. He could've been certain the sky is the limit, so much more space his developing world would then on out graduate to. In the stream thoughts like tarrying stones are engrossed by a surface struggle, shimmering awhile like his lucidity, he is seeing flotsum as if the overstanding sky would still be obfuscated by distance.
This flotsum coalesces around his guffaw, a smile recorded as if, but the sky-line now so apparent on the plastic surface of cool stream, is close, very close--the imminent threat was almost known, the world squeezing in on him now. Violence will ensue, no time for familial goals to make his head the event of the season. My impulse is to lash out, and languishing motives to compare my compassion and its warrant to spread something convalescent around has never been as negotiable as this thing making Ellister's struggle more apart of the real world--awe was self-defeating...
Just above me, and I seem to only look before me, yet something so liminal--a conscious satellite, intermediary space, nobody On-High, I reckon I need a roof, as Rastas theosophize... I want to paint on it. I thought to draw from eternality, not from veils & maya/illusion. I thought dim recesses would make my occupied-room have sky-boundaried limits, yet only just above is the last thing I can reach!

Because it is just language til we're extinguishing the last thing drowning in dross matter--truth at its depths, language would be a ladder til expression means precisely the One, & the one thing right past symbolic living (our only key) is that which suffocates vivification in Truth. (meaning I & I live, but only thru the definition of impermanence, as opposed to defining to Live--'cause I can't...) And truth redeems, but denies us the valley of indecision, where happily we while away to endure all our values in the horde of truths meaning a devastating weapon against stimulation from the exhaustive answers, with no query concommitant. I taste my broken tiled basement floor, a sheen on it defying the ever sleep-inducing aloof attribute that somehow I can step lightly and not awaken anew a responsibility for this floor of consciousness. Window sometimes at my back, while I meditate & look at the projection of radiating season's day, what comes on top is going on down--just surmising the backyard like I was turned to it, and yet I drew thoughts into the radon enthused fore.

Seen, like darshana, the dust off my feet never washed

Thinking about Art Shaw, Dave Brubeck... jazz w/such exultation that my thanks and praises now get its parallel canticle if only in my sole ululation of the word peace going thru my mind. Wrote a letter to my baby today. She's lept to the recesses waiting for the loading to begin, her pollution hiding should have been keenly understood by me soliciting quiet. The pregnant moments is say Coltrane's sounds arriving, is definitely a "silent" accord, because now in listening and receiving his art, it is so subtle something akin to quietude is the fulmination.
All that lash of transparency collected her troubled-cycle and self-denial, and I have to wonder when is our ethical standard mimicking beauty as we see it, just as in the music we listen to... Doesn't want to be seen like that (in her transperancy), wants to persist answering for malaise. "Old Brown" as in Marley's cultural nuance is baby's symbol for the rat race she runs now. He says Old Brown was my Bed Last Night. It's a terrible lament I feeel thinking about this. All I've seen in my view, is my shoes getting more proud land to trod, yet environs change as people deliver themselves an anitiquated pedestrian path. There's is no where to go if you decide on appearances over reality--I need this veil of our existing's illusion as nothing short of an Orchard where civilty bred peace from order, eudaemonia, the sought after nirvana's predeased last hurrah, and a fountain that I so badly want to approach. A fountain is a resource, coming from message music, and the conscious message received is rarely with language having an understood meaning behind it, but rather has form like bird song. Birds of Paradise brings on DReams, and dreams are made of our call & response with chaos placed in context as in mind-vessels so that our senses can be oh so subtley stroked and forgiven for having made us over-wrought...
~~What are the dimensions concerning I-tal (vital) living? A bridge to awareness. Beauty too, like a deep well, but too short of a rope to gather it, so it remains mere emanations. Beyond that some river, river in sight, suggests One thing's better because it's prolific, unreserved, continuous, bisecting the world until the ocean is full. Walk to its edge, feel the report of the whole, but we cannot enter. Seemingly the passing away of things necessarily has proof that we exist. I dreamt about an astrolabe. If we dream, thereby we Exist. Objectivity about impermanence ensued. Hypothetically, friends say he's amiss, expiring like his lovedONE. If only for a moment, the rotation of our time instrument left me aloft: looking at it, sun graduated then found its terrestrial berth, the moon spiritually true turned my glimpse to the blue of the dome. My friend there is only now.
~~I try to lie near in supplication. I throw coffers in the river for propitiation. I render my G^d unto the earth's evolution. I stand clear of the digression of revolution. I'm lighting a fire from my humiliation. I rent my mind, like wu hsin in Dao philosophization. I burned every bridge looking for substanciation, denied all institutionalization. I ended this fight with a conflagration. Losing our inhibitions only sometimes tarnishes the filter... ~~I'm so not trying to make friends just to be congratulated that I'm expiring just like he or she. But as much, I love anyone in the herd. If you live you love, & giving away light-provoked days I never imagined would pass, conflagrations. Like reading in Beaumont prk I was received so much later than when I let go. The sky & trees colluded, I'm sitting in snow, & the world took its stale libations. Just watching the auditive Universe like a splash & plurb in the event of our minds. I really get a sense of waking up in a dream. Sometimes diminutively, minutely, but awakened IS the feeling. My nephew watched Ravi play and thought it was a strange feeling like he wanted to merge w/the beatific sounds. It was like his heart opened up, he said. We want to find the objective reality so bad, that we are ultimately inundated w/the voidant conscious concern...drowned and saved at once.
~~Step into 1 part of the ocean, & feel the report of the whole: an allegory to The Book of Ethics, Talmud. Under the shade, across the road from the blueberry patch, I'd sit and rifle thru some of these ancient scribings. I was up in the Catskills mts, sand at my feet, the Other Shore seems apropriate in light of the temporal yet spectral space I attended to, languidly furthering the alliterative path. As here, similarly, when I bent over to wipe the plum off in the grass, a thousand lives spent went thru my head. My brother and I sharing blueberries up in the Catskills, or sharing at least those environs--many lives spent and relived. Definitely eating prickley pear fruit from the cacti in Boynton canyon, near Sedona is becoming a constant narrative. I never realize til I'm there, but the utility of nature worship is my sole reason to be and to become an example of a good student of life.
In Jewish thought no fantasy, angel, person, or saint can intercede in our need to enter into dialogue with the Transcendent. If meditation or theoria = contemplation! is the ends of man, then "lament" to whatever it is to that which is greater than yourself, thus not of your assertions about the World, now IS the World's assertion over You.
Imagine a circle within a circle. In the middle is G^d, in the one surrounding is Jesus. X-tians would freely ambulate, relate and coalesce between the two--so that there would be no obstacle, or need for supposing thresholds like intercessors anew. Jews, as with anyone's Free Will, may choose to remain within the inner-circle. Does that make sense?
**Mind furniture in array, and nowhere to sit: if our numinous selves demanded order, feng shui would indicate the imminent door toward oblivion, but no direction home is the norm. My head is a jungle anyway--and dreams are the animal denizens. The likelyhood that I find cool waters to sit by, is when stones tarry, like thoughts on the surface glad and reflecting.

Backyard view in my contentment's collapse

Humans get that we are other--there are Others. At any point in the day I think
that someone also resolved existential crisis as I just did. The lower animals
jump from the cosmic plank into the abysmal empirical momentum of its life
force, never just following the subjective self unto the Objective Other.
This youth--I say youth, I was yet 21-22 yrs old then, while we worked as extras on a movie set in Israel (It was called Riding the Edge.), had been abusing the stereotypical recalcitrant mule--there riding him into the encampment where we all stood dressed as bedouine. This part of my trip to Israel and Egypt, was the Israel leg after the magic of secreting away hashish up my bum and bringing it into Eilot Israel. Turns out they didn't search our stuff anyway.
~~But the high (Winter's) sun of Egypt was fully embraced precisely during the day of the trip to Luxor, outa Cairo. Night of the red-bulb seemed below the surface. On the train, this young boy stared at me--eyes searing, from the fore for the handful of hours it took to meet the Valley of Kings' and Queens' destination. Off the train, in Luxor, my life assessed in some surface moment--palimpsest, no controling Americana vibe, the desert skies shared with me, but I was clouded with little apprehension of my trodding. I'm hidden while there--but the sky is the limit.


If one were to realize the negligence of memory, maybe as an animal quickly loses the impulse of mistrust had it started out that way, when DO you experience the perfect MIND? A tree in its sprawl, like architecture over-coming the skyline? Wu hsin, no-mind, is mind enough, like the Daoists? Like an artist's profile demurred, preoccupied, effortless? IN Neil Young's MIND, a fine mind, as he lyricked? When do you sense your condition, and at its peak?
Seeing the lighted field of all the impressions folks have made on me, and reducing those ideal circumstance of perchance a meet and greet again toward just that image of light as high as my lifted chin, just before me, as I peered to my forgiving backyard out of my bedroom on the second floor, it's clear Hell isn't half as bad as what it took to get there. But dude--I am clear in mind when I tell you--It is______& I have been there.
Turning off and tuning in, something monastic, sitting sitting in lament controls me. Seems that spirits unabiding laugh that in my loss of religion or culture--or something about self-realization, I forget to laugh with them. Still, my purpose is stalwart and bidden.
"Sitting" in the meditational sense is a Retreat--experiencing it for moments sometimes yrs. This Rabbi takes my ridicule of herioc's past--wars and rumors of wars, and says that 25yrs in a cave was to thwart the Romans authorial destructive body. If he was threatened at all--the heights he will have obtained in scribing The Book of Splendor (Zohar--the primary and seminal book of Jewish mysticism) was man clearly desolved into and elation within social poverty. I want to be all about that. No mind, wu hsin in Dao Thought, means no norm, no request of me to die in a river of sight, til absurdum makes my head the event of the season...all I see is ancient rosy colors behind eyelids, and image is language enough.
~*When ASked about Religious Affliation, a good FRiend said Love above All!!*~
"Love above all?" Ok. But I have a thought: Amidst some sense that all results, like the thoughts, feelings, and actions--all these allegories to higher ground, may be sensed and draw us into saying I am. So "I am" can be rent from that center of awareness when LOVE starts its career into me being responsible for someone when IN THAT moment they can't be other (it's the movement of your emotion!); other than the thoughtful RESULT of mind dealing with what Hannah Arendt denotes as semblances. Just dealing with symbols--which would be our only statement about TRanscendence, just that it isn't transcendence (maybe)/or even love, but just BEING... In Jewish thought, no fantasy, angel, person, or saint can intercede in our need to enter into dialogue with the Transcendent. If meditation or theoria = contemplation! is the ends of man, then lament to whatever it is that would be that which is greater than yourself, thus not of your assertions about the World, but the World's assertion over You.
~Our mind, like an ambulating wheel on an endless track is potent, truly but merely a potential, and only when it is exercised from the little trouble of our self-worth do we know that we've been indicated in an I & I sense of relationship. That is love in its peak moment, but more than that, all attributes are called off when the Candle is Blown Out.

The Flow into my Unknown: ending w/ the Reed Sea here.

The place of all my changes: In my sabbatical from the world, in the throes of schizophrenia social disaffection, I hoofed it around that neighborhood a lot. I'd go down to the church rightt there to the right of the end of Lane Allen Rd. and on Parkers Mill Rd., sit or lie under a one of the pine trees in the parking lot and read. Did so in spittles of rain--it was vehemently the best thing I could've been doing for myself at the time. My heart is at the very center of my being imagining my education in those moments of reprieve. Pines all around, woodchucks scrabbling into the hillock, upon whose peak I was lying in repose.
I'd also go to Beaumont park, to the pit--a sinkhole, and sit within the confines of the fencing, to read and meditate. I was seeking a backdoor to get find a way into a social requiem that had normalcy's vantage point--and clearly ascetic, historical studies were my venue!! ...for me, it worked!
Like Kerouac's rendevous in a stand of trees on the way to the shore's edge,
Ancient rosy colors in my eyes (using Kerouac's imagery), as I sit in theoria repose, has me realize all my power-spots have been well-worn, and now I am trying to find the eye of the needle, so that I may compound what necessarily is my advantage --the need for results.
Lee Scratch Perry is very instrumental in redefining where like the sands blowing over me from Salvador Dali's The Broken Bridge and the Dream, tent-poles of consciousness are the prodigy of self-possession, in pillaresque and unbroken shadows throughout morning's arrival on a desert plain. The desert was the blanketing atmosphere, and reduced characterizations I could ever imagine in a glance at the somehow dynamic "me!"

Papillion's hell, makes heat (in this desert's life) the demon, and the coolness of dreams is still the lure of his agni-mind, whilst skewering insects to dine on: this stark circumstance, pained and monk-like abbreviates an on-going memory reflection I have when I felt this dynamic selflessness was my loosing personae...slowly reduced to more subtle soft-machine "bodies," and less able to be borne unto anything that could show me an exercise in self-worth. There is no woe worth my lament now, I think.
But here's what Anselm of Cantebury said a thousand yrs ago. One can conceive of a being that which nothing greater can be conceived. Eternity maybe, yet I am emanating that quality of Our awareness...OK? So, that which nothing greater can be conceived is the end-game: Impermanence is the rule, for every quality of these 10,000 things we enjoin, if not now, maybe not ever--evidently we can know as much!
My good friend says in a raga ryddim (sic) that of 10 or more dimensions of which we can't SPEAK, but that we KNOW of, makes me respond as follows: The caged monkey is my interpretation of that; the mind which keeps us in the throes unknowns, doesn't necessarily indicate realities, just semblances.
**Meditation upon nothingness, is merely DOING something about Nothing--giving substance to what otherwise was the result of our SENSE of emptiness, beautiful vast emptiness. My interlocuttor seemed to support an awareness on Nothingness, yet then turn around and say it's tedious, uncomfortable. I am not saying meditating on nothing is anything but a result--space the "final" frontier where things go away or not. But once we develop what at once is the absolute, the all or nothing PrinciPAL, we then can reduce our presumptious, strenuously fulminate/foolish selves, that ecstatic mind and soul of ours, in a way for answering for LESS OF it. Less of our life's fulmination, the mischievious mind... THe best way to be. Remember the Use of the Word, Absolute--it is the most supreme value in our vain symbolic language that we'd use to call G^D, Ayn-sof...the Endless, Eternal. But pivoting upon awareness, always a KNown, never an Unknown.
**I know when I have/am conscious of half-thoughts, or have a whole idea. I'm fully aware of deficits in my "education" over the Transcendent...so I'm merely defining what it is to Question, rather than assume there's an Answer in relishing an Unknown.
~~I can tell you the other day sitting in the public square reading intently I looked up and felt subscribed to a real silence. Then I realized from whence it came...inside of me, the very object and nomenclature of impulse in my mind. It was a bit of a warning, like don't chime away with it until I've overcome its effect--you'll need this. Yet sweeter than that, you know.
~~Churchill said, "giants are bowed in anxious thought." On the filth ridden Egyptian shore of the Yam Suf, Reed Sea--we know as the Red one, without comparing my fractious life to tethered-huge-political-events as government industries have made all the world's govs complicit in the advancement in war-winning, sitting at the feet of giants makes it laughable that it could be anything other the celestial events. Not being a positivist means precisely that, that my refrain from some social vehicle is mission enough to ruin any authorities' measure of me. Had it been convenient to do that, truth wouldn't have been found in a pathless arising--my arising, never comfortable saying it was Meant, thru the triune of memoria, intellectus, and voluntas. The ultimate symbol seems inwardly available if having allowed for some folly, that I have eternity fooled. The ultimate symbol for the self is NOT.
In Dahab, on its shore we stayed in a cement hut, I believed clearly in a pleroma to meet was that evening's midnight sky as we were doddling twigs in embers on the perimeter of the bedouin village there. The peopled pantheon of these crossroads were comfortable steps to rejoin. And if anything I wanted to think myself into this world as meditations dissolved the unfair line between dream and reality. There is a seam between me and the outward fact, but I'll never meet it and only just all this sTuFf that may be the climate of this room, in its silent corners. Waiting for any call, nothings seems so dear, I can't say I'm anything other than what I can't control anyway. The showroom quality of stiff agents in the pharoah's chamber, is more my castle of eternity. Nothing to plead in defense of having been captured in emptiness, sweet nothing, on these streets a ghost-town lastly "til the government comes along and pushes it down." Marley's language.