Sitting NEAR = looking to the Upanishads

All things are possible take 1. All things are possible when you are really unable. The evidence of that is knowing when we look for truth, it eludes us. That the world is, is what occurs when we desisit from cleaving to its semblance. The world is our evidence then.
I could hear a flangey radio--the conversation in my head threatening that the vocal fountain now scrawling across some projected field around me...and would soon trail off, but with no clue that an innerVoice is my recorded self. If I were in front of some media providing apparati, it seems only the object in focus suggests I am welcome.
Hearing with inner sensei some pattern in my inner dialogue was the strange empty look of just my proxy with garage and drive, front sidewalk and Ash tree with convalescent boughs. Do you find it a sense of release looking into the loam of your yard, or the call of the tree tops--like it is some lens through which the wilderness is encroaching just a little more than the shitty-city allows? With any luck we can believe it, then have it, just have it. The early Indian trads, Hindus Buddhists Jains, all conceived of a learning dialect under boughs and skies' vistas
Studying only up the street from where I now reside, I wandered thru Madame Blavatskii's Esoteric & Exoteric Writings deliberating on what I conjured and wanting it, then not wanting it and unable to see my way past it. The Upanishads were conceptually unknown to me, but fervently in the utility of whiling away. Just a box, the spectral me a spectral shore--the other shore, like only one thing is possible, annihilating wanting some kind of mystery that couldn't measure up to what is Good Enough: a box in the corner of soul eyes, never blinding, but merely a warning...I can't know immediacy, just everything leading up to it. WE can take the path to the Ocean's edge, but we can't get in.
Kerouac coming down from the mt. in a figurative way when poesis over the splurb and plash of the ocean hitting Big Sur's beaches, was the clarity he sought so many times before and now making sense he was doing the right thing. Like a flight thru his nerve, high up, one moment seized, a note or two takes hesitancy & a babel of thought, making an un-nuanced few hours surface. The source of Our intellectual prowess is going to carry him until his demise. This occurred when walking back from the ocean on a path that passes a stand of trees in which he particularly like to meditate. He sits & waits for instruction that surely is his-only as one's loneliness allows. But there he sees the "ancient rosy colours" behind his eye-lids & w/out its portents--look what has done that to him. If our self-realization was orthodoxy we'd be turning toward something rather than away. The void within sought to obliterate itself. On one occasion he 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." In view of the mystic approach--my experience was Gershom Scholem's texts on the Kabbalah. I've deliberated upon them since I was 15, I'll turn 44 in a few months. I remember lying on the floor, trying to gather the imminent FACT as if sounds-arriving--traffic close by, house settling, birds...whatever would convey me to what Now seems to be What Then I was illustrating in my mind as ascendant chambers, called hekhalot. This is what we might call HigherGround & I'd say every excellently translated Rumi poem draws our attention to these particulars, meaning we are at once temporally grounded--moments later, perhaps, we find that we can reflect What-Is=the experienced-Forms, or in the Jewish Mystic sense, energies called seferot.

Inter-play of light and memory: Salvia Divinorum interuption!

The other night, profiles of 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 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, which were 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, 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! This looking up into light interests me. At the laundro-mat the day before the last day of the year, 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 bio -- his growing up in Palestine, Jerusalem-- Palestine which later became Israel(constituent w/ a relevant past--when we call it Palestine, no doubt, anyways...). Now I was back the other direction, because everything is a before and after with my occasional thoughts on my travels in the Middle-East, w/ the hellion of light intensity, which at times has humbled me, making me turn off & tune out. These moments, instead, were a layering of brightness stewing above me, construing OBLIVION of any mundane thought TOWARD a "typical" trip to this place--in the shopping center next to my wife's pizza place.
MY BROTHER RESPONDED WITH THIS COMMENT: MY ORIGINAL POST WAS CALLED THEEND OF THE YEAR__IT'S SABBATH!! You grow nostalgic young blood. Somehow the artificial "change of year", this new number affects us all. It is a time model which we use to measure our current state. I can see the light you speak of, brightly feeding me like a reptile, giving energy. For me, shining through the grape leaves rather than bananas. The grand hills of Jordan, staring from accross the river where I always imagined Jordanian soldiers watching me work through their binoculars - maybe laughing at my sweaty toil while they watch from some shady place drinking tea.
IN MY CONCLUDING THOUGHT--this is my mnemotechnical measuring of the motive to tell stories:: Just by taking the tact that I should never finish certain sheer moments of memory, like it's on my behalf the feeling of living next to a river, never is the river jaundiced of tarrying stones--making memory as comfortable as probably the nicest teacher I had here in Lexington telling me she levitated, knowing it is no more than the horse losing concact with the ground in its galloping dance. No, but, there is no fulfillment, things are readily good enough. We are at our best when we are equinimical. Anyway Krishnamurti had that good aphorism that truth is a pathless land. If we believed in a path, it would confirm consequences in forgetfulness...seems like as in a dream I once had, the trodding exile from some precinct of memorialized space to the balance of intermediary space was getting the ground to meet each step--it was a move into subjectivity, since I hadn't divined where I ought to end up. Really like an Aboriginal walk-about.