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.