YAM SUF; but rowing on the Nile came later!

Our poverty was nothing like a poverty, which we saw in the then Bedouin village (Dahab) just getting its only second establishment (!?) wiTh electric. No amenities to us were the things used for the basics of ablutions performed in some kind of order these Bedouin saw fit; as in who would go to the well first, who eats first etc. Rob seemed to neglect an affinity maybe with anyone who dared to make themselves presentable, i.e. natives there, or people back home. The stylee I feel I catch too, looking at the pre-occupied countenance of just anyone=she or he so comfortable, yet unknowing they look to inner-attention--is that knowing we are fully what we want in such short spans. Spans luckily in enough of a pitch, the mask we wear betrays nothing about the tent-poles of consciousness collapsing in upon itself--upon the statement of presence having become two-dimensional, tells us the mind is the real G-d behind the praise of universal suns as its beginning as reason. Around the time the twelve year old girl showed up selling cheap scarves and us realizing she was really selling something else, Rob was squinting in a side door mirror of a car trying to shave. The reflection I imagine as my eyes' blind spot, are the paces I stepped past looking like power-spots gone awry--I want my eyes' sight to fall like a turbillion, til thru sheer momentum the world will seem to collude in our lost selves in the under-housed hot icebergs that is all this life of experienced-forms. Take don Juan's Yaqui profession, its beginning has the reader follow an ill-disposed protagonist considering a room as the microcosm. In the desert, next to an infinite Red Sea (read REd as actually its rightful name the Reed Sea.), has something less gratifying yet wholly necessary making us feel it is incumbent upon us the voidance-denizen to stand unitarian & solitarian (say, collusion supposed).

Churchill said, "giants are bowed in anxious thought." On the filth ridden Egyptian shore of the Yam Suf, Reed Sea, 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.
**The seance like sense that we are being followed by an orb which witnesses us, is the feeling I would have had like when I was 14-15 and some connection was being made with my peers. TV may be the vain pretense to voiding more meaningful dialogue, but that language albeit over inane things, may still have a mysterion I would have felt...since it had been natural for me to imagine conscious satellites=so many people prone, laid prone, to this medium spectacle. 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." --to use Marley's language.

Farmland & Death: Potok and Renunciate Egoism

Walked in the park, yesterday -- Thinking about Chaim Potok's protagonist who says to his little bro over the bird's corpse, "Daddy says they just make dirt." THe kids, both pre-teens in sophisticated remonstrations of WW2 yrs, are trailing parents into a clearing/ picnic. Dad's war yrs as apposite for the family reunion--WW1, when he was a Polish partisan and names like Khemeilnitskii still burn from his misdeeds against Jews who had fought for his Nationalist cause/ Polish zenophobia, if I remember correctly in the 1600s. The protag. David sees things captured in geometrics: architectural skyline projected above canopy. Making sense of absurdum transcendental bridge to awareness, things go away. A book. A newspaper vending machine. A window, out of which his pet canary took leave. My cause in the wooded path is the loam that I easily imagine cools my ocular preoccupation. I want to look away from the confusion of gnarled tree trunks and swathes of ivy, but it also is as inviting as a blue pool...all in my spectral peak moment till I tend to alliterative inner-feuds that a book is been concluded and I was supposed to move on...and on.
A "tribe" chic was talking about sitting with her deceased mother for 6 hrs, while they waited for their brother to show. The mother passed away sitting in her easy-chair, very peaceful... I don't know why other than I am just a human cog in this wheel of transmigration, and somehow reckon this pain as my own, but I swear that image of the daughter sitting there is as real as anything I can imagine happening to me, *like* it has, and like a thousand similar impermament rich pageants this life has thown me into so prone. G^d my singularity will indeed avail, I'm smelling it--fearing it--mourning my loss as I am the youngest of 4 brothers. The Buddhist perspective is we don't suffer alone, the Jewish perpective is that our pathos is between You and Your Creator. My feeling is that, if we are in exile due to our pain, there is "light-radiant" meditation that is the emergent fact at any one moment and will subsume the vital norm with a symbol of transcendence making us better prepared for TRUTH--things going away.
There is something Public Enemy rapped called cold-lampin'. I don't have any idea what they suggest it means, but it fits perfectly if one has ever found his self looking at resonant light, as a 4 cornered room is ill-contained, and there's no place that beckons...yet something hypnotic occurs--draws him in. Sitting down by the hearth, stale moments, empty cauldron, and I have but one friend whose offer of companionship was my jumping off into solitarian days-more, than losing my way with bantor making me languish with no real direction. Smelling the ink in Nat. Geographics, appreciating the Indian tinkers & taylors occupying a shared cubby, I saw the project of my worth was coalescence around the sovereign home/ & world village--an extension of shared skies, and brightened fields from local farmland... but all reduced to back-o-wall repose next to white noise vibratory properties emanating from yellow lamp.

Ways of self-annihilation, and no direction home

I always wondered what those concretized thoughts had buried underneath the institutional pages of prayer books. Like subconscious imagery had episteme dialogues, irresolute langour.
Padding an enquiring path - its semblance my mind allows for is vipassana--a visual of deep-aside that carries me thru patterns of remorseless days...just freedom transpiring. The Will is a concept whose sense in Islam, like Judaism is about the limits we place on Imagination. Musa/Moshe was a kind of philosopher in this regard. Here in Lexington, the Arboretum, taking to the proud land, sometimes has those who have embraced the outward fact all in suggestion of dancing letters--think Abraham Abulafia of Seferad, like meditation had them waiting when I emerged. My ex-sis-in-law and I out walking together, mentioned to me one time that the blank language of the Church til we've discerned it, is the exact impute any attributable term applied to Transcendence in Sanskrit and our furthering into that plateau, like construed dynamic feelings exercised just so will have that same concretized starting point. And I'd rather see it that way. In all beginnings, all things are possible. But, without getting stuck on value statements, has the human condition in a referendum of change, since the proselyte is renewed by novelty, and with no preconditions. All things are possible when you are really unable. The beginnings of things suggest emergence that brandishes awes, and awe language, that we could yet be painted by the most indescribable spectrum of values starting a trajectory into self-actualization...played out like samsara yielding/ transition manifesting.
In the Quran I use as reference, has the Arabic with the English and accompanying commentary, Nirvana is used to imagine the Absolute. Spoken of with such a nod east, that we see the value in giving up the trappings of identity because of its material ties, so as to emerge creatively as the One and Many.

A reggae artist, maybe more times than not may politically identify with Islam as one of the dearer blackman means toward redemption. Zakat in Islam, Tsedakah in Judaism: tithes giving. This corner-stone making magnificate our monotheist utility as socially so unique, has compassion manifest when dar al-harb is at bay, or another way to put it out-of-Babylon's diminution. Making what-is go-down! Thoughts, torpor... In the forms of what I prefer, like the advancing politico whose animal I don't mind. Then what I want to observe creeping in the experencial media driven world, so that it gets sent back into the nothing of irresolute, corporeal imminent fact. All goes down. Moses Go-Down; Jesus=back to your desert sojourn; Buddha to the pre Sakyamuni moment...initiation developes. Muhammed when Jibril made the Prophet's life the result of a serious requiem of change to those who'd submit to Trancendence and our responsibility to cultivate it.

My issue with some of the comments with what those who detract and indicate that we have problems with "religion" is usually because of those who practice it. Then we indicate liturgy and its failings. Well for fuck sake we can do that all day. What about what is right about it? I mean I flat don't care for the missionizing efforts of all our trads. I don't care for the Conservative trend taking such as a grip on Jewish culture. The old school Jews were Progressives. And Traditionalists like Elie Wiesel still would be considered old school. When my bro walked around the Vatican, its perimeter, he said, nuh uh, the is one Jew they ain't getting their hands on. Meaning it is huge the effects these institutions ARE DOING laying waste to human individuality, but in my view, the meditation on the Trinity is a fascinating exercise in thought... You meditate on the spirit you coalesce around the logos, of Word into Flesh. Meditate upon the INeffable, land on Essense/Spirit and its quality in our faculties. Dylan uses the lyrics about the empty sheet that now corrodes, the Fiddler or Peddlar? who walks to the road, says everything is returned that is old, & Dylan's conscience explodes as the back of the Fish truck loads. Maybe Judaism was old--and needed to be mitigated and superceded. Yet we know Dylans iconography: The ROAD--taking to IT is a mission, a meritable deed of sorts. This is not a palimpsest havoc against Jewishness to embrace Christianity. Would Dylan LEAVE anything behind? Yet he saw beauty and salvation, his freed spirit in Christian initiation. He called himself a Zionist just a few years ago in a visit to Israel too. AS ugly as this political category may get, it is also worthy of something too, when the merit of its advocacy is in the actions of spirited defense in OUR mutual arising. The moral authority--maybe in a hero of ours; Maybe being objective about thought--meaning thought can be authorial and misapprehended. But in a Cleric--yeah we all agree, hell no.