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?