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?