Acquired silk paintings w/possibly Urdu calligraphy

***every body knows oblivion is the 4 libations of paradise so I'm filling bottles of time with transparent dreams

I went strolling up past the old synagogue, sat on the steps facing Jersey St., entertaining a scroll ("megillah," like Queen Ester's-- *Hadassah is the Hebrew of that name) --the "one" of symbols or signs of the Hebrew Aleph-bet lodged in the scalera opaque--the whites of my eyes. Letters permutating definitely shading in the lay of the land in chromo values, will have me one day meet Illusion in the embodiment of Mara the Destroyer with his 10,000 Eyes. But the garden in our grief that history resides in instincts, futilely dispassionate, or ecstatic--hopefully observable in release, at once, made indefatigible the physical memory we apprehend of the Outward fact. (where Mara remains, vigilant, I suppose) Our identity traipsed-on can't but yield to an impossible regard for a symbol of self, brahman, personhood, existential crises purveyor of senses' crimes...
So, an end of vitality thwarted by distorted self-knowing, makes a beginning of immanent propitiation. Strangely the child--in me? gives away his heart, and by extension his name, namesake... The one called now, the Stranger "with" a Name.

All intimated, roiling thought to favor at bay, Valerie looks up at me after kissing the wound on my arm. I'm in this world--but I'm pointing to it from the door, ...a nodding east, unredeemed mendicant doesn't explain joy anymore than life decidely makes the slow yearning for it develop with the force of the entirety of existence at stake.


***If we can speak to anything--and any one thing is born of life-exquisite dust, language thus fallows inept. Dust we are, but language can do no better. Our tongue's rigeur is our senses riven with the veil of everything terrestial. On your own means precisely this place where dust-occupies and to be as alone, this single adversary to water... It is obvious water speaks like turbid relationship: look at everybody--they're riddled in liquid stars, as ribs & bones (destined for one thing) of sky scaffolding & outlining some celestial self-image.
***I have a pic with my gesturing in gait repose at my shadow. It arcs in front of me and as I remember, during that summer month, my senses picking up on the obfuscated grassy vistas of Beaumont park--the immanence of clement day blocked by my fancy that something in mind recesses anticipate Reflection rather than Absence. In my eyes--they suss, looking for advantage in light's subject, looked at a bit more than gray-shaded grasses. I knew the star tincture was phenomenal, glossy refraction, a sense of Within in a project of Without...
***People suppose their provincialism, if they're lucky.
This thing performs in my mind, acts as promised--I'm its acolyte striven to evolve in the dispatch of those temple grounds. Impulsively I ran out of hebrew school class solely in order to be circumspect. The availability of island self never called into question coarse states--but no rigor--when getting beyond is no penalty to mortality raising the bar per chance of self-knowledge. There is clearly an example of simple lair in 1000s of examples of our margins from it. And temporal palettes rationed my patience, razed it.
***Calligraphy on what I thought were my Urdu scribed silk paintings, are actually Arabic. Very close in a lot ways, yet these paintings having reclined Rajas, an elephant, or festive female acolyte, energetic from subtle contentment in Oriental prone chimeras, speak to rational senses--time, place, and community allowing no dearth of meditations availing. This tripartite perspective, at once the wealth of observable release, yields a narrative. Most say this sense at its most essential is an I'm Present contemplation, and still it would not be the only attributable prospect to the propriety consolation. Why say the deer drinks revitalizing cool water for anybody, any god, or anything other than the sated creaturely patience in its temporal reign? Succour divines presence, but mind open, light mind and step ...into its resuming throes of yearning, has no creator or necessarily no meaning for acquisitive missionizing doctrine reproven in man's complexity!
***...this place is a convene for the cult of noble pathos at its best, and at its worst, maybe just cold--so indefatigible Knowing, and less Understanding, or definitely dusty!! Antiquated! no way, it's about killing the threat of transperancy in how we are reduced to assuming, and forget to thwart everything in the way finding the dream of Existence or Waking up from it. Emancipation from pain? Or Exstinguish the pain? maybe, but suffering is relative, so perhaps Movement as is suggested from the exilic compulsion (emancipation)...always resuming and therefore getting behind us the well-being of our history, means Emancipation should be contemplated!!!! All the hagiography is about it--makes certain that Will, its expression, is in the same Place as Absolute Redeemer--whatever that sense of Ultimate Reality salves in the Mind-Sore. So the Passionate Soul as opposed to our Ends seeking social generis, our Animated self, Physical Release, making final the experienced lament of taxed impermanence. Solitarian, an enjoining that it is the least of us when reception is vacous--is an interger of Good Enough.
I'm rife with pleasure. It's a play, and the emancipated hero or heroine change their name before an eponymous ledger. The symbols and therefore semblances in glyphs from this writ are finite definitions whose backpages absorb his or transmigration (in time's digression) thru moon-soaked shade... Its obfuscation one may notice in streetlight inattention to trees' emboughering!!
***My breath appeared as habit, it had begun before I was born. Intermittant slumber, the shhhhhhh of silence in a place where body has withered, yet in this place its conditions are the experience in redeemed states of becoming... Industry of self--the mist's rainbow of her webbing!!!
***Had a standard dachsund back right before the turn of the century. In the span of time having Reubel, his companionship matriculated even in dreams. I dreamt that I was sitting on our roof's peak, on an Esso can while the dog paraded in a circular leaps over my lap, onto the roof and back again. The dream was precise in its realism strangely phenomenal to me since chimera imagery had been well radically different til then--this because of the Navane meds I was on then, I was certain. Around this time we had had a deep snow, so adventuring out in it, he could be my spirited reconnaisance out in the half-acre back yard. I chucked him into about a three/four foot drift. And here is when I gathered the news ole boy wouldn't be around in the near world-to-come. He seemed to say, It's bleak--and I gotta stay, Man. Sad, sad--he was complicit with the contagion veil of earth's comely covering--he seemed to project he had not much proud land to suss anymore. Not very long after when the weather cleared up he quit walking, then his kidneys got weird, and that was it.
***Scott Abraham- Lakes
Not all words are revelations, but all revelations are words, of worlds revealed. Things are at least thus (tat in Hindi), and at most supra-mundane, as opposed to immanent (coming from "within") (penini ruakh in Hebrew), which may not be expressed. Just sayin' heathens!!

OFF the cigs, man

***12 yrs earlier on the dot from this New Yrs, I had begun smoking cigs then for just around a couple of months. I had just starting dating my lady & we were at her apt where I first met her Dad at a dinner social, so to speak. The eeking theoria I was trying to making intelligible, made painfully slow in-coming in my diversion into something strangely inverted in how I imagined translating the horizon as my bridge to self-rescue. All in the mixed up mind of mine, lapped up on the shores of despondency I knew would be this transigence, or lapse of who I needed to be. Dharma, dhri--the security & reserve for self-duty--I know Now, then was just a gravid term and no grasp of its implication other than the cluster & fiery resolve in my head "I had to live Up." In the hodge-podge of night florescence - there off of Kirklevington, Wintry clemency- I mention the Hindu Thing as if the implication would be nigh in the experiencial... It was months before I'd finish the thought. Thoughts in the late game of conversations once ensued, but solitarianly professed, to right self, and stain truth with the lacquer of efforts soundly renewed...but later, alone, and salient if release is the event of social reality at least momentarily extinguished.

***I'm an incense burner, if u must know. **If you think an immanent grandeur, self-perceiving, is monastate, I think remonstrations of burning, committing to flames, whether incense or the little smoke (think Beats!), is more likely inspirational of unselfing sentient greed to emancipate cordially this ego's impute. It would make a good book to see the implications of conscious crowd deigning libation spirits distinguished from meditations acceding per smoking herb. These dueling means of ecstatic probity have kaleidoscopic flotsam freed from larger inundated mind fields/streams but once and seen no longer objectionable: had one loss of refrain in any incarnations had dawn fade emotively, inwardly questioning the sense of expression or wind of our passionate seat, it'd be inconclusive if I'd pick the deserts or mountains in sorting out the high that-really-lasted. Meaning, you can find your mystics in another arabia, but mountains make eminent keys to renunciation. Mountains have everything to say about material-void, physical success and longevity. And deserts make relationship with cosmic incumbency (what has your back), prospective distances to halucinate over, wield plaintive outward fact in emphemeral contract.
***IF there was a SUN of Dust, a life in the expiration of physical success, creation in destruction, vitality in dissipation, thought in pieces of us left behind the doors of our past, we'd all accede to what this life has become.

thoughts on pravritti-=the advancement of addiction--and orienting toward renunciation

***I'm telling you, Find somewhere--the Place, to give-you up. There's a reason why your friend was archaic somehow and tremulous with spiritual utility. Your passport is something to stand on. Sublime ports can't merely be an escape with inconsistant symbols of time's effort. I think the typos of proud land, saying Higher-walking, to buy into Lee Scratch Perry's attention to meritable travel, transcience, Soul-adventuring, won't be enlisted once the threshold born underfoot folds under our insistance to move into fat soul of plenty, the taste of space--there memorialized--a great awe to yield to: Conscious void, volatile only in challenging its exoteric trace in mind's eye. Had we known abbreviated silence, i+ as stricture in the cult of self-reliance, makes the uncarved block scheme to deny desperation's salve of emptiness!!
Yet one knows the still waters, closely.
***'round about the mid-90s I'd take treks into Red River Gorge up thru Koomer's Ridge by myself, the last time with Kerouac's Big Sur in hand. The clayey damp sand at my feet on the final couple hundred yards up, I noticed my eyes dimming and taking in expanse to foretell as opposed to the path as it met each step. The gray skein over my eyes left me guessing at it as a supposed lens in the immediate unfurling solitarian trail, life colluding, forest unwrested and yawning, at my efforts. The sense that I'm walking upon a genie's body, a giant, some kind of body, made the trail a parchment of sorts: leaves desicated having left imprints like symbols in muddy glyphs, scroll-like, writ ready, leathery but human skin... A 4-cornered room should be as much a travelogue in convivial literate spirits, angelic tools authoring time & place. I'm observing my lair precipiticously in every shallow awakening, but in sleep had the void sought extinction, I'd dither in oblivion again.
***When I'm up, she'll be down. It'll be like that as long as and until one of us remembers to define my peak as not what is actually me. And her low, not as actually a low. A low is gotten actualized when one raises in high esteem the thing that is less a proponet of immanence, but rather is assumed as one's own emergent presence--an exoteric sigh, glance, & whisper. If Kerouac's void within seeks oblivion, a zenophenomenon is become cliche. So language is especially less willing to suffice in depiction of still-watery mind = illustrated, one is prone to emanations however symbolically poor, oriented and wanting to yield to something past this frozen sea monadic industry that is self.
***Walking down from Natural Bridge with Valerie oh say about 7-8 yrs ago, I imagined til then that cultivating relationships was about the roseate beatific scenarios. That I for one got to hold in its resonate esteem experiences that were actually subtley JUST right. But you know what, I find it was moments that were epiphenomenal for whatever! reason. Because we were cold out there, and I felt strangely bleak...but WITH her, and who else but her, and with me in contrast to the gazalle finesse easily attributed in some fair woman, just not mine, so perhaps not me? There has been strange events since, just sitting around the house before she went away to rehab. The house was palpably extruding emptiness: and we sat there wondering what the terminus was that we'd then share emotions over this bleak terraine of our domicile... But I knew it was a real low--and she was imponderably at a loss as I was... As long as one doesn't run around taking exception to the existential, taking exception like the empty morocca as if in one's chest trunk flittering within like it 'flect thing-actual--then integrity of said relationship won't be trialed, it'll be a praxis cosmogony. So, no fear of failure, just impulse and energy found in resuming higher walking.
***Words permitting, permutating "carcadia," a bloodred tea, hibiscus, drunk in Egypt, is absolutely the most satisfying imagining self as ragged "carcass," void of blood until attributable vessel without is inner-economy divulging journey into self succour in Objective Reality--the possibilities of experiencing the Other Shore. Fruition presented like its remote possibilities--its providence, are retained even in our incorporation of it.
***What I was doing when I tried to OFF myself:: ***Reading Isaac Babel's Stories of the Red Cavalry. If only I could speak to how this lit. hits home for me. (IN 1994--I think) I drank a fistful of isopropyl alcohol, then slugged down some milk, puked, and drank an 8oz Budweiser, which "makes" the terminus of my studies, namely his books, seem to be what it is, and almost as it ought to be--then--living in the house where I grew up, arcing toward nirvana--a not so terribly unpleasant Unknown-World where I was headed... The dreams Babel could induce are something I feel here at this moment as to what I know I willfully can cultivate. It's tacit, and I'm answering by name an expectation that resumes idealism in view of academicians I've known and aspire to have at least a figurative dialogue through. Man, the poison of temporal lulling sway the world thwarts me in my pacing corridors advances in its appropriating a life... The stain my contemplation makes in the airs between me and these Red Cavalry stories are just as I had looked upon them now so many yrs ago. A huge impression this author has made, even as much as Dostoevskii I'm confident to assert, and little remonstrations of his times--the early part of 20th century--are paths of descriptors I leach onto now. The peasant Jewesses with hefty bussoms, he says, seem like negroes. And it isn't entertaining deprecation, rather, it is an author who knows about the world--a world view--everyone is included.

THOUGHTS on Sarah Tilla, and other pieces

***I don't think somewhere in an Ultimate Reality that it was decided to deal me a full deck. Yet, I'm inclined in every game, halfing the deck, determining the stakes etc.... My fellow players thru a haze of pollution and night circumstance, look over in the place where I've taken seat, seem to suggest an existential surprise--basically mine, I'd come from the din of an agreed concensus life of sorrow.
***THE sun is not rhetorical. In fact it demands action and reaction to the event of its rising. There's a book whose title suggests that something makes the sun cast a shadow of its own--like something everybit more bright, intense, and perhaps vivifying. If the Absolute in What is-not is shared in the approach to the sun's What-Is, certainly, the thing denied perhaps tells us where we stand, and if our living supine is its supreme identity establishes us as its quarry....
The truth is closer to a big tale, an unfurling banquet of vast resource, and sometimes we know we will never dine.
***A hypnotic refrain for me continues to be Mom's literary trove. Isaac babel was in The Jewish Caravan, as was plenty pseudepigraphic material, Scholem Aleichem, exigetical stuff like the Khazars being possibly a link to the world of Scythians in Hasdai ibn Shaprut's letter reproduced for scholarly interested Jews like I thought was in my state of Becoming... And Russian histories, with varied interpretations of dispensations--the one I query now, that of Rasputin. This dangerous character seemed like pending doom. I probably imagined him as vacuous and imminent like an opposite affect to that of gentile kids and their Santa --I've barely indulged in his conduct & influences over the Romanovs of late 19th century til now. This book given to me by Rob Olson's buddy from H.S. is a good academic work, is precisely the feel and taste of things coming out of Mom's books--but rather from his Dad, the former county attourney of Jessamine cty of almost the last 30yrs. Progressive politically, his parents, worldly folks too, and a way for me to seize demonstrations of educational standards I would assume but without the reconcilation you'd think these folks demand. I didn't make the grades, I didn't get the romansbildung, but I do get the sense that a mutually arising would occur to me like them, of the episteme from cultures' contagion--walls I'd concommitantly drape theoria in the event of mind-sore prone to their books' proffering.
***Told Mom what haznea lekhet means. Later my brother informed me Mom can't "think" like she's used to. There's no delivering him from his point, cliche or not, he's the worst person to come to any psychologic straits with. If my idea of brahmodya, meaning the employment of that which is manifest of the silent accord when fascinans is salient, is this so damn less intrusive transitive life--I'm clearly less ambitious--when is it interesting to make an appeal to him or those like him, to fully divulge my lit wick of disambiguation? The sense of other is a ready refuge---if he were any more concretized emotionally, temporally, I might start imagining a general awe that may inspire. I saw him once I suppose in my worst thrum of which life unravels with schizophrenia at his dinner table, just up the street from here on Rebel, impenetrable with my signs of constraints in hellion awakenings out of the House--the House--and his baby and he were in static gesture, him feeding it. While I whispered roseate room 'flect light and heat at the pivot of baby in beautiful worlds, worlds, I didn't let the subtlety of the vision of Jeremy at the end of an umbilical cord escape my sense of the triune of meditation, travel--however experiential, & memorialized space, I tend to want to endure. Haznea lekhet means simple and humble. Lekhet I think denotes "way."
***A ganglion of self projected in reflection over graphed streets, like infrastructure all nerve-like, and still hidden in what coves we deign subsume us: In the suburbs, looking in the dim lanes, the thing so inviting in my life as a dog, was always the edge of drives, when they're neatly bricked in and tufts of grass all solemn and dormant--its patrons gone off to work or school, leaving me there sauntering by as the claimant. Also, shadows in the dust under trees, a blur comes to my eyes that there are impossible depths testified by its negligible contagion off the road, in squirrels' repair.
***I'm telling you, in space and in time your body all sinewy in the strain of illusion, for any distance between you and any relationship--physically space schismed or orbbed emotionally conscious props, creates mapped bodies, hand to foot til "there." Now what?
***I'm more dead, than asleep. I'm less busy being born, than I'm stultified, then waning into awakening. I'm dreaming more in fields of possibilities than its renomer in subterranean mind-sore, the sub-conscious.
***I like how character divines the degree of incorporation. Being denied meaning makes all things possible, since ground of being is contagious. If tobacco is burned in in proportion to its avatar ill-concealed, in her marketing it as votive, a season is imbued as the high in vistas of immensity rendered clement.
***The cultists of self-reliance may or may not prefer to effect cause. Meaning may give well-intentions, but has nothing to do with everyone's limited access to truth. (Moving into) consciousness without is love's price, what is dear is straying consciousness (without)--how the fray contrives our transperancy. Sight the holy fool as alterior I & Is, the gray core of over-stimulating when one is unversed to say his next existential garment was he who had the bravest ornament of release. The duppy's charisma requires the acuity in our moving transformative pirs saints mrabits - these kinds of teachers, into theoria renomer, meditations soundly credible, in their intent in making ground of being poingantly tremendum & reductive.
Moroccan Jews called their saints saddik, sayyid in arabic toward their holiness-purveyor (saddhu so clearly resonates with this...but I'm in the semitic theatre, really hamitic.). Jews almost never required piety thru miraculous possible healings by frequenting a saddik's grave, would usually visit his memorium to gratify festival's relief, wine to share with sometimes the Muslims there for same holyman imbibing coexistence--and definitely expected in core-culture's certain crowd.

**THINKING ABOUT MOM::: I know that she glimpses season's change and it isn't in fact what the time of yr is actually. Just flights of thought of what the temporal heralds, in memory--recent sensitivities to the sun's wealth & flourish. I'd say meeting elemental facts, with the entrails of calendric timeliness impossible to ascertain.
***It'll work, I swore I'd prevail. No filter between me and who suffers, sustains, lets go. I'm certain I'd always been accused of "signifying"--this awe of futures, suspect because telling one makes it seem your retreat is final. But imagining the sun inciting me, knowing my problem is being late for convening season's change--rather in an apex middling the calendar's solar proximity... If I'm incited, I reconcile not being born, & womb-tomb is nigh in every verily away cove.
***
The West goes wrong with destinies of spirituality, as if we're dogged til our implicit believing "problem" has our worth projected onto Mysteries. Certainly one's pain is proportionally a state with needing restored margins--rather, distortion & urgency definitely won't placate one suffering self-abnegating origins. If religion keeps the standard of selves-profession, cosmogony illustrated in lying prone absorbing in big circles immanent star tincture, out of mouthfuls of fire she's coming straight to me. This visage in electronic ocular prayers--behind my eyelids, Ginny & I went out Frogtown Ln., driving up to some farmfield. I step out of the ride, and a skein of crisp margins echo me into gravel and turf off of the road--it was like my shadow 'pon pleroma in her ever murmur from the sky.

SLEEP

***
If I've had one foe duppy (terribile & fascinans self-reflection)- it was life primatively slit open --I'm at once on the chromo miasmic thrust of Outward Fact ...outside blank sidewalk portending a vessel of blood like path, but in streams that vaguely prevail upon its banks. In poison suspense, this dream of horizonal shadows: where I stand, & where I don't! only gave me a hero's welcome - victory in graduated space, emancipated as if, since having resumed is all - cosmogony is higher-walking...

I'm no champion of the other's chance referendum of my pain.
***Gave Nanny a kiss Sunday---she was sleeping. Dire woe, the awakening--for what it is, for any or all of us, sometimes jettisons the dream.
Said No to everything, leaves me in my murk and solace. At once, I'm relieved of cooperation with mysteries. Time's ill power is exigent in its throne material procession I divulge to my imagination as paths in a walk-about, old brown in a dance of the unknown.
***It's not the context of my agonistic-race to episteme horizon, rather rt now it's content. To hear certain words make its seizing-range of what all falls into the valley of tongues, an ambush of the Rift valley, yud hey vov hey = Jah--now possibly beginning in the Negev, Is. more precisely the Sinai, and the plenitude of the Tiamat, Yemen, these environs verbed as voids... An old way of saying things!! --I don't know that Patti Smith was on to something saying she tired of a stipulate antiquity to define transcendence. Dude we can't excoriate something leaving us w/ residual confidences, it's a fact there's an ancient non-cosmetic even poesis to the pollution... I'm as confident in a survey of its voilablity on me as I am that the past belches meaning, lest thoughts become tridents of Less. Memory is recollection of dismal facts, if history is as language-is True, then expression roils in guffaws unwashed of our animals gift, a merciful compelling "statement" of predeceasing. The dust says dust, it will not traduce anything but the present.
***Everybody is a star--we are dust, star dust as ancient as the Outward Fact. Light too, as if... Life sprung, consciousness emanating, star vitae, but organic and egressing, and yet! Mouthfuls of pleroma born fire, and refugees every bit as part of neutron magnification: if we site the heavens, lift our heads in praise over awareness, then to relationship in immense distances are the project of all humanity's creativity. Gods are Creator Sky gods for anthropological reason: we counter distances, born of them. Here in temporal stewardship, why not think of ourselves as just orbiting monadic bodies. Monad, any unit of consciousness, as Madam Blavatskii in Exoteric/Esoteric Writing makes the case, imminent reality is celestial agency.
***I gathered the concept of my first book, without reading it. I walked past chthonian bookcase....and read the lay of the land. Called myself alliterative, but I was prone only to the last open page. Toting around things made of whispers and nuances, knowing it wasn't enough, I think until you think about words--their vanity & cheapness--one's thirst begins to martyr the point. Kill yourself when expression loses its vehicle, and then walk or dance images, deigning language to follow.
***In the hallway at Ohavay Zion (Love of Zion) synagogue I looked-on at this young mother with toddler collecting walkway dust dithering on the tiled floor. Our rabbi was blind and missing part of his leg from diabetes working against his vitae--he stood in the hallway, in gimple agitation about to ambulate up toward our classroom. The child hovering at adults' feet was making efforts to stand, and this mother, likely one of rabbi's pets for charity-cause, kept scooting the child's one leg so that she'd collapse again floor-supine somewhat... The integrity of Jewish morality made me realize then, it was entirely the moral compass in mind's eye, nothing of ethos I'm likely to conjure making Judaic conduct heavy & relatable in what other Jews would hand me: the rabbi was helpless doing his consumation according to the latitude folks fed him--tsedakah, charity--as he knew what in Torah was recommended. This woman, I'm realizing then, is not permanent rectitude of following days, my learning then. The folly and waste of core-culture as I watched in plastic media, til those opened doors of sheul lopped off my factoring-in profane without, & purity within, is as illusory as any motive one would establish and train toward his self-profession.
***Dreamt of my repose upon a marginal peak of a mountain, snowing comely, and the yeshiva bukrs, those students in an impression of the whole by a few souls were to hand up to me something of the Way--something doctrinaire my mind covets. The mt was made of margins, thin lines of contours, but transparent or white snowing veils, substance wont was emptiness--my orientation in a crevice -- I'm barely dormant as the silence of the remote witnesses. I reach toward the advance -- what I'm assuming is an advance, of their mitigating my studied intent. But they're not addressing me, seem verily sustained, strongly dutified, on various rocky outcrops--me left to suppose I'm as miasmic in the conjuration of my presence.

*** Thought about the irreconciling of having not conjured as much dionysiac, since the rational mind commits and rights me from solitarian escape - no trialing masks (alone with her) - whilst indulging apollonian failures, she has me strive without bionic appetence. Still is the desire (waiting for perturbment), silent is my lament--I fully believe I'd never been without
That cool air, the perfume and body's breath, spectral-glittery physical hesitancy--she's eye candy, but w/o frauding her with my sensual greed. My brother, my father's house, she's prepared...& to leave me jettisoned worse than cosmically. If the hand is an antechamber, my carnal-decor is the last thing in aural precincts that makes natural my repose in self-conscious respite, her love.
***Meditating on the doctrine of the experience of sleep: Is it a problem when naps traduce the long ends of the day? I thought catching convalescence is infact always good, but somehow I've quit marketing my perseverence. Imagining my emotional catharsis, I had at one point seen spans of months lay ahead. Now, with hopeful favorability, I see the usual day unfurl but inevitably its without me occupying a sense of evolving through it. It isn't only an impermanent record without segueways--my statement of presence has been fenced in--I barely know to give a damn. Enumeration of heady material time's control reveals less a conscious-pocket than observably solitarian idleness...
***
Intensity is the key, entrophy is a field of distrusted possibilities...how to be clever and create space in the denying factor, in my appreciating ebb? I can't anymore be the sun enriched yon of world in wakes behind me, in a certain sesshun in corner like-remote praxis--my helplessness conjured curious resolve, but my backyard started sorting itself out like dynamic lighted arbor in my eyes fixed on pools of sheen on this bedroom bric-a-brak floor in dusty exudation-- meditation in glittery glassy visuals ensues possible resonance and self-profession as if those (the yard's ) margins presume a standard--I know as far as maple tree canopy and coves of mind there in it thresh the perfunctory settled opinion: I'm true to the last breath; the arena of soul is translucent isles covering what we know from suffocating perfect ubiquity... I am in that sea, now it's framed, and forever is it frozen.
***People in transformation look all crisp & warrior-like. Taut expression prone to my wallowing in the mile--looking on, their efforts are made plain, but only unto jettisoning reasonable urban spaces, and rather they're convening the horizon - participating in netherly conduct. It'll work supposing a general awe, yet I am denied conscious crowd, clouded with propriety.
Remember you're tending to the same "gate" or bridge to awareness as ever... Your hope is the fire & prayer & communication of that hope.
A friend stated, the pond turns itself over. Maybe this is how there is some inversion in the ecosystem & so allegorically the human market place is in transformation, I'm not sure. But I responded as follows: The heart receives the blood of life, and empties as quickly. A roseate fountain, whose pondering affect, makes perfect surrender.
***My nose says nose, my feet say horiZONal yawn down 'pon the sidewalks. A go-down (warehouse) belches Zadie's furniture store and /or his garage in Kingston, Ny--like the redolent dust and forest of life, underneath me. An unlikely willow in a stunted yard off of Cedar St when I had usually walked past going to Student Cntr to read, marketing the day and its consumation of pieces of familial senses--the coves of warranted escapes somewhat denying them, my family, but giving me avenues to consider me in productive conduct like pantheoned peoples would give head-room and breadth of social clarity... Looming change, strict & prone, I'm oriented but asleep, dreaming, but lost in satori intermediation of chimerical!!!
***Too much bad weed in the garden (Rasta lyrics):
Institutions have teeth--the seizing and incorporation of identity is entreated, there are bionic rats in the garden, but the crickets shall inherit the earth.
Looking for the poesis of my come-uppance: as Whitman exclaimed of himself "I am Religion." Not something with abiding integrity--maybe, Believing in the G^d of your Nation -- and then your nation fails, then what OF your god.... We are a "becoming" not something with world-to-come scenarios...self-actualization is Now, religion as the purdah of distance strung...
**Sometimes it's just one word. It stammers in the arc of a room we ambulate. Fooled is the writing on the wall, when mindful. Pull the cold-lamp letters from white-noise vibratory properties off the wall, so prohibitive, yields like an urban facade...to something populist, painted in human schema--and lost to what is beyond anthropos, his/her spectral shore: certain skies just do not appertain... Damned is the invocation that the word creates, but as vain & cheap that they are, I'm doomed to eternal symbols, vague & flashing. And identity is what a life has become, but is no symbol!!!
***Try saying you've been doing that, and then do something else. Thinking in images, makes words coal-up, indeterminate, when I kindle Buddhist ideas. The inward and outward searing gaze of Buddhist effigies, as he looks onto, and into, makes precise a conscious prop as if beheld just to the fore. A nerve exposed, but tendered, roseate, but imminent, joy/pramudita makes me ask what candid filial thing could every be transgressed. Bob Marley quotes something I assume is biblacy, "when we laugh we pay, for the innocent blood, that gets shed everyday, Oh children mark my word..." Upon the gate's threshold, I had an urge to chortle, but the gatekeeper delayed my entry--expected the gate's guffaw as my supposed goal...sometime, when? Ahh, you'll see I thought--in his words...
***Mind-sore may reference something like urban convene point, infrastructure workers, and then the more vertex affect - front room window glowering in suburban constant, hearth behind--human-solace, & lamp yellow gloss tearing-up (weeps) the refraction, like conscious satellites. My report on the road in profane ambulation...the vehicle not biding roseate domicile blooms thirst for retiring souls. In neighborhood's reins on complacent maps in my head, some humbling muscular thought stocked the shelves with dun-colored and chocolate serpents none other than what I called resolute making gloss and material-voids of white-noise contagions its rigor appointment. Instincts inimitable of the crisp & warrior-like, I'm weary like a cave's stream, no hope like sun's genesis-fact tarrying the vitiate-denial of impermanence open-ended herald of atman as its tinder...

The world ends, but not tomorrow

***Like I'm talking to her:
I'm moving in circles where I'm forgetting you. I am still having to re-remember everything. It's not fair to you, and it makes life unbearable to me. I fell in love late. I get to the house in shadows. I watch lights in my eyes solution things I have no business knowing...these lights fade, and salient life distorts its continuity--pitch resolving cosmos, this moment. It's salience lost in its latent collection: if there were this provenance, why am I risen with its compulsion? (...as in your LOVE) And deceived by its warrant of success? (meaning we wait, it'll have to unfurl like a long road, but lots of signs on this road, and plenty of "deceptive" trappings of identity taking one on strange rides)

***Laura H's dialogue, then me saying:
Subject: gravity & smoke; chalice & wooden horse-eyes

Mom: Were you impressed with that mall?
Laura: Seriously? R u seriously asking me that question?
Mom: Yes
Laura: I despise malls, and I hate shopping. No, I wasn't impressed.

....saying:
If anything has taught me something of true democracy = Porch Sittin' , it's just-hating walking around feeling like my head has to shed the roseate colors behind my eyelids, that were otherwise less precipitous, meaning I only know then--at the mall, running for the the recesses is what I ought to do.

Using language of the great Elias Canetti---exposing the conduct that has grabbing hands grabbing all that they can. Instinct & over-wrought moral compass denies the proffered hand what it's supposedly due!! The hand is an antechamber," toward the "seizing," then "incorporation" of mysterious propensities of outward fact in its contagion. The open hands of Musselmanners in devotion; the receiving cupped hands in Jewish women's votive prayers waving across shabbos candles, then availing her face; the taut grip upon the integrity of doctrines in fundamentalist throes to stave off threats to self-preservation...: a populist emerging from experience to union with it in physical or spiritual success.
Ok, a little of what I say above is the case. That I sorta infer "moving on" isn't the case--but I feel threatened by it, as if I can't object to alternatives to our thing.... But I do in fact reject the alternatives, and will until we are in each other's arms again. I am just venting the "pain." Which is a weird word, it's more just longing--and I have a long history of longing... And LONG I am--wait wait that doesn't sound right. Anyway, this has a ring to it like I'm talking about solely just us--but in the end this small writ is about other sorta existential things--that DO NOT threaten us... I LOVE YOU.
***I gathered the concept of my first book, without reading it. I walked past chthonian bookcase....and read the lay of the land. Called myself alliterative, but I was prone only to the last open page. Toting around things made of whispers and nuances, knowing it wasn't enough, I think until you think about words--their vanity & cheapness--one's thirst begins to martyr the point. Kill yourself when expression loses its vehicle, and then walk or dance images, deigning language to follow.
***Man may be existential toward excelsior humanities more usually in evolved intellectus than women (if I'm in this box). If I'm in this box--man's--my lens is this miasma of agonistic possibilities; I compete with objective alterior selves. A self-profession, potent with exiles--yet potency in the looming temporal university, it's fondest enumeration, is feminine spirt; the most toxic. (...performing on me in spires of self-actualizing covenants...) That victories are critical, machine-distorted, competition dims her salient respite that her goal is that dream-scape ( of the intercourse of soul passions, of paths of splendor & fates), this lightness of being, her charge of giving away what is dear...
***
Sometimes it's just one word. It stammers in the arc of a room we ambulate. Fooled is the writing on the wall, when mindful. Pull the cold-lamp letters from white-noise vibratory properties off the wall, so prohibitive, yields like an urban facade...to something populist, painted in human schema--and lost to what is beyond anthropos, his/her spectral shore: certain skies just do not appertain... Damned is the invocation that the word creates, but as vain & cheap that they are, I'm doomed to eternal symbols, vague & flashing. And identity is what a life has become, but is no symbol!!!

TODAY, no end of the world

***Grafting my head to the floor, potential feeling almost energetic (like a cauldron conflagrated head) but without subtle presence as evident, a coffee table book on modern-astronomy, from the 60s actually, had cosmic pictures and fractal formulae for my thread to something grounded and immediate. Sounds with dispensations yawning, resound like air-conditioner units proximal and draining, my repose etching into noise cessation had that been the case. Everything echoing--all sensitivity letting blood... The meds I was on had its durations like a caterpillar metamorphosizing, pleroma skies outside this basement window made dry & heavy the day's long ends. Release was my sorrow that change was imminent--this was different for me--a phenomenon that trials (verb tense) peerless circumstance and characters in sounds-arriving advantage temporal world physical success and my submission as discomfitted loss. Oh the bitterness, no one to look to and receive my imaginary stare... The concept that authors present definitions in my path in langour suspense, must have worked--I knew sorely I gave a damn--an excellent presumption in rain-storms like ancestor's message vehicle in alliterative lightning shock, I would finesse throes of appearances...emerge as from I & Nature!!
***The Jewish atheist is a monk. A chair speaks of a thousand deaths, G*d speaks of a thousand lives. (thru a seive of unbelief, or unlived by anyone but an acolyte's conjecture of memorialized space.)
***True democracy =becoming a whisper next 700 yr old oak, just a glimpse framed out of pooled mouldered water--like that is relicky tumult into mind-patters, tho' my helpless anthropothic-trunk prone (and water ambulates in attention's margins), water-table beneath --funky, chthonian, tarrying stream its salient merciful keys...but impossibly theologized. Fountain night, pitch exhorting heavens, the new years are ringed, but arrested. This tree and that tree appreciates clime's greater-will toward treehood--neighborhood murmurs better architecture in tree tops sky-line, the flame of tree talons dispatch horizon's perfect thread... 10,000 fractured leaves weaving intentions of mind-sore from strange concealment!! Light's ultimate control, the birth of life, consciousness arising, water's ally is humanity as its vessel for light's intent.
***I found mind-relics in situ as to say images I perused showing pharonic chambers as well as some krishna blue figures, Hindu things, all coming to me in fertile glyphs. Glyphs in intrepid fiery self-profession, which made it clear to me, leaden consciousness would fall away, no sub-conscious makes wakened states any more oriented to recesses and thought primacy...it is one fluid state into the embrace of outward fact; the knowing of which may be abysmal, but thoroughly my own industry to alight the weird.
***Modeling the verity with these souls of dawn break, for me, found how I'm strung in reaction all the time: my breath extruding from guffaw of inviolable Other at once supposed, but next a yawn of day reconciles other dreams. Folks looking all possible, but remote, championing ground zero, I'm weaving throes of their superable repose. Folks look like folks in the diminutive, down in a well, with earth's lay formidable reaching us before them, they're subterranean, have already "made" habituation in the world. If we're driven into relationship, looking as into space evolving like stammers & whispers, down, down, dawn goes with Babylon falling, uncertain of the pivot to thwart the turbillon into recesses, ofcourse the fractalized self would be feared. So perhaps seeing what conscious crowd taxied-in, in a fine example of awakening--thing actual--but now, not waiting to see one's mornings get the clouds 9 dew, one may net the suspiring invocation of mutual arising of mind in constancy in bleary 5 o'clock evening's dust and torpor...
***I highly suggest reading the Closing of the Western Mind, by Charles Freeman. A great church history--critical of course in some ways, but the politics that went into deciding as upon the canon that inevitably led to why folks distinguish themselves as X-tian...makes unfalsification the primed response that beckons no opposite retort (the argument goes, life is evolvement, but our G*d started it.). The burden of evidence isn't clear til meta-physical stipulations are portent--I think it can be done, but a roseate receiver of man's worth can't be fate's quality. Karma/kama makes instincts met in trials over righting predeceased incarnations, typically not cures for our occurring in a world-to-come. So, life's meaning if there is one, is wrestling with this our exilic semi-adaptive willingness or not experience of anthropos...an immanent lens--no personal deity makes outward fact sacralize reflection to THIS inward journey, had we looked. One would look, had they a question in their nerve lit.

***I'm absolved before I barely try. Then, once the day is ensued--experiences alliterated as goal--I remember for now everyone has looked the other way, no real concern...I'm suppose to be fine the world deigns!! Starting down gutters in the lanes, I've no provenance there would be the same embrace of white noise vibratory properties of bldg's blinking eyes; I don't know any longer who has given me over to the streets again.
For fuck sake I'm rail thin--I cannot pick up a cig--I just have to remember the pale emptiness... read, and read more. Potok orients me to the "rosy colored mourn" of Yehudin sincerity, but I'm telling you Elie Wiesel, right now, talking about madness mostly in interrogatives, divines my modality in these moments--moment to moment--with immense emotional honesty; I look back a hundred-fold, something is there...I should suffer for it!!
***To heed the rave & calvacade of conscious crowd--not weighted upon as if healing needed investing in my despondency--feels like a goodconduct seeded furrow. I'm seeing agency as graviton in rational riddles like I'm likely self-profession when the center seeks oblivion. Imagine that reified self most available when kenotic matriculation alight in floes, rather than arguably a goal or presence-statement of postulating integrities... (so) rationalizing No-book condemns speaking with hands. Only inner-eye can deign memory 'flect aeries unconfessed never to be written because language has parturition underneath anything pith of mind withdraws, & acquisitive laser accurate suspiring of mind, winds of light, breaths, then exilic steps...corridors, plateaux, but to whom?

(so) rationalizing No-book condemns speaking with hands

What I mean by that, maybe suggests alliteration references tools, but fruits of hearing, the largesse maybe of books, still has the reader receive expression immediately, directly, rather than nuances of remote actions, other aims furthered!! No-book makes conscious props, symbols yet are mouthfuls of fire... conscious glyphs are libations in founts--thought is salience greed and who said one transpires without knowing something, anything at all, is redemption, from a less symbolic mediation=to empirical conduct, & less dalliance.

***A Jew courts non-belief in order to be a Believer. Take the lowest common denominator: haShoah, the Holocuast. In Auschwitz Jews, a minion, took G^d to court & found the Absolute guilty in absentsia. Giving meaning to the Unknown, is denying or being denied by the objective reality: Suffering! Particularly if "meaning" is evidence-poor. There is Nothing, Ayn-sof, outside the Known--and everything manifest in physical success, materially voidant. Wiesel mentions that in Exile, G^d experiences the attrition as well, perhaps, but the absurd has reduced hope to those with vitality as its discerning, making thought excersized in self-preservation as the prerogative for those with lives of meaning. Nothingness & essenselessness orient the sufferer to the miasma of the sticky business that G^d's word is sacralized and resourceful--unjust vestiges of Power and Victory which aren't attributable to the lowest-common-denominator. After this congregation relegates G^d to life's desperate void, they commenced w/their evening prayers.
***We have to manifest nothing, so the victim has to deny himself. Nothing gets capsulated,, it's the project of our worth, it is finding out what is empirical in the most general sense. Only that we endureth gives it meaning--sometimes the efficient cause when beginnings speak of right-ordering past-relics of lesser-exile, the suggestion is valences are poor from self-profession. At one point we have this modality that allows the world seemingly find us in our corporeal agitation. If as in a chair expiring a thousand-deaths what is implicit is a dream where something intermediary is taking-notice, then like Marley chimes, if you keep coming, then you're over... The world is good when it seems to seek us.

Travel is Meritable===MOM IN FOCUS

***sa'adyah in Arabic, hazlakhah in Hebrew, felicitas in Latin, pramudita in Sanskrit, & eudamonia in Greek means happiness. The arising of compassion, Karuna in Sanskrit, under the guise of conscious void, Sunyata, make a quest for being wrested by seeking a way...a becoming. Inspired by igniting one light, technically unsuitable from weird conflagrating effort, pollution makes a standard of an Aspirant...custodial duties tally physical impugning of voluntas, I can't necessarily will lightness of being. Anything that may add to the now approaching cosmos, in its probity had grotesque gods been cartage in vestiges of man's sanity, just indicts man for the lore of his complicity.

*** I stake no claim that joy is sundering predictably, but I imagine stripes of ways to orient myself looking back like I should share in memoria of real meaning, tarrying in truth. Went over to the Episcopal church & sat under pine trees to read, smell redolent environs in its quiet currents, and mostly explore the conflict appropriation of vanquished-solidarity from the deposits of intimidating mind-sores. It's hard to imagine auspicious indictments where I restore the fools to the paths bi-secting mine. Like I'm supposed to ready myself for that weather. The present doesn't tarry as much as 2 dimensional icons/Ideas allowing refrain of similitude in suspense. Meaning's wanderlust is the product (that art) from those echos of physical success in its purport (the ICON), when our acuity to the material is emergent and becoming, and thus consigned to nothing. Because we are manifesting material void, we indulge avid concern about becoming appearances and burying essense. Essense is lit in its becoming, but this essense is suspiring, an expiration, only known in our observable release as from it.
*** I feel like I'll be skipping vast intervals of time with Valerie at the convening of our thing--a gap of exaggerated memory and brandishing a surfeit of assiduous mourn that would have me question how proscribed it is that I have gotten emptier. Fish for me I'll tell her, don't forget the unincarnated sentence I've been handed. (Like) Chagal with his apology-accepted Believer-fish, which is likely showing a clone in the aural sea: one way of divining anthropothic other-worldly possibilities who deserve one another... The Hasids believe the fish are incomplete souls, restrained in this part of transmigration. I'm a herring unfit for my school, unchallenged in the deep with the report of the Tiamot--mercurial voidant-deep, in an all-too packed fluidity of mind. The ocean is inclined to parturition--but I'm born of mean release. Prone to the immensities of temporal water, like the fountain blue horizon cosmos, the stars are just another luminescent excuse to cut me when I can't feel it.
***Pretty weird talking about life literally huh, Mom? I mean here we all are around you--it is life as you know it. I dream about you. I can't find a critical awareness of who I am to anybody...if "they" keep coming--then they're over, I tell myself. Saying energy comes from other planets is like saying we move into consciousness. Consciousness is without--G-d, if there is, is a relationship without: this is the literal horizonal truth, presuming all margins and its cost of emptiness just beyond.

I was saying to my old neighbor of 27yrs (Melinda Higgins from Cut Corner and WRFL, if you recall?)--"strange how sisterly you are--and I feel estranged even from myself. ..........An angel poked in my window soul the other day--gave me my orders. She said, "you go onnn for now onnnn alone." As real as the back of my hand. It made me breath easier, like I had forgotten. Of course, there's no denying fellow travelers and their wisdom. I would never deny that.
I had a dream sometime back, but only after Mom's sister passed, from cancer. She led me thru neighborhood backyards, into a garage, and she was barefoot. Mom & I trailed her in this dream. As I followed her I was mindful of a stark fate harassing me--so I hastened my steps, I couldn't but follow... My proclivity for self-destruction (cigs!) gives a poor self-esteem, and no sanction. When my shame makes me high, as I weep, I almost swear it off (the meaning of lament!) like why do I deserve this healing, and others haven't the plentitude of all this emotion excersized like the blood of my spirits? My good friend says, Just try! I will, or rather I'll be critically aware--intellectus needs a heart's proponet & still I reflect and meditate, coarsely--meanwhile, my will is shot."
***Problem w/religion adducing salience is that usually it's a presentation, rather than an appreciation. The variable is, is it good for meditation? (Not necessary WWJD?--I'm saying.) New agey cagey stuff, some perhaps, think what-goes-on is dispensational, and his doctrine trifles in tea leaves' symbology. There ain't no norm, so antiquity thru lens purporting the same old actors, is self-denial. The Aryans, of the Avesta and of the Vedas, believed in a god for Expression/Speech, so profiles in media for astral representatives would likely start w/script that imbues man soul rEbElling, & his petty conscript to divine relationship (kathenotheistically)...as toward creator godheads per a certain need. So he is just talking about his participation in the creative, or its cessation. It has devotion-type praxis and while sitting upon contiguous observer's manifold, and enduring statements about temporal identities, would never have us demur from a natural canon of spiritual, relicky self-profession: I and Nature is eVer the cause without too much marketing of its vertex performance...
***The 1rst Autumnal leaf, as if, fell from the eaves in front of me in the garage. The dog noticed too, and after her steak she bowed to it & chewed on it. That part of American Splendor w/the wafting paper bag in windy aeries filmed like human emotions - elements working on it, is viable & mood availing. A work-a-day haunting fodder for season's clement designs... The melancholy locked in a cell, if Winter's approach w/gray sundered skies contains us at all, produces the domicile as a bland crime to the gravid lower unpierced pleroma... Summer, Fall, & Winter dons what is apropos to habituation of calender's transition--a year like a day, a week like a valley with enumerated shadows!! My weekends have the plateau effect, and gray encumbered thoughts, are reproven w/votive candle light and the "little smoke."

***We have to manifest nothing, so the victim has to deny himself. Nothing gets capsulated,, it's the project of our worth, it is finding out what is empirical in the most general sense. Only that we endureth gives it meaning--sometimes the efficient cause when beginnings speak of right-ordering past-relics of lesser-exile, the suggestion is valences are poor from self-profession. At one point we have this modality that allows the world seemingly find us in our corporeal agitation. If as in a chair expiring a thousand-deaths what is implicit is a dream where something intermediary is taking-notice, then like Marley chimes, if you keep coming, then you're over... The world is good when it seems to seek us.
^^^Neitzsche used the term mnemotechniques, meaning the art of forgetting. So, maybe forget the norm, and homogeneity of the integrity we establish confidences over thru the elements of the Path you have found, and consider Otherness in their mutual arising. They're probably experiencing the same release as you reconciled as propriety...from Traditions soooo recommended. Stole Neitzsche's Basic Writings from the Gaines Cntr for Humanities, knowing in time's unfurling I'd end up back there to return it, only after academician resposibilities took on currents of palimpsest days. The expectations of graded episteme self-profession, only means ordering knowledge bases because exemplar student efforts say it is within me to do that. It's like taking back language technology so as to refuse the manufacture of motives that I might proffer romans bildung, or taking on identity plainly in my own wizened concerns, as opposed to having the institution determine when & how I would ever receive that.
***Working at the Co-op way back, ole Carol Davis, lanky woman - my manager, feminist replete in every step mindful--spiritually goal-oriented, told me once about staying up in the country, the mts, I think, whence toting kindling and water etc was her grace sabbatical from toiling world of investiture from individuality in throes self-encouraged. I watched in Powaqatsi, now many times--a Libra repose of man with length of limb across his back buckets on either released end of the pole, dithering on path in 3rd World reproval of where my mind extenuates. I was this man, and I am her there, then, focused and visualizing, capitalizing of serene work-a-day mechanical runnerhood--conscious of my cog-ness, alive but in empty presidio, its gradin vanished & no one to create poles in dreamtime except remotely indicating lithe demeanor, prone state no matter the distance of my visage to theirs...
***Done formulating how I market meditation. There are still old actors framed in sublime-wealthy portes--stillness and weird possibilities to find peak moments to jump, djelug, skip, as thru new expressions 'pon the countenance of maya-foed selves, freeing space knowing knows knowing, and observer reflects intimately and not from my plastic confrontation (I can't give them their certain fu manchu face). Demons threaded into physical success, body liberation has its cost, being half of something ones propitiation has restored the spirit making presence statement the space-memorialized, but ascesis: this Becoming made asking feel literal so illusion lies un-named unpierced in its depth's promise.
***Heard the name Govind recently, & Govinda was an incarnation of Krishna. (Vishnu & Krishna interplay, at any rate...) I read that in a auto-bio. of Gandhi charitably handed to me by my brother's X in the early 90s. Haven't seen that name in a long time, and at any rate midnightblue Krishna's usual visage had conjured sublime proportions...I think therapeutically and helpful to me, minus the devotion. At the time John Coltrane was the immanent mind-sore & contemplative positor, so to speak. But adducing things-spiritual in the taste of JaZZ, just how it packs it up so one believes in the musicians' selfless entreaty made the spectral insouciance of Eastern bhakti something graspable. The mystique and how all religions and spiritual attainments travel is become what-all I would cultivate.
It is clear we are denied humanity in an ant's dream. Or perhaps granted a life to live by the dreams of the Australian green ant, dreaming the lives of the children throughout the world.
Going to bed as a king--waking up as a butterfly, living slavishly, honored by prone submission. The easy part is contrite differences--they matriculate w/propriety. The human condition is as yet extremely insignificant. Sometimes however my laurels reflect Krishnamurti's idea, as I read last night, that meditation is to get control of the mind, and then go beyond--with that goal I'll have to accede to his other recommendation, that being constituant teachers who may orient me, yet are still authorial--and is one of the things also to get beyond. For all intents and purposes I submit in the end it would still be better WITH a teacher--the Talmud says BUY them! Coltrane by his saintliness and pulpit in staged delivery, gets my propitiation...I have something to tell him!
***Singularity is the consequence of Sisyphusian designs with the pivot of life's swing. On one extremis impermanence bellows self-squalor; now down in the valley, one shadow (read: Black Elk Speaks)--and opposite an appreciable arising--we are thwarted, wizened now...this pole delivered the punch of indecision, the principal executor. The most familiar of lights extinguished--refusing to yield to absurd travelogues. That we've gotten to emergent reality is a task of duppy conquering. Seeing ubiquities contagion, naming the ill-contained (you & I), which is the persistant statement to presume our primacy will level the intimating liquid sky to its influence 'pon temporal reflections. If seeing primacy threatened, presumptions about a general awe are construed in interpretations moment to moment, the places deigned as "peak" resolve.

Fanning the flames of my wakened state with dreams

***I feel I've arisen last night--and not today, not this morning. My book Wanderings, the first thing I read intending to get caught up with station in life all point to reading, has those blue-gray pages smelling like newspaper, to tell me ...where memorialized spaces I would leave in troves of imagination, the tool to connect with and don new allies in time (and place). I read it back in about '94--this is the first retrieval of those expressions of sublime efforts. (In this book) The Helenism in Jewish thought what I've just now left off reading, is remarkable in that there are 3000 Greek words having made it into the Talmud. That gods (their gods) are subject to the same circumventing mistakes of something temporal--that pagans manifest, leaves what is expectant of earth bonds and its iconography, in light of Jewish theoria, the things held in higher ordeal. Meaning, a world-to-come to prevail as earth's denoument, is threading the astral hope in the weave of aural wailing as opposed to life as inverted from it and inconsistant when history's well-being is foulable with assurances of intransigence.
***One knows he has resumed, just not resuming--he's acknowledged neo-beginnings, and no path seems to prevail like emptying the one basket with kept serpent, while all other baskets try our willingness to exhort hai hai teacher father uniFORMity. We're convicted by the moment--the moment entreats us to expectations as its subject of surveillance. Certainly we're circumspect when a path eminent meets each striving step--and knowing where I was going - fluid & tacit - at once, consciousness came to me, & not necessarily as a-becoming... It was something spiritualizing me, that I had run to its passport probity--a path. Something gotten away from me & then reflecting, I concurred: it is mnemotechnical--I was trying to negotiate what wasn't news to me!! I had decided to erase what was beneath the ground of consciousness, so that something more bleak would compel me...less of me in fact, less to assume from my life, but in immense refrain forwarding the only cause life would persist with--vast distances to trod.

***Hope is luck. Hoping down from up above is deliberative over a path. The path gives life its transcendence, but it is creative--so luck as nothing to do with it. Mom's sister had cancer for over 11yrs. Dreamt suburbs, I'm padding the trapsing path she made - after she passed - I'm trailing her to the garage whose guffaw received us, which had the nomenclature of only a brief frequenting of the place I'd go & begin my day mowing, landscaping. Damnable and cursed these days, which in just one descriptor was my being innudated by two or three whirl-winds in the yard of one of our clients. Hellish, and yet now in somewhat convalescence, I see this space in thiS garage as perhaps the one unforseen in the dream. Mom was in the dream too. She and I both were following my barefoot Aunt Eleanor into idol-esque and stern intermediary dreamscape. The dream tabernacle had eternity all marred up in its inconvenience over my control at just where I grappled at the path meeting each step, quick-stepping, watching the mute persona of my Aunt.
***Lazy siesta, languid morning a couple Sundays ago, while reading Kazantzakis--his theodicy Report to Greco. Everytime my blue nod met the morning arising, a serene pleasure jettisoning the sober ego for the dreamt inner-verse, gave ego the pliant spirit that my particular brand of social fever would be fortified with everyone feeding my feeling of being Understood Through It. I'd gulp at the last calvacade of Lextown traffic, and as if these denizen vessels emanated from the quailed glance dowwwn the proximal corridor dowwwn into downtown proper, my kaleidoscopic inner-eye sorta naturally, sorta divinely watched semblance of day's constituency peel off the watch-tower half-empty cup. That some poingant designs on my ego is becoming variegated, the austere and remote rather signals folk, friends and family, drizzling into the precipitate identity cue...it was formidable that my mind, like loaded gun, shined out by its distributor thwarted an exercise in the day appreciating anything between me and anyone else mutually arising: it seemed like Nothing existed (between us) to make whiling away obscurant!!
^^^Where were those people of my historical well-being? That sociological water that flame consumes and is not deterred. They are borne aloft=black sinewy and dissolved... That need... I needed. The candle said HERE I'll appropriate it. No no I needed the candle for meditations, not tribulations...not yet one more relicked shard of self for curio in moments of release, that actually question if it is at all observerable. Is it Observable Release--the meridian of knowing we'd feel life escape, and no way to follow? Maybe not ask WHY I know I see, but just let its content distort what otherwise remained the Uncarved Block.
Go so far as to say this stela of self is the best of corner stone, and still the house stood without it...

Cornerstone rededicated: MARK, my brother. wrote

You know, I liked looking out that window because it was at ground level. It was as if I could get the perspective from the earth itself, perhaps as the little animals do, feeling part of the earth.

In my 90's respite--my room--I'd sit on the floor, basement window to my back looking out to the backyard, sometimes I'd light a candle & assert my meditations would graduate more formally. The candle presides in sentient cause like it was not only advent of my focus, but draws in favorable assent from those especially in my midnight raving who had congregated around--in pronouncements of my historical well-being. The silent assent comes from gaping gaffawed world broadcasting my ego-centricism, yet this crystal palace gets its character denied--the ego limps along: self-profession melts into smoking black sinewy smoke... At once I imagine the flame fed by factoring-in the solace of peers--it's familial, then the flame wields and flutters, throes of personae borne aloft take on new climates of exclamation... They're consumed like my eyes emptied of reservois of dire need: sociological water, and no water could put out that fire.
***A 1000 deaths in labyrinthine shadows behind me in the redoubt of place of study. One dream purporting of rivers of time, filling bottles of unseen Axial age Dispensationals--so to speak, meaning soft machines, people. 10,000 doubts occurring one & against the 10,000 things: These "things" maybe reconciled memories, figures and glyphs like 9 clouds behind "asha" (an Avestan word) = order, the world in Right Action, the Tao's version.
We all pass, but the mind's eye reflects on the inconsistancy of the impermanent record in the hesitation of a look withIN. We surrender to the inward journey, and notice refined reasons to give thanks & praises for the irony of our security

The Youth in Me contends with ex nihilo=absolute On-spirit

I sight cold-creators' conscious message--they seem to have gotten somewhere. There as before me is this sort of conscious energy, a prop, and back in my vacuous space I am thwarted by their ideal. And yet there stands a sense of his or her effort as it proceeds in this yah moment. I take strides to represent it somehow, and I do, but only this man or that woman as "imminent," like mundane me: I see me, yes from that lens, and still it is only my last lumbering step that I find in my retreat. Who are they as only decisors of my self-profession? It almost doesn't take place: rather it is man and nature, his own albeit, but this most elusive of relationships, without the guise of I & Thou, or even I & I...


***Over at the creek behind the Episcopal Church a sump house sat with a bereft earthscraper. I waved Dostoevskii at the glint off of fractured glass covering gauges, wanting some token from an atmosphere at this essentially tragic timelessness. Lighted beginnings were hard knowing the array of festivals ahead pay coffers unreconciled by only disaster reduced in its effect by something as gross to topple its unfair designs. The appeal to console in self most of all, had the unpunctual sabbatical of my bridge toward wakened privy to deal with not a soul, not fucking one, whose o' plenty I admit having considered they had formidably been actually none other than the kohl in my eyes. Places given its exigency memorialized are conscious satellites, and when the deluge so spectral challenges the gloss surface to dissuade one's intercourse, truth in denouement is pathless. If I ask once whither I go--it is certain I dweet in the present.
***I look at the sky, I am donning horizontal repose. I glance at ubiquitous sidewalks, and I am vertical and pillaresque. Thinking about all the elements distorting one's demeanor, I'm reminded of an adept's life as a plant, or as an animal, or, if I knew enough about him/her--their chemical romance, in saintlike narratives, all grotesque anthropology. At once I see parts of me--the suspired expression particularly, as emerged from appearances. Certainly our "cousin" sentience is identity sources. It is not as if we are here to study the air, and the playground as light, unless we are directed to render seasons change in everyone's becoming as exhalant "liquid language awash." (Wallace Stevens)Breath in the black smoke, exhale the white - and watch how much incense can do w/o the nicotine delivery. (claiming tobacco as an incense votive) I like the pollen-messenger, and climate (aqlim *Arabic) of the greater will as something Superably Conscious. The bee-catcher in lavender high, takes mind to be entertainment of nothing other than stratigraphic of air... Tobacco: cagey high, draws maps in antiquated ways. If I could see the clung leaf on the ankle of Kaskerbeh's wife, or was it Kasturbai...? One is Gandhi's wife, the other is a Pte US aboriginy... To speak of Kaskurbeh (Kasturbhai is def. Asian Indian, I'm imagining!) I'm referring to the guy who first cultivated tobacco. Every night K's wife would ask him to go watch the stars to the edge of red rock massifs. The path to their look-out has a stream, and as this native house-maiden crosses every night, K follows her yet to her demise: she throws herself over inevitably. He takes the carcass and drags her across some meadow or field, the narrative says, and her bones in the loam produce the tobacco for the proselytic enjoyment. The high is endo-skeletal, I suggest, and is yet one more element whose sublime chaos bares out anew an extremis repose...
The shadow cast by trees next to this Lex corridor, looks like a draped bag, denying contours of the produce within. Cars are belched from the crest of hill, beyond my sight, and are tamed by the empty rapt presage of the day. If my shadow was a mirror, mouthfuls of fire would dot it.

The eaves, just before me make a linear shadow, threshold of memories, sitting in prolonged summery day's long ends, smoking cigarettes...metabolizing, as we did in agrarian circumstance. The shadows cast under those conditions were under a banana canopy. Designs on my day can be as subtle as the common peer-like striven travelogue, a flow of consciousness type read, which can all point to a retreat into some kind of chemical high--and yet I feel at my best staving off these things that are the least of me: nicotine delivery jettisoned...

My time trajectory in a kind of well-being involves a chimerical experience (dreamy), but due in part to this huge life of denial (of anything in the obstruction of mind-calvacade), the glyphs in mind, say, after having ambulated into new climes, are either proof things DO reach me, OR in fact, there is no connection from days' thresholds to the next embrace of What-Is!!! In weary walks up Nich'ville rd, after seances with cars threading the night's veil, I felt a strong impulse to anticipate the far-off mummer, all the while, then lidded auditive rush when traffic was the closest report. Kabbalah was a refrain in night's cloudy presence, and almost to Southland Dr, up in the yard of the older home giving character where it isn't otherwise expected, there is a sign in this yard: It says, Notary Public. "Notarikon" kept clacking like environs made up of more signs than just that--all of which felt tacit in synaesthete ways; notarikon is a method of mystic study -- and letter permutations are easily recommended in meditation, when a claimant feels an alliterative conduct when in fact, only drops of the ocean is administered...leaving what is toxic for another time. An invisible hand draws semblances, of this one big road w/lots of signs--to define life as a "gate." The hand is mind's nomenclature, always effective if the self promoted has one land on
a sense of the Outward fact, as opposed to self-preservation in Thoughts which establishes nothing in way of the distance strung heaving, and strewning presence in the pocket of complacency.
Are we old souls, have we just gotten here? How prolonged does the gate remain open, when life energy is acted upon by a new & timeless transitions?

The success with which efforts--physical albeit--tell us that an "impression" is made in the mind of the Actionable (those who act), that with a certain finesse this person details just how things lay--the lay of the land (or say the old man down the road appreciating his "shit-gimme!!"), something quite cathartic appeals to our minds sooo in need toward attunement. Marley says, "You speak I feel!!" And by that, one may appeal to the self-profession a wizened fellow prosecutes his or her attempt of ambulation toward our self-same resources, while viable material success is found without.
I like seeing people comport themselves like goats. Haunches all particularly high, an acuity in something physically adept, but unconsciously courted. Old people doing chores... and it isn't around the corner, rather their impermament record IS recording OUR's!!!
A man at once is an animal, comes from animal clemency, and animal ways tho' demonstrated in his appearance, are no longer superable as the distinction is made. G^d is conjured by Priests, but is no longer G^d as the Priest feels distinguished in His presence reconciled thru deeds or scripture. We emerge as from form, as from physical success...liberated and uncategorized.
In Jerusalem one of our rabbis was part of the S. African satellite community breeding these Literalists, of whom these exilic communities would tether religious causes to people like in my group--to make us good Jews?! This rabbi, in particular, had hair growing from the surface of his nose, and on the top of his ears, gave him grave sublimations because everything in these men's manner were indicators of what it is to be Believers/Righteous. The teeth the world has in his devekut* grasp--*the cleaving to stages of energies, attributes of an Absolute, his teffilin wrapped arms, meant war, and flat out the deigned response to a world unreadied for Jewish consciousness. His might in a praxis of utility, to represent something seemingly advertised as amongst this setting where no play-bill was necessary, retroactively made a World-view look reasoned and wonting of access. I ran thru that very door, baring what I thought was something responsible in a general understanding, comprising secular studies as the lens to look at this community's foundational example.

a fist curled in anger, captured in open palm, is actually unity

In opting for confusion, putting the undeliberative half-expressions in a box, jettisoning torpor, language still abides in the valley of tongues. The place of all the concommitant potentials is much like a ground of being, an empty vernacular tableau, where those in refrain from jumping into the fray only dream of the invisible hand--the decisor of the things out of our control. Louis Farakhan being interviewed one time had made a gesture like his hand designing circular descending pattern from the side of his head, as if the words in certain confidence are released out of such a guffaw. Literate thought presumes a restraint, and a volley of release from it, when language demurs from a conscious prop to a physical one...say, the poignant regard for one reservois of language in the flesh.
I just need to consider that the tools are for the simplest conjurations of the outward fact. And that being attention, is one big step toward not being expected to do much, but to favor ethereal ever-positing light. If will & memory are the tools where thoughts 'flect - and potentials are born, then the utility is that I accomodate something with no fissure in my victory in devotion, or sincerity. And yet these tools might vanquish the foe of self-assertion, ill-prepared self-profession... I could expect more, and if Himilayan memorialized space be spiritual awareness from teasing out an alternative to my self-deception as I inure it, I give it back to the first invisible hand to aright my furies kindling--then being true if only to inquiry in extinguishing self in throes of general awe, I've got nothing else to live uP to.

Apropos of a summer's night myth

At the top of my street an old haggard lady sometimes came out to mow. She seemed like the grandmother--Bubby, the comely character from The Stories of the Red Calvary, who fed moldy chocolates to the young Isaac Babel in the duration of times he'd go take lessons--piano or Hebrew?--there in her little shtetl domicile. I threw an arrow of disaffection (not at her) at the red stop sign in the corner of her yard, red like my heart that truly split into two.
Just a block away out behind Louie B Nunn's house there at the bottom of his extensive backyard courses Kenton's Blue Hole--a natural spring. The Ky historical marker sign wasn't visible last time I drove past thru that Parkers Mill treed corridor adjacent. The sense that I'm taking in a recognized historical place, but never a soul to come around but me, is how I'd consort with personifying loci, a place under the sun to spiritually gain focus. Behind the church - the access point to amble in behind these estates - is where Jewish neuroses thru the writings of Isaac Babel made abstraction & absurdity oikoumene (worldly). If I could at all consider to push the limits of that inner-narrative, conceding I'd readily answer for it, would leave me prone--so nothing else to answer for...nothing. I'd finish a study program, setting intellectual goals according to MY feeling, and encant Bob Marley's Burnin' & Lootin': "yes me friend we take the streets again." Then strolling back to the house, the neighborhood becomes especially bound in a pregnant essense, while not knowing who or what would be borne from it, images of Egypt lay at my feet.
Elucidating Babylon seems generally unpalpable--giving it the "gate's" word technology, makes it less the contemptible concretized spaceship, and relays the ideal as "sublime porte."
Rasping ironic mountains, there in the West Bank, inwardly I'm assuming magical space, but these Middle-easterners are vomitted from its sure embrace: under the desert sun & traduced voidant skies, a dead rat once living in these banana canopies, gets consumed less by the elements than ubiquitous ants harvesting the carnal moshav denizen (moshav is a communal farm). Bionic Rats--the song--conducts my life charged w/Babylon falling in a symbolic way. It is plastic in my minds eye, and evidence of the rape humanity appropriated when folks get seduced by the stranger & his ackward lumber thru core-cultures.
Magdi -an Israeli Jew, rides the field manager's tractor--hauling the flatbed to unload into the lorry driven by his ill-contained neighbors, the Palestinians. Everytime we harvest, like once a week, inevitably it rains. 70lbs of bananas sawed off its mother tree stalk is the fruit hod, so to speak, we deliver to the flatbed. Rats nesting in the bunch leap to escape this frenetic jettisoning of its lair. If Babylon restrains us, demands our reliquishing of a kind of escape, then thru the semblance contrived of imminent loss, do I sing in a strange land. My feet are my bed--the dance is to downpress Babylon from its demented telos always supposed, always ego forlorned.

I have seen the voice stream. Definitely in night's chimera, but as if this mind media, tho' thoroughly reified, more than anything an elemental kind of body consciousness came out of me like breath and light thru my eyes. The context of at least a couple of dreams had Moses dwell within me, draped my countenance, with prophetic mantras, angry & unconvinced I would hear it wholly in a vertex of continuity where otherwise I should have been appopriating the suffering characterizing my demonic trials.
The trees' boughs embowered with all this precipitation create vistas of live scaffolding dripping w/mind milk. Its scrawl of their limbs is definitely the only perfect image one might conceive naturally of our mind's physical proliferation.
The sight of these trees giving these 'burbs character, their canopies wail in its remoteness, the leaves in swaying voices telling their subjects of the one place human industry won't reach. Trees look like they speak to the skies in their yawning arc up above, and these oaks with muscular trunks--now below, have housing architecture more to convene in fortitude. The pug marks of squirrels, the clawing scratches from robins, starlings et cetera--make dust on people's yard's approach clairovoyant, niche-like--the demands of my language gifted with new repositories: Seems like antiquated alliteration, but new language to me for the old & eternal!!!
Of course Buddha represents a just cause. He had respite within the King's court (his pops). He got experienced at the most acquisitive peace to suspire in days of succour--mind can't be discomfitted if learning has no tether to closed crowd. If it's just you and the rest of the world--then there's nothing really to turn off. (despite the melodrama riches were not his ambition, preponderant--ugly in its material success) He was an Egoist=his self-interest was fulminate, roiling just to be called by the report at once below the sea's frozen surface... Healing adduced. His education abideth a sabbath learning. Going out, his exiling, had been propitiated...

At one point, back in the 90s, I lost my voice. This was a symptom of intense scrutiny--self-scrutiny, and "how" I spoke was reeling and enumerating in mind's eye - the feeling was that I was serving it up for exasperating reasons, really unto a material success IN my condition downpressing my better intentions... My voice came out really high pitched, and it took a lot of good humor to see it as just one step toward knowing What Ought ever to be said--the language vehicle, my impelling motility *spontaneity, or modality *the ground from which expression is formed, in Expression couldn't any longer be handled in the same way. I needed the song in my heart and mind to come-correct. Just to say the right thing. The sense would otherwise round out a script with which everything said would have had immense consequences.
Walnuts and their fragrant tannins, this phala (broadly saying "fruit") is the rimmonim or pomegranates of a deep aside. Threaded thru psuedepigraphia the pomegranate draws one east, and is the color of splendor. Cite the Zohar here--written in the 1200s I think--meaning NOT in the 2nd century. If herb fi me wine has a libation recommended in paradise, the inside-myself florescence sees plaintive mind's wail absorbed in black fire and its white fire tabula rasa... Just senses bound to letters. I'd drink any offered, merciful milk, wine, honey, eternity's water. Good enough I see these symbols permutated, and people who actually got to clarified aeries--Orientalists--bring the east's language finessed just so. Verifying an academician's romance with IT had this given character that the ideal will get inverted anyway.
Any reading dealing w/LIGHT is a sense that we experience a proponet at our side, thru our senses--the orientation toward the Most-I. Inayat Khan, a contemporary Sufi, uses this higher ground subject, isn't showing the actionable success of theoria writing until the Ideal is represented. The light for sight, ire-ites, the countenances of energies, actually vessels, rooted to anthropos in our devotion to divulge valleys of indecision, releases us--the shadows vacous and regressed so that solarity makes one's struggle--into the field of possibilities--that it may be meditation unfoundered. If consciousness is to be deficit riddled, like a pile of gems having the beam of merely a flashlight to refract speciously, it is only that subjectivity w/o fulminate burnishing rays under the Perfect Source, which compels man to unmix the dross of its (light's) restraints that would brave restitution in the World with less meaning than its conduct we suffer.
Woke up one morning w/the still background of my room in my silent chimerical repair in all kinds of white noise vibratory properties--the walls thicker, more uniform, weirdly stultifying... Valerie in her suspiring repose looks loved and consumately halotosis wealthy--I kissed her lips anyway. The feeling from dream-scapes tacitly emptying, without this lens, without walls colorless dry & heavy, usually makes the mind have impetus (the compulsion of novel expressions, language re-emerging)---and factors-in the projected mean (=life revivified); the sense that my room became such an evident intermediary meditation pushes self-emptying into a mental-scape landmark...: I was certain that the dream of existence was unwed by anykind of awakening. My world just reified dream-time--a proliferate motive if dreams loose none of its retreat in temporal awakening!!

Before the Intifada of '87, a signifier of the devolved state of numinal examples, social expectations spited...expiring in humanity's thwarted key to enlist my rally, in Jerusalem around ben Yehuda blvd, my ego-strife got shorned of distraction, and Rob & I dosed half a blotter of A a piece. The morning after, if anything be told that liquid sky is beheld, an emblem of whose life in one well of time, just a Jew, raises my head toward the Way (halakhah), where he'd been acceding unto. Yes, I dooo ask--and what is to fulfill me in yielding to an Absolute is more a nod of a concession he allows, and I go and be received et al, particularly w/o reifying his formal meditation in the memorialized space of his Chosen* Way. Chosen is just the mythic commerce of a theodicy product worthy of anyone, yet dharma is precisely IT. He steps out of Meir She'arim--a night's day opens like fire, or lotus--the community is next to the hostel where we stayed... Sustained reverence but at the expense of anything else appreciating in my senses is critical for my repair. This next-day-after expunged the immanent retreat one can simply imagine in mind-sore psychedelia--it has to be eVer a retreat, and still mundane temporance cans something more instructive - but after, I know aFter! To reckon renewal is to take exception, but observation of what profundity my fealty to life as reliable felt like, was rightfully framed in the belched calvacade of the Religious (strict minds, strickened spirits somewhere amongst)--to this man into my immediate sphere. The sky had mouthfuls of fire, stars, and the valley of tongues is language sounding like the peal of a bell and the world stands as serene; a point at the ground of being where emanate days are wed.

Native Congregations deny National irreality

Things get brighter and louder as the battle gets harder, and bottle gets hotter (everytime it is reached for). The tear of light, that very intensity, may be a light in mourning, the lament that never gives way--something solidifying integ...rity with what is only a deep aside. Senses do peak and are measurable in solitarian inquiry: for me ambling down old roads, haunting places, like the ghost-town is the last place we experience til the government comes along and pushes it down... I'm haunting myself like my alterior ghostly peer, observations within, answering to the most Self found in the deficit of self-duty demanding the necessary change. Finding OUT is one thing, tho' recompence is demanded by seeing the Outward Fact pregnant with demands for our attention AND is after, only after we hope down from up above... Finding Out references in the bridge toward transcendental awareness, make the path beckon assiduous gaits in mega-transect toward prone repose--Opened Up to chaossssssss, and its proportional gravid development.
Trees say, I am the people--do the right thing; "the health of crowd consciousness is indefinite prayers, and convincing pilgrimages with imparticular holy days." A kind of true democracy is the institute of nature's "cabala." The "reception" of land to sea, rivers bisecting universe, mother's heart as a trek to immanent release from nature to its annihilating propensity. Born of it, cycling and consciousness as its accidental excrescence, consciousness of the furtive voyager in light and chthonian reception--the trees deign man to wander its precincts with pentant slights of impermanence.
Devotion (in seasonal fading dawn!) actionable among the elect is in respiring clement days, & trees gainsay the sabbatical into waned energies, darker days, dormant or viscous sky. Walnut trees and all the bombast of black resinates proliferate around Fallon Rd in my old neighborhood. A place detracting the volition of my changes now, was the places of my Becoming then--in the certainty skies of my youth. Architecture of the trees-line tops at suburb's coalescent mean, Beaumont Park, have birds overcoming, taking to blue pleroma like smoke out of home's hearth, the philosophical thwarting of fires into heady arborial aeries... Dissipating some of the smoke's evidence in our parlor repose--white smoke exhalation (from the woody black smoke sighs) posits roads willfully bound since all that is required is a walk-about.

Castaneda's A Yaqui Way of Knowledge has a few moments of precise content, fulminate, but furtive and fluctuating from kaleidoscopic drug romance..., which has someone Experienced in advanced objective repose. The reader of such content evolves with the tide of considerable astral temptations--the canine witnessed while it lapped up water is my inquiry. How light florescences shower off of the animal, placing it in smart painted desert night as its anomaly--it is Lighting up the night! This self-same water trough across the garage from where I had lain, had obscure radiance of moon's allure--milky but neon on its comely surface, watching me watching it (the moon, the proffering water etc.), etching out the well of time: 25 minutes of life in transcendent bridge, is the conjuration of a life striven for meaning--so the sun always exigent behind, voids are becoming substance. Crowley's illicit repute never could traduce the light and shadow play in my forlorn solicitude--still his lens rapt of danger has night deliberative and judgmental, and yet I parsed qualia from his memoir (til much later when I threw it away into the recycling)--things like Buddhist contemplation never bedeviling me with raven's on gallows for shoulders, as other fiery meditations represented in the different genres, or his...

Subject: blueberries for breakfast--the fruits of hearing=my new mix: It ain't me, babe--the ethiopians--desmond Dekker--Bombino!!!-
Propositions contingent upon necessity, importance, non-importance, if "modality" is true or false (defined thusly in Websters), have to answer if the mores from social-ego paradigm is in effect the Compassionate Edifice. If in repair, that something is good for meditation, makes cessation from non-skillful grasping for modality always-in-flux, contentment and the genesis positing of answers, rather than power over necessities (and any further value statements): this being a thread to hope as it IS in a path but whose goal is negligible, since a path is all one can hope for.
Modes pedestrian in nature, man-free in dire reckoning to go far over, way over--damned goal oriented to Place, finds modality in coves of blue slumber Night purdah, physical map impressed as in subtler thresholds. In & out under deciduous boughs, the shadows impelling mind (w/lucidity) into tree's non-space in silent folds stuttered all along the "thrum of the sidewalk," (all but frayed til goal's reception is no longer the concern). But silent nod is affected-mind, apophasis rallied, and peace is made WITH whom transition can't be rallied: our "open-crowd" in the Hero's dementia of transition (his own), are yet receptacles (they are) to the inconsistant relief of his control. He'll only know to care--this compassionate edifice--in light of his considerable singularity. Shadows make him liberated in
singularity--no one else is defined by the squeeze of night's attrition!

Matter is an Efficient Cause when we suss Form (the Place, as if when speaking of the Absolute.)--matter proliferates actualization--the Observer is destined to reduce his assertions, since Form holds sway. Form requires less reason than it does a disclaimer on our aimlessness, & only after thwarting causelessness caloused misintuited Essense, Meaning meaning Form founds a Natural Congregation, as opposed to a National Cause. The pattern placed in effect from authority speaks of "security" the heathen must be ever more vigilant in appreciation. Psychological restraints are intra-mantra slavery that encourages interest in something immanent, when one rather should begin to use the cues of language as he hears them--Outwardly, rather than as he names his feelings.
Material void is Time--timeliness if What-Is sours from the misfortunate machinations of revision, always refuting authority "psychologically misapprehended," would have minds relish the shame that makes the heirophant (likeness of which he's made a nation of One) high (cleverly clinging to life undeveloped).
Listening to music with a stayed theme--bringing summer days of having been in the country-Catskill mts back to holistic emotion. The streams up in wooded D. Boone Forest ambiguation had still waters receiving wrought confessions--tarrywealthy consolation: enough ebb off of stepping stone banks... Here, in sensei fraught back room, a porch, has the same smell of my now past Aunt's house--and a making of that dialect relating to the Jewy atmosphere fulminate if only in its 0 sum rescue. Spirits are higher, vision of motives and clarity, the project of self-worth I can capture in just a couple of words "the tyrant of mind's vitae, a subtle form in solicitude, but undeniably the uncarved block."
The sigh of first moments observation of chattel mouldering, lying down--its shadow cast, shows the Joy frequently unannounced in man's. Still moonsoaked it (man's) would be and just as likely vacuously unearthed, tho' a cow sees an ally in its own! Mine is too paced, but body consciousness placed just so sky-prone, piles of stars make my margins in a pitch tone, colored like wet sand on top of dry. Ubiquitous by degrees, and present as humidity strati on summer's hillocky roads.
I stink like the black smoke respired, I mark black smudges on the pleroma from negativity invasive--Buddhist matreya-like; the white marks come with my volition thru this ground of being, and are the posit of jettisoned complacency...
Mom, just remember,it ain't news to me -or you- this place is become old.
The spiritual man is mad, I told her & the cement porch floor. And imagining absurdity/madness with sky liminal restraints, is Order enough, a vesseled prodigious carpeted sky instilling antiquity imminent but unapproachable. Rhythm bubble bouncing, depths in pitch, and home languishes remotely--with the lens of the former residents to the Place where I get received, the having-to-catch-up always in profiles from yawn in continuity: I eat what they've eaten. If the gravy-train train was public domain, it is gray water, say bio-waste, making me stink in hotel-like domicile--the first question raised! How long down the end of lonely street? Isn't love circumventing my mouldering solicit of motive to be the compassionate-dweller of another arabia's denizen?

THE "ABAD"==ornamentation w/hues of humanity *Arabic term

My urine piddle is a wrinkle in time; I only want to piss on spectral shores. Next to attritioning river of time (the irony of its slow fidelity takes earth's map into one penultimate direction--the ocean is never full, takes more & more & denies all the purchase of man's alliterating paths, padding thru dust=articulating it & washed of its precise content!), memory 'flect and thought tarries like light in waves of immense magnificate days...
Matter is an Efficient Cause when we suss Form (the Place, as if when speaking of the Absolute.)--matter proliferates actualization--the Observer is destined to reduce his assertions, since Form holds sway. Form requires less reason than it does a disclaimer on our aimlessness, & only after thwarting causelessness caloused misintuited Essense, Meaning meaning Form founds a Natural Congregation, as opposed to a National Cause. The pattern placed in effect from authority speaks of "security" the heathen must be ever more vigilant in appreciation. Psychological restraints are intra-mantra slavery that encourages interest in something immanent, when one rather should begin to use the cues of language as he hears them--Outwardly, rather than as he names his feelings.
Material void is Time--timeliness if What-Is sours from the misfortunate machinations of revision, always refuting authority "psychologically misapprehended," would have minds relish the shame that makes the heirophant (likeness of which he's made a nation of One) high (cleverly clinging to life undeveloped).

Sun's corona pushes my thoughts to the blue redeemed blanket, and starwealthy possibilities!
As some mystic heathen, solitude waiting for me to brave solarity, around the mid-teens of my life, I threaded the white horizon break as companion to katan Olam, the microcosm, healing contained Within, and its Meaning elusive but indicated Without
I am there but not less than her--more. Yet she so ooother, is the beatific exigent to all that world you ever leverage voluntas to work for. Still, her promise is in semblance, and not necessarily in union. Her formal throe into all my social resource, consumes me--consumes everything more than me. She's more than muse - she gives Emotional-soul, the one associated with Mercy, to the vehicle of expression. She is Spirit chorus--the wind commentator--and I am sullied by just a feeling... Without her is one thing, without me is quite another. I am sullied by just a feeling. She's its epiphany--at least I gainsay my fealty embowering thru powerlessness.
Blood spore dissipation, mind-sore apprehension is this one's and that one's utter inept rapture with the marvel of this world notably taken for soluable sensory data. The reserve any One-other has to desire more integrity in homeward loam has all the product of imagination of my vouchsafe in cedar clarified lair--thing actual.

Language is material--martyring its potent affection may be self-duty, a way to "save" yourself from the threat that the well of time, the conscious-pocket, is a reservoir of the Other's extremis in your center from Without.

Imagine that suspended feeling,when the road transpires really very linearly. For a moment hypnotic & freed up. Either the weird security that we attend to in its moment to moment nuance is jettisoned or not--but if it is, this state of mind--similar to the attention we sight in meditation, only reveals a feeling about MORE loss of control... Rather it is much like the daoists claim about fluidity, effortlessness! The road is matched in perfect glyphs self promoting ready to be scathed--an image adduces formally a book of rules--aspirations of imagination. But how the mind codifies the Efficient Cause has Shapeless Mass = Jah--in one spectral vessel, a moment, and just a pulse that nothing any longer is hidden.
PURITY's DECISOR...In death or in life, water ought to be our exigent incarnation. It IS merciful, has all the attributes of Eternality. Heaven is thought of as a fountain..."blue, blue windows behind the stars." N Young* And what is unique upon earth is ancestor revival mischief, but thru his/her source-=-messages showering us with rainy meaning. Its flowing mysterium makes the easily defined ubiquity as it posits the air the sun the buena vista, looks gravid when, say, a stream is met with a recent deluge--a pregnant translucent surface contrives this quality.
It is the big things, we answer for, that destroy intuition. Focus on a diminutive cause. The means are always letter permutations--analytic meditation, as recommended by his Holiness the Dalai Lama, for disambiguation to allay traduced passions, and to tether one to the Truth. The doctrinaire society however bound to integrity for their success, protects it at the cost of the praxis of awakening.

Last night I came up w/ a sense that the Observer is the extinguisher of freedom. Men seem emergent from space, where as women seem to refine Time as a pilgrimage thru space. If memorialized space has convenient thresholds where the intermediary is effective in man's need for a Roof (Rastas chant I need a Roof in Old Testament verity.), just as within a dream, had we looked, Mind is always predominant behind the drawn curtains enveloping our anthropos evol!!! Man hunts the provocateur of consciousness impulses--and one usually orients himself to what is the most evident, and most accessible moment of release...
For a time I decided not to look in a mirror. Other people telling me they've done that always seemed so contrived--like a strange concern over vanity had consumed them. In Jerusalem at the yeshiva I stayed at, went to classes over-together for just a few weeks, the men had no mirrors in the lavatories. (Odd, and compelling--tho' other and unevidenciary.) Driving down my neighborhood road anticipation of my visage now after a couple of months of avoiding my rreflection would have a continguous immanent quality. Not so much the obviate readying oneself for presentation in social oevre as we project and schedule, but what occurred was a feeling that the next time I look it would be a tremulous look under the veil--a purdah of distance strung... I waited til I thought I had seduced the most revealing facade of appearance--a tacit escounced moment -- then at a precise moment, instead of holding eyes into the steady gaze toward rear-view mirror, I pulled down the visor--having no mirror--and wallah, there I look back at myself all King Crimsony as if reflection should be coiled in stillness in the looking glass... The stranger was abated--I knew the red anthropositing of I Me Mine, yet the receiver of my cadence certainly was not withOut: it was wholly within.