**The paring of the blackPurple skies humming down I-75 was Cincinati vaudevillian-- had caught a ride with some incarnate of my oldest brother--now the sky as before me droning in my face buried in the antique car's back floorboard. It is like the sky was on stage in my mind's theater and the stars were the courting of figures with meanings of city-states announcing denizens in one stream of color sheen audience-observer, upon the shore-edge of roads' peripheries. I saw punk hair cuts like a dragon whip, and stellar pompous makeUp as if the future-spectacle had been interceded taking people's temporal floor and inverting it. The eyes looking back occasionally into the floorboard were not ocular, but shunts of fluid-bearing soul funk in cosmic luminescence. The driver's back had pretensions to my receding into road report resonance. His back was ocular, as if all these conscious bodies were thrwarted by wards of consciousness sortee's-- the fray of which he and everyone else could have--I was standing still--sitting perfectly still!!
**My cousin's chimey voice somehow gets even-flow in Val's---like really enumerated. I told her (my cuz) as much around Thanksgiving, just because. The vertex that her audition easy speak emotes from me is really I am getting to hear lavender-mood--something really climate. The opposite of talk-embarrass when vox mundi collapses and reckoning of passion ends...the APposite of which would rather have language fragmented and liminal poesis - a white fire taking the whole of our subtle body, glory having been left behind... Her rosy colored mourn (I think I got that from Kerouac) is rapt and uncomplaining. Someone draining in cosmopolitianism (her, kithe & kin)--g^d I can tell ya' I'm happier than most.
**Like a dog carrying a paper, inky chemicals contrive my brain, in as much as I was master and National Geographics were the broadcasted outward fact come to the fore, and under a lamp with milky white light in its pretense that all colors were heralded. I saw the fireplace from this repose in a dream--it is next to the ottoman, a good enough seat of a 1000deaths, without its exterior wall there--and the vista made plain was in the snow wake, out toward the neighbor's RunJoeRun fence -- the one I watched the german shepherd Missy jump over on so many alerted to occasions... Fire with a crystaline visage frozen intermediary conflagrations not obviated--and yet a hot callalou in letters in my upsetter melancholy that if only it wasn't in proportion of just that one corner of my mind--I'd go w/a content chimera albeit.
**To the extent that someone is an answer--for me it was those in the beggardly squalor these Egyptians lived in in Dahab (then just barely a village, yet w/one bldg w/electric, there on the Red Sea), as well as the actual beggar laying in the strolling boulevard (Ben Yehuda Blvd.) in Jerusalem, I feel any archetypal mystic is thing-actual. With the strange economy of spirit & survival --what I imagined as NOT what I need to be interupting, the vessel for his/her mitigation of those factors playing out their sentient little selves, makes every shown orifice look ringed with bLACK within: shadows behind his guffaw, pinched eyelids, olfactory forebearance of unenchanting odors. My G^d they live this way, & perhaps gather silent hedges, walkways into ubiquity, just elemental facts, like a buddha experiencing the denial of the Destroyer Mara in visions ultimately more tangible than the fight of self-worth in killing ego's bland instruction--those few words of obscene deterance --its excrescence, my trial.
**I don't have any friends in high places. Not even myself. If man is suppose to have a kingly self with which to adjure life in one's magnificence, then perhaps a good slave heralding remote land's resources, as no one else could make the decision to live so distantly would be my lot.
**It's all ego says a Himalayan monk. He was interviewed in this buddhist preachy photo coffee table book of R. Gere's--called pilgrims. But taking the varnasrama-dharma doctrine --the thing about our agency, as opposed to our vocation, a monk is what Siddhartha became. Then he finds the great awakening from the dream of existence, to use Kerouac's assignation. So this monk living so remotely--in a cave perhaps solitarian, still is in the crowd of I & Thou & I & Nature...while mitigating I & We: it's all ego. Where the hell is I & I? Because socially actionable creatures that humanity is instructed this guy to leave the rest at arm's length. So his reaching for a glass of water has Varuna (Uranus) with messages from the ancients, and so-that water won't deluge us in the next incarnation, we speak to it, give it praise at its cloy: it is trying our patience at oUr behest!
**I intend on innundating myself in mania--a conscious pocket, mind economy--money ina pocket ...Leaving things out in the tidal pools like exposing my leprosy to sungods and water deserts. That insanity is a force of calvacades exemplar, it's invited--not really cultivated. But absurd enough in vaporous looming the mendicant in me is "a" peasant " walking to the road, to return all that is old," is a spiritual memory that I'd 'flect.
I love the village--say smoking Jew--with certain places (it's Dostoevskian parlors if I can hack it with me) where he'd resign his need to learn: go to a shtiblech. I shtibl is a studyhall, a shtiblech maybe more like an office, but courted by kinda heirophants to engage in pilpul=argument! Language is the victor, vehemence would be vanquished--insanity is redemption whose meaning in hebrew concerns this assertion: redemption, an answer, and restoration, IS our "turning-around."
**Throwing newspapers--barely maintaining a residence myself--imagining the sentience projected from the small minds of nephews I hear as I jump & skip around Cardinal Valley while I volley my route... It was like I was having to swear to these angels that I'd agree to watch over--"asking the angels"--I was "starting to bleed." (P. Smith) Runny consciousness, solitude as the advent of non-stylin' and un-pompousness, still makes a career of that self-effacement that the rest of relationship--the weird I & We--says much has been said in way of these places I haunt. The sense that my nephews were crowding me struck dharma in my heart, self-duty, and I teared up. With Jenny then some, her excelsior-izing Olds 98 coming up and I try the realness and effect of all this upon her receiving mind. Jenny just reacts motherly--and I see just what it is that circumvents weariness. As she & I stand out in my front, I mention my nephew to her--(he actually just walked up on me as I deliberate this) and she affirms, nods, spits and those angels still are in the abject air in my steps behind, just touching earth.
**take aim--she patters around more OUTside, than the purchase of her gait at home evinces home as memorialized space
I get these ocular migraines. As it comes on devolves recklessly and lessens in the concern it causes, I have not uncertain feelings of strict impermanence. Things like I'm as good as buried--it won't be long now; Mom hasn't barely another day amongst; the business would be sacrificed for the once comely necessary distraction it has become; death, that's it. The lion's share of self-consciousness-tho' gets looked at like there's a promise. These black & white stases in the concourse of star tincture and light intensity, makes me ASK of this receptacle, mind, but I'm used to having no answer on ground's consciousness (pocket) and still I observe -- like give & take here makes even the worst of my attention a trek into clarity...& there is no break like the norm IS stricken.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Sunday, January 16, 2011
The shanty shtetl of my mind's eye glance
**THE SHADOW OF g^D, AND THE pitch of night, are the studied observation of excavated space before me, sun at my back--with substance the contrary standard, a blue slumber--to use Rimbaud's language. A jaunt across Beaumont Park was boundary-made enough that thresholds borne of time passing was in the measure of distance strung before me and a "great awakening from the dream of existence." * Kerouac. I wanted the space absolute & the IN of where I was remitted entirely of a place I couldn't otherwise fathom ontologically. Looked at emptiness as I graduated across the hillocky field--looked at flaps of perimeter-made shadowy self invert & perversely shout in reflexion that-wasn't-enumerated but by my eyes shutting out burning summery grass.
**Felt strange green-night shadows across my pillows, street lights thru my windows--something Dylan says about a kinda tinker on the streets, and we'd paint pictures under our sheets, and my room may as well be an amphora, like I am the pharonic guts in dusty reproach of flat-lined time filling bottles with empty eternity. In Sufferin Ny, where I stayed a night w/Orthodox cousin and her rabbi husband before flying to Israel, the consuming night seemed rather that it was served up to yet some other sentient body--just not mine. And lying there in the guest room I had to recall what it was imagining living slow fidelity next to a river (of life). The intervallic seance of cars passing by, and conscious map appearing, kept stunting my awareness of time & place. I plainly was unfamiliar with the neighborhood, so the vehicular trajectory was voidant and not met. The pavement w/its rubber report was New York-ish, but no empirical plate was set so the victuals of centeredness could be assessed. I braced for a dissolved attention of where I will ever beeee.
**WORDS make us high--or rather the voice drUnk. Tho' I don't mean from something imbibed, but just how thu expression what one says, is nuanced with what gets built upon that edifice & conscious prop. And since we tend to really give a damn ...to be identified thru what it is that conveys us--it is just as likely the folly of solitude 'pon the mt. of abbreviated thought--thru language--is the place from which we jump abysmally...because language is vain, vapors to vapors, as King Solomon saith.-----------The ego tells me everything and sometimes anything true, or at least realistic. I gave every extremis resolve the heat of a gratuitous climb into its furthest range--just because. Language collapsing in upon it itself, is ego rounded out in my leisure due in part that expression is a foundering boat constabulary of self-effacement. The lightning vox adventuring thought having the yawn of concept wretch consciousness, is still in fact liminal--measured, and an allowance of mind restraint from the incorrigible long day's end receding like I LIKE it. It shall pass. Language is NOT set in stone: it's cheap.
Anyway, anyone of us who may get into a stream of consciousness, makes the motive a priori a consumate rush and relevent self-respecting adulation as per this Beat author's excellent way of doing just this--meaning Kerouac. Seriously. And this book (Big Sur) is about his demise into alcoholism which eventually killed him--but not in this book, unless we are speaking in terms of karmic death, in which case I am leaving this NOTE to dead men/women as I conjure this relativity... The book should be relatively cheap, and has "our" brand of release in it so that we can know that Hunter S Thompson was indeed an asshole, but Kerouac was a saint, yet they looked thru the same glass darkly--and that being a factoring-IN of what it is as common denominator for this americana minus any any any authorial body lest we speak of G^D. I'm reading "about" his book On The ROAD, and someone asks him, Do you write about Jesus? And he said, if I were a crazy man and only wrote about Jesus and I come to your house and say Jesus has nothing to do with my "alliterative artifice," *(my words) then you can be sure anyone who says they never speak of Jesus is lying and is crazy. I am interpretive here, but I think he means--no one has a choice, we are all writing about G^d. The above language subject rant I wrote this morning--this paragraph is ahappenin' as of Now, I mean now---no no no NOW....
^^Kickin it w/my nephew today, really relating to something about BMW and release, and a horsefarm by my house where my changes took place... And particularly this time in the late 90s up in the Catskills when boy was about 15 or 16. He'd want to smoke, --I was done bitchin' about the waste of time that that was, so we'd wander out to the forest and Steven would light up. We walk down to the stream, pregnant translucent & damn if I didn't reconcile an empty trove that begs for spiritual content, because of the Jewish thing in presumptive less than magnetic draw upon me...there...& then. Yet, the advantage that the distance even in a remote quality that had self-actualization waiting for me, was now sooo close up, in that creek, mosquitos in a hot callalou/ whatever the Rasta meant by that (actually it may be an allegorical soup reference)/ burning a campfire before heading back up the bungalows, was fealty under no control of mine... Just tossed the motive that I was stuck with my reckoning about day & age--but stuck I was!!
**In Rushdie's book Midnight's Children, these youths across India were born with extra-sensory powers at the inception of the birth of modern India. One youth can enter into the vehicle of imagery of some one's past and be the observer of even times antediluvian--so to speak, I'm saying, before their birth. The presage of ideation, that I would use/choose an image in some kind of intuitive capacity--is entirely by definition of something I can see--as upon a spectral shore--whose message is remote, and in a sense that I've gathered it even in proximal distance... One part of Rushdie's book deals with the bodhisattva Shankarcharya, in N. India. The higher plateaux, the finesse that my inner-eye borrows from a coarser view of the world, and somehow stages mind's perimeter, like I can accede to limits of rational hard-fought for thought, is taking imagination from frayed narratives and acceptable release, to a constancy and becoming a self-proponet, like an arhat. That I need someone is one thing-- that they'd have answered for things for me, is adjudged as body-liberation--is folly jettisoned. In our solitude we may get to just what identity borrowed out of theoria, has as the warrant in solitarian examples for finding ourselves.
~~The train is to reggae, as the sundarbans are to the sitar. Rastas live redeemed even into ghost-towns, Babylon's expellent, til the government comes along and pushes them down. Shudras (Pariahs), on village vocations' margins, live lives' shadows the floe of surface, an erasing of what-is beneath, ultimate transition, utilitarian benevolence...in life as we know it.
~~When was the last long distance pedestrian transect--a kind of ambulating pilgrimage have you undertaken? An interesting trod was taken by me & my buddy once on the road from Rachel's Tomb to Tiberias. We only ended up walking a few hrs. But the grapefruit we apropriated was a measure of magnificate skies. Closer to the lament memorial/ Rachel's Tomb, but never acTuaLLy knowing our proximity there, stood right off the road a UN school, Palestinian of course there, and the custodians were none too availed of comradeship to us strangers. And I just leapt from my imagination that Arabesque epicurean super sweetened tea/chai wouldst be on offer. A crush of world village & rather jettisoning the cramp of fenced off deadly propriety.***One way that TURNED the darkness to light, a probable trajectory if we assume meaning will avail, was thru strenuous activity as the following discusses.:: Here in Lexington seems like a long walk in the offing was a way to gather the disparate elements of myself. I do call it a pilgrimage. It's been a couple of decades but hoofing it from the Univ of Ky up a few miles to my neighborhood--now where I live again--made the presentiment of things like the patternic traffic lights flashing, and then also the in & out trod under street lights, corridor plateau corridor plateau--a symbolic tarry which I could then anticipate in dreams. I was so weary at one time from my hike, that it came to me only certain things may occur in dream-time, and that I might determine there & then what would be the imagery vehicle. The sense of it IT gave me was a view to an ascending path, as opposed to resignation of a lost night and a meandering into its looming shadowy forgetfulness.
**Felt strange green-night shadows across my pillows, street lights thru my windows--something Dylan says about a kinda tinker on the streets, and we'd paint pictures under our sheets, and my room may as well be an amphora, like I am the pharonic guts in dusty reproach of flat-lined time filling bottles with empty eternity. In Sufferin Ny, where I stayed a night w/Orthodox cousin and her rabbi husband before flying to Israel, the consuming night seemed rather that it was served up to yet some other sentient body--just not mine. And lying there in the guest room I had to recall what it was imagining living slow fidelity next to a river (of life). The intervallic seance of cars passing by, and conscious map appearing, kept stunting my awareness of time & place. I plainly was unfamiliar with the neighborhood, so the vehicular trajectory was voidant and not met. The pavement w/its rubber report was New York-ish, but no empirical plate was set so the victuals of centeredness could be assessed. I braced for a dissolved attention of where I will ever beeee.
**WORDS make us high--or rather the voice drUnk. Tho' I don't mean from something imbibed, but just how thu expression what one says, is nuanced with what gets built upon that edifice & conscious prop. And since we tend to really give a damn ...to be identified thru what it is that conveys us--it is just as likely the folly of solitude 'pon the mt. of abbreviated thought--thru language--is the place from which we jump abysmally...because language is vain, vapors to vapors, as King Solomon saith.-----------The ego tells me everything and sometimes anything true, or at least realistic. I gave every extremis resolve the heat of a gratuitous climb into its furthest range--just because. Language collapsing in upon it itself, is ego rounded out in my leisure due in part that expression is a foundering boat constabulary of self-effacement. The lightning vox adventuring thought having the yawn of concept wretch consciousness, is still in fact liminal--measured, and an allowance of mind restraint from the incorrigible long day's end receding like I LIKE it. It shall pass. Language is NOT set in stone: it's cheap.
Anyway, anyone of us who may get into a stream of consciousness, makes the motive a priori a consumate rush and relevent self-respecting adulation as per this Beat author's excellent way of doing just this--meaning Kerouac. Seriously. And this book (Big Sur) is about his demise into alcoholism which eventually killed him--but not in this book, unless we are speaking in terms of karmic death, in which case I am leaving this NOTE to dead men/women as I conjure this relativity... The book should be relatively cheap, and has "our" brand of release in it so that we can know that Hunter S Thompson was indeed an asshole, but Kerouac was a saint, yet they looked thru the same glass darkly--and that being a factoring-IN of what it is as common denominator for this americana minus any any any authorial body lest we speak of G^D. I'm reading "about" his book On The ROAD, and someone asks him, Do you write about Jesus? And he said, if I were a crazy man and only wrote about Jesus and I come to your house and say Jesus has nothing to do with my "alliterative artifice," *(my words) then you can be sure anyone who says they never speak of Jesus is lying and is crazy. I am interpretive here, but I think he means--no one has a choice, we are all writing about G^d. The above language subject rant I wrote this morning--this paragraph is ahappenin' as of Now, I mean now---no no no NOW....
^^Kickin it w/my nephew today, really relating to something about BMW and release, and a horsefarm by my house where my changes took place... And particularly this time in the late 90s up in the Catskills when boy was about 15 or 16. He'd want to smoke, --I was done bitchin' about the waste of time that that was, so we'd wander out to the forest and Steven would light up. We walk down to the stream, pregnant translucent & damn if I didn't reconcile an empty trove that begs for spiritual content, because of the Jewish thing in presumptive less than magnetic draw upon me...there...& then. Yet, the advantage that the distance even in a remote quality that had self-actualization waiting for me, was now sooo close up, in that creek, mosquitos in a hot callalou/ whatever the Rasta meant by that (actually it may be an allegorical soup reference)/ burning a campfire before heading back up the bungalows, was fealty under no control of mine... Just tossed the motive that I was stuck with my reckoning about day & age--but stuck I was!!
**In Rushdie's book Midnight's Children, these youths across India were born with extra-sensory powers at the inception of the birth of modern India. One youth can enter into the vehicle of imagery of some one's past and be the observer of even times antediluvian--so to speak, I'm saying, before their birth. The presage of ideation, that I would use/choose an image in some kind of intuitive capacity--is entirely by definition of something I can see--as upon a spectral shore--whose message is remote, and in a sense that I've gathered it even in proximal distance... One part of Rushdie's book deals with the bodhisattva Shankarcharya, in N. India. The higher plateaux, the finesse that my inner-eye borrows from a coarser view of the world, and somehow stages mind's perimeter, like I can accede to limits of rational hard-fought for thought, is taking imagination from frayed narratives and acceptable release, to a constancy and becoming a self-proponet, like an arhat. That I need someone is one thing-- that they'd have answered for things for me, is adjudged as body-liberation--is folly jettisoned. In our solitude we may get to just what identity borrowed out of theoria, has as the warrant in solitarian examples for finding ourselves.
~~The train is to reggae, as the sundarbans are to the sitar. Rastas live redeemed even into ghost-towns, Babylon's expellent, til the government comes along and pushes them down. Shudras (Pariahs), on village vocations' margins, live lives' shadows the floe of surface, an erasing of what-is beneath, ultimate transition, utilitarian benevolence...in life as we know it.
~~When was the last long distance pedestrian transect--a kind of ambulating pilgrimage have you undertaken? An interesting trod was taken by me & my buddy once on the road from Rachel's Tomb to Tiberias. We only ended up walking a few hrs. But the grapefruit we apropriated was a measure of magnificate skies. Closer to the lament memorial/ Rachel's Tomb, but never acTuaLLy knowing our proximity there, stood right off the road a UN school, Palestinian of course there, and the custodians were none too availed of comradeship to us strangers. And I just leapt from my imagination that Arabesque epicurean super sweetened tea/chai wouldst be on offer. A crush of world village & rather jettisoning the cramp of fenced off deadly propriety.***One way that TURNED the darkness to light, a probable trajectory if we assume meaning will avail, was thru strenuous activity as the following discusses.:: Here in Lexington seems like a long walk in the offing was a way to gather the disparate elements of myself. I do call it a pilgrimage. It's been a couple of decades but hoofing it from the Univ of Ky up a few miles to my neighborhood--now where I live again--made the presentiment of things like the patternic traffic lights flashing, and then also the in & out trod under street lights, corridor plateau corridor plateau--a symbolic tarry which I could then anticipate in dreams. I was so weary at one time from my hike, that it came to me only certain things may occur in dream-time, and that I might determine there & then what would be the imagery vehicle. The sense of it IT gave me was a view to an ascending path, as opposed to resignation of a lost night and a meandering into its looming shadowy forgetfulness.
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