**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.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment