The first time visiting my bro out near-enough to LA--in Newbury then, my self-realization vernacular was huge - I was having overstanding of THIS one life with truck. My brother, as familial and other as time's distances and loss of accord deigns, had kitchen and one room making up his apt--and little contoured paths around art--paintings and such, exercise equipment, sports paraphenalia, clothes.... On the nightstand next to his mattress - no frame, was Ginzberg's Kaddish. The rapprochement of his motive to read Ginzberg may only have been that ancient word used as title, but that he attends to the author's writ, his amaneusis was made clear as mine is to him. I strung ignorance and self-involvement and half-thoughts as across the room like a net as if his mummer and drift --a life of course-- would be made plain, somehow out of lazy queries, but mostly from the geometry milk-laden air and histories lingering and linear, but lost til palms raised and mind-vessels prepare to seize....
^^TEA IS SERVED. Served up for the morning's embellishment of the day's totality. Black tea, in its samovar, in the corner of the ablutional-hand washing part of the restroom, when I was there at the Ohr Somayakh Yeshivah (means Light of Happiness)--getting solid with just what it was these guys would never speak to--certainty overstanding. Eggs baked on a big cookie sheet with slices of green pepper, bland as that in cafeteria settings one December. I felt my attention to be sought-after in the requiem of my attention in mode of seeking. I wanted to imagine what it was the Orthodox expected of me--to do it even--maybe the words Yo Evam Veda, Sanskrit for Who is Knowing This, was good mantra to take on the priorty of empirical studious days of everything past the draw of loyalties. Easy to do that, because I got good at walking away from anything epiphenomenal--that which I'd deign with probity.
UPON my arrival at Ohr Somayach yeshivah in Jerusalem this healthy proximity to learning was something I wanted to witness. Actually, in the room where Torah and Talmudic learning commenced, I walked past, I'm on cold open-to-the-outside foyer floors, looked into the shul where the arc dominates, but only saw individual students davening (=swaying in prayer). My mnemotechnical reckoning was brandished from the thoughts of the only living Hasid I knew (then)--yet wayward and thus more-up-my-alley (he was!), who I could suppose digested these kinds of settings. He was my older brother's Arabic professor & was my Islamic Civilization professor--the same Dr Leon Zolondek at the Univ. of Ky. MEMORY is the internalizing of a procession of thought i.e. time & parallel to experience, living then in my mind--as to say--then, which is a fallacy: you are either NOW or you are in conflict, there isn't any alternative to that. This particular trip to Israel wasn't for study however--rather I was going to meet up with my friend who in a few days would deplane at Ben Gurion airport. The Moshav, communal farm, was to be our longest stay in any one place while traveling for the 2-3 months in Israel and Egypt--and Zolondek was in the survey of my mind at a poignant moment. I was out on the perimeter of the banana fields--there on Moshav Fatsa'il, facing the noon day sun, thinking w/self assertiveness that Zolondek had socialist or Zionist values not alien to what I could absorb for myself there in Israel, a calling for all Jews I'm innocently but emphatically assuming. Zolondek, raised Chasidic turned his critical eye toward Islamic studies, so my yeahs could not be in fact my yeahs, hence the distraction and what came next, which I almost interpreted as my comeuppance, though the minefield around Zolondek's "person-ality" was only a phantom assumption on my part. I'm thinking out there in the hot sun, "Yeah, Zolondek would... " but I don't know what (over & over again in my mind) & then whack, I cut my thumb with my machete, but good--leaving me the rest of the day to do nothing, and imagining the damnable stereotyped sense of a finger pressuring the earth like to your side, as if I was G-d Damning something...something, but didn't know what, .......from the infiltration of agricultural implements and dirt from G-d's green into my permeable body.
^^The world watches and waits, thinks you've done something somewhere, and you haven't Gotten done, been doing, or found your likeness in anything dire that turns to light except for two things ineffable with equal magnetic draw--on par entering thru one door is every bit the one yielding somewhere clement, & the same. Sun by day, moon by night
^^Traipsing on chaparral out near Sedona, Boynton Canyon, red rock looked all buoyant and harvested by meally mouthed adherents, awing in glimpses, but troubling these regions like travelogue disambiguation seasoned from nature's primary alienators. Every chance I got w/the knife self-same as what I had pocketed in Israel & Egypt, I used it to appropriate prickly pear fruit. Folks coming up in these scrabble paths, and once I'd get a good pace and get going I'd scheme to move by someone fluidly, but only not to (scheme), because senses were working with one and against itself--just beyond my appreciating consequence of healthful vistas. So, here's this confined ambulating course into an awaiting fellow-gawker giving way, I find my gait loosing nuance--and like your breath on a mirror, our faces slide off each others in a lurrr & nothing hesitant-- just not physically. And so the commiserate thoughts of just me met by proud land, let me land (lub) just so and again, with orange smelling sunshine as the indefinite choir of hollerin' space.
^^ If trees could speak, these trees next to Zadie's house on Lay St. in Kingston, Ny had laryngitis, or maybe worse, its sentience was sublimated from distance and distance only: the trees in their communities, and people in theirs. They may not collude to repair into dialogues unless animals become the surrogates in allowing the relevent architecture of the skyline seem met with trees' canopy making corridors, lighted and unlit, and gems of polygons at tree throne's feet....
^^1rst attempt journalling, Coltrane portrayed flames of my mind like I broke a fast. Tapas--fire in your gullet w/me made off with renunciation keys to be less abject confessing "I don't know." The kEy! the symbol of certainty - out on a limb pinned--everyone in the season its reason, changing like the tree denying his ever resilience just beneath. Grasping limbs in fray of the turn of the day & I jump from its boughs to thwart the posturing of the rest of the trifoliate pillars unfamiliar with any emanate breath. I watch just wind & spirit suspired in the roused sun eater.
Subject: americana in a kiva
^^Yum in Lakota Myth had the dharma of riding any one of his 4 brother's back as they accede to the 4 directions, making the Direction - perhaps the head cornerstone. Or memorialized space, called bamot--if I can borrow something bedu(ouin) semitic and all the rest, I think rousing a meaning in somewhere Thus. Yum's loading always begins w/Wazi the Witch. She married the comrade of the people Father Tate, and gave the interlopers the charge of her needs to hear what-is to-be found. To be in mind-sores of the warrior, thERE in evasive boundaries propriety musters sanction to brush of trappings of just one propellant of his mission--it is going, and going anywhere. Tate has the brothers back as reasons elapse of people's migrations--each in what ever direction's eponomy, each one enticed by Wazi, and each one wizened enough to demur at one point. Yum is extinguished, GETs to sit anywhere in the tent, as he wishes...
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Friday, February 18, 2011
"My Memory 'flect" --
It is sometimes easy to imagine an Eastern ethos, his perseverance unto mutant numina to perform this or that task. Habits are things of unadventurous patterns, still-apparitions (unmoving) but for the fluctuating mind putting the mild into esteem. Memory 'flect untimely mental apostasy, long ends of days I couldn't meditate away but for swathes of my contagion.
^^Ok, to struggle or "wrestle" with G^d, striving for G^d the definition for Israel, indicates theology, and to toil with one's theoria as it gets aggrandized thru attachments, and competing almost equally w/ a couple of assumed resolutions, is psychology. This is advancing Elie Wiesel's turn of a few words implying just this. I'm sitting here looking at G^d is not One, and when I want the challenge of its denotation to help me "feel" my way thru another day (I stole these last few words from Box of Rain--good line, anyway)--what I did here is imagine the forking path. A high road and a low road, but rather than choose as if either entail a yawn of distances unto some hidden village, I am as upon the high road & moving INTO experience thus yielding to the stretch of road taking me to some valley by the low road. The high road, yes, we move from here into experience as before us, of course, and stupendous liesure is that that relationship is receiving us gratuitously. To be blunt, if you've ever come across folk in their wasted repose -- they certainly look like they've been pondering in a wake of someplace you had otherwise taken leave, yet here you are & their grasp of you isn't unerring and rather his and her composure is relativity-collapsed in upon itself. Avalokiteshvara won't give you something with which we could dispute that people have small natures, and small comportment to frame any man's insignificance.
^^Nihilism is proscribing belief, just not your own. Is it a visage with no terminus when while on stage the artists hear the cinematic dialect as having been understood by something bigger than his/her praise of song's release? Maybe it can't be an observable release because the muse of philosophical smoke--its irony, is that nothing contains it but its furthest reaches are incalcuable.
^^Love that feeling that I am ready. Plans to get poisoned and alliterative designs is what got me intoxicated. Something figuring prominently--beggar at the vertex of blanched room's wall, the sorrow self is waving direction right as I wonder if I coulda appealed to someone somewhere more nigh. But, I am all heady, serenely eluded from the cloister of mounting apathy--just want that author, that dude who trods proud land. (& Karen Armstrong, how she writes about the Other Shore) T E Lawrence has this guy come home to his betrothed. People in the country-side not knowing him, must be gathering what the writ isn't but positing as I see paths' flight-meet-my-step the way it meets his, and anybody's... He bounds the rectitude of country lane next to their plots--and crosses plots, averred from the common pedestrian: he's familiar, the katharsis is that this land empties of inconveniences - it represents the pug marks to his quarry.
^^Some bunch of hippies--on facecrack--think I am of some evangeline about circumcision. My view is a foment from what-ever has been proximal. I SAID WHATEVER--JUST LIKE EVERYONE ELSE WITH THEIR BIASES, w/ as many consequences we can be sure. NO ONE ever took me aside said believe this or that --that I'd better off. Frankly no one can take umbrance that he or she has instructed me from the doctrinaire--it wouldn't have been a cause of some loyalty that makes me listen. And this is not a defense of being in a box. By box I mean sought-after jumping off points with a 2000yr context, an arc East furthering the fade of liminal theodicy...anyone can jump from that loam, OR the Ifrikiyya humanities' beginnings, that has festering environs, like I've seen in Egypt, and as life expectancy attests to with human historicity makes my point, circumcision is cleaner, period (if conditions BE DIRE). They ain't outa their box of something "alternative," nor anymore inspired than the apprehension of something tribal that would otherwise consume the "core-culture" imbalance any fucking way. Do you get that? It is stereotyped attitudes to imagine that it is purely warm & fuzzy religiosity to compel me to say that DOING THIS is an OK thing for a parent to choose. Or NOT--and that is fine, too. It isn't my mission that someone come on board and defend this--it is their blindness that the human condition is this big--I am holding my thumb and finger a 1/2inch apart. Anything that smacks of tradition-traduced in their view--is an evasion... these chics aren't getting Otherness, at all. And anyway, the kid has no freudian pathos he can attest to from it, and appearance means nothing...
**I have restraint by liminal imagination--& resignation ...making me feel things in glimpses, but I don't know what I yoke (the yoga sense-control tho' appreciable is usually going untallied). Fucking vulnerable (just now, dude), seeing myself in profiles guessing at the translator face askew. People that would worry the thing that ultimately is the worst for all asunder takes on religious graffitti, and leaves happier moments, more and less self-aware whispers, sad sad days, everything under the preimminent rest of our lives deigned that way IN the world, from this world, precisely is why the worst of it has no god to seek meaning forthwith, and no demiurge to vanquish.
**Our essense is victory over power in its vocabulary of self-inducement: power says, I'm rife with constancy; I'm beheld when the complacent ceases his diminution & accords with fate. Power's language is its propensity to deny being controlled thru symbols, but rather cheap words consort with eternity, and power is the pique of what forever will be said.
^^Ok, to struggle or "wrestle" with G^d, striving for G^d the definition for Israel, indicates theology, and to toil with one's theoria as it gets aggrandized thru attachments, and competing almost equally w/ a couple of assumed resolutions, is psychology. This is advancing Elie Wiesel's turn of a few words implying just this. I'm sitting here looking at G^d is not One, and when I want the challenge of its denotation to help me "feel" my way thru another day (I stole these last few words from Box of Rain--good line, anyway)--what I did here is imagine the forking path. A high road and a low road, but rather than choose as if either entail a yawn of distances unto some hidden village, I am as upon the high road & moving INTO experience thus yielding to the stretch of road taking me to some valley by the low road. The high road, yes, we move from here into experience as before us, of course, and stupendous liesure is that that relationship is receiving us gratuitously. To be blunt, if you've ever come across folk in their wasted repose -- they certainly look like they've been pondering in a wake of someplace you had otherwise taken leave, yet here you are & their grasp of you isn't unerring and rather his and her composure is relativity-collapsed in upon itself. Avalokiteshvara won't give you something with which we could dispute that people have small natures, and small comportment to frame any man's insignificance.
^^Nihilism is proscribing belief, just not your own. Is it a visage with no terminus when while on stage the artists hear the cinematic dialect as having been understood by something bigger than his/her praise of song's release? Maybe it can't be an observable release because the muse of philosophical smoke--its irony, is that nothing contains it but its furthest reaches are incalcuable.
^^Love that feeling that I am ready. Plans to get poisoned and alliterative designs is what got me intoxicated. Something figuring prominently--beggar at the vertex of blanched room's wall, the sorrow self is waving direction right as I wonder if I coulda appealed to someone somewhere more nigh. But, I am all heady, serenely eluded from the cloister of mounting apathy--just want that author, that dude who trods proud land. (& Karen Armstrong, how she writes about the Other Shore) T E Lawrence has this guy come home to his betrothed. People in the country-side not knowing him, must be gathering what the writ isn't but positing as I see paths' flight-meet-my-step the way it meets his, and anybody's... He bounds the rectitude of country lane next to their plots--and crosses plots, averred from the common pedestrian: he's familiar, the katharsis is that this land empties of inconveniences - it represents the pug marks to his quarry.
^^Some bunch of hippies--on facecrack--think I am of some evangeline about circumcision. My view is a foment from what-ever has been proximal. I SAID WHATEVER--JUST LIKE EVERYONE ELSE WITH THEIR BIASES, w/ as many consequences we can be sure. NO ONE ever took me aside said believe this or that --that I'd better off. Frankly no one can take umbrance that he or she has instructed me from the doctrinaire--it wouldn't have been a cause of some loyalty that makes me listen. And this is not a defense of being in a box. By box I mean sought-after jumping off points with a 2000yr context, an arc East furthering the fade of liminal theodicy...anyone can jump from that loam, OR the Ifrikiyya humanities' beginnings, that has festering environs, like I've seen in Egypt, and as life expectancy attests to with human historicity makes my point, circumcision is cleaner, period (if conditions BE DIRE). They ain't outa their box of something "alternative," nor anymore inspired than the apprehension of something tribal that would otherwise consume the "core-culture" imbalance any fucking way. Do you get that? It is stereotyped attitudes to imagine that it is purely warm & fuzzy religiosity to compel me to say that DOING THIS is an OK thing for a parent to choose. Or NOT--and that is fine, too. It isn't my mission that someone come on board and defend this--it is their blindness that the human condition is this big--I am holding my thumb and finger a 1/2inch apart. Anything that smacks of tradition-traduced in their view--is an evasion... these chics aren't getting Otherness, at all. And anyway, the kid has no freudian pathos he can attest to from it, and appearance means nothing...
**I have restraint by liminal imagination--& resignation ...making me feel things in glimpses, but I don't know what I yoke (the yoga sense-control tho' appreciable is usually going untallied). Fucking vulnerable (just now, dude), seeing myself in profiles guessing at the translator face askew. People that would worry the thing that ultimately is the worst for all asunder takes on religious graffitti, and leaves happier moments, more and less self-aware whispers, sad sad days, everything under the preimminent rest of our lives deigned that way IN the world, from this world, precisely is why the worst of it has no god to seek meaning forthwith, and no demiurge to vanquish.
**Our essense is victory over power in its vocabulary of self-inducement: power says, I'm rife with constancy; I'm beheld when the complacent ceases his diminution & accords with fate. Power's language is its propensity to deny being controlled thru symbols, but rather cheap words consort with eternity, and power is the pique of what forever will be said.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
THE Uber-mensch & old brown as his bed
^^^Let's just say, The thing that supercedes what at once we experience is in all-ways greater. BUT, ultimately the only thing prohibitive is that we (and I & I is soo befitting here) are necessarily first in line. Ego says 1rst in dukkha, 1rst in irreconcilable impermanence - anitya, 1rst in ameobic response to Non-self - anatman. (3) proofs of being deal with Intent too, that we seek sublimation. So, taking the road of the most common denominator would inform someone about individuality, just not in a way where creativity is forwarded in such prone states as he/she who tries to experience things elementally. Dreams give every stable condolence to power spots/ memorialized space: I don't know if I want to dream What-Is, or Awaken from It. Rastas say, was So, As so.
^^^In Dao thought I try to establish a sense that a Path is what I need, will avail, and that it is what defines complexity & interests--things creative, and things where my duty can match mendacity knowing its measure. Marley lyricked, "If you're hoping down from up above help the weak because you are strong." But if yoU are up-above then it's not hope you need. A relationship on whatever higher order has done solutioned the pledge verily change is at hand. And the hierophant, like a Shankarcharya--a bodisattva, who'd come to reconcile a direction, is formerly giving-Way--this path. Hope, then, is a relic--On a path what we meet isn't a hope, rather it replaced anything dithering in the valley of indecision.
I read in Isaac Asimov's Interpretations of the Old Testament that Orion Constellation is known as Kessil-the Fool. Just taking things as a hotch-potch of indications that the iconography of language technology, some repository of words, would keep reflecting as upon my spirit. Impelling my spirit and providing direction without deferring to luck-turning-around for me, is how I would hear the right thing--and manifest change because of the play of echolalia in my mind--a microcosm of symbols reducing the "university" to something I am willing to manage.
I used to read OrIoN back in the 90s--what a fantastic mag. Someone made note of Derrick Jensen mentioned in some article--he sums it up well:
"hope is a longing for a future condition over which you have no agency"
~Derrick Jensen
But, what Path is it that indicates or helps one intuit the lay of the land? In other words--IF TRUTH is a pathless land as Krishnamurti succinctly illumines--or has us learn thru his easy speak, then EVEN a path indicates the futility of our surfacing with hope. Yet, looking at the world--its corridors and "light" plateaux --and saying IF the ground beneath our feet meets us at every step, then the IDEAL path is negligible, since solipsism seems more the statement of presence...that we aren't going anywhere--it's coming to us.
^^^The blindly FELT room, earth tabernacle, was just so before me all conjured by the acuity in the impressions my cuz's X executed there with me, out at the front of her apt - actually opposite of where the Crow's Nest was occupied. At one point I thought I was going to drop my fluid like a chemist with Janna, but she rather called the cops on me--UK cops--and contact with her til this occasion was abridged. Like Ezekiel's Chariot vision--called the merkavah in Kabbalah--is the first esoteric thing in overt circumstances found in biblacy. And she drew me into a web of coloration as if traffic and its pavement report yielded me into auditive chambers. If the chariot/throne would be the symbol of nuanced distances strung, these hugely inane hot & dry contemporary conveyances still impel the courtier to a sense of the meritable for one's desire for "travel." The resounding color-field otherwise of a light (kind of) structure whose entrance was moments before and bound in the eternity of the strewn past starting with the predeceased day's earlier threshold now unaccessed, gave little time for an exit or retreat as something foundering like a denial of plans to carry the day... Looking past our precise captivity, was junky-contrived (not indicating H here) windowed gloss--relicky of urban and concrete jungle self-myth, as in a crystal palace--unredemable and ready to be kicked over, at the fore whose architecture is ungrasped like lightning, but has yet more pleroma in intermediary purple hues, since lightning at night has its preponderance in most observer's Mind.
^^^I'm a terminal case of having confessed to all my faults. Now like the atman, every blueMoon there's just a glimpse of what-all I'd blame for the context of fiery consumed hay days, substance all but yielded up in the eyes of those who had kept coming... It's embarrassing to find myself the accused whilst the mummer of folks travails mention less about me than my peop's passport functionaries sorta suppose. Thhhey don't care--and I don't know enough that the "little trouble" is self-professional, lament, and unreconciled praise...giving a damn, without subtle notice the widely esteemed is availing again.
^^^I thought it was obnoxiously surface of my cousin to write I-sraeli capitalized, and a-rab in lower case. I see the very impulse in a few moments of already-gotten-resolved in my own head. That I was to deal with folks--fucking personally--showered off the poltical animal that is soo useless to build up anyway with all the dirt of graft the integrity of one's people should have delivered to them... IN Jerusalem, I took a couple of buses to get to this Jewish neighborhood, then on foot across a no-man's land and into a tented and cinderblock precinct of Palestinians, to visit Reza Khan...Reza at any rate was part of his name. He sat me down on a two legged chair served me so exceptionally sweet mint tchai and we commenced to misunderstandings whose trappings of time and place were easily jettisoned. I was to give him some linens from Dr French here in Lextown, and honestly who knows if I had the right guy. His fellow denizens just pointed the way to him--I assumed the up & up.
^^^In Dao thought I try to establish a sense that a Path is what I need, will avail, and that it is what defines complexity & interests--things creative, and things where my duty can match mendacity knowing its measure. Marley lyricked, "If you're hoping down from up above help the weak because you are strong." But if yoU are up-above then it's not hope you need. A relationship on whatever higher order has done solutioned the pledge verily change is at hand. And the hierophant, like a Shankarcharya--a bodisattva, who'd come to reconcile a direction, is formerly giving-Way--this path. Hope, then, is a relic--On a path what we meet isn't a hope, rather it replaced anything dithering in the valley of indecision.
I read in Isaac Asimov's Interpretations of the Old Testament that Orion Constellation is known as Kessil-the Fool. Just taking things as a hotch-potch of indications that the iconography of language technology, some repository of words, would keep reflecting as upon my spirit. Impelling my spirit and providing direction without deferring to luck-turning-around for me, is how I would hear the right thing--and manifest change because of the play of echolalia in my mind--a microcosm of symbols reducing the "university" to something I am willing to manage.
I used to read OrIoN back in the 90s--what a fantastic mag. Someone made note of Derrick Jensen mentioned in some article--he sums it up well:
"hope is a longing for a future condition over which you have no agency"
~Derrick Jensen
But, what Path is it that indicates or helps one intuit the lay of the land? In other words--IF TRUTH is a pathless land as Krishnamurti succinctly illumines--or has us learn thru his easy speak, then EVEN a path indicates the futility of our surfacing with hope. Yet, looking at the world--its corridors and "light" plateaux --and saying IF the ground beneath our feet meets us at every step, then the IDEAL path is negligible, since solipsism seems more the statement of presence...that we aren't going anywhere--it's coming to us.
^^^The blindly FELT room, earth tabernacle, was just so before me all conjured by the acuity in the impressions my cuz's X executed there with me, out at the front of her apt - actually opposite of where the Crow's Nest was occupied. At one point I thought I was going to drop my fluid like a chemist with Janna, but she rather called the cops on me--UK cops--and contact with her til this occasion was abridged. Like Ezekiel's Chariot vision--called the merkavah in Kabbalah--is the first esoteric thing in overt circumstances found in biblacy. And she drew me into a web of coloration as if traffic and its pavement report yielded me into auditive chambers. If the chariot/throne would be the symbol of nuanced distances strung, these hugely inane hot & dry contemporary conveyances still impel the courtier to a sense of the meritable for one's desire for "travel." The resounding color-field otherwise of a light (kind of) structure whose entrance was moments before and bound in the eternity of the strewn past starting with the predeceased day's earlier threshold now unaccessed, gave little time for an exit or retreat as something foundering like a denial of plans to carry the day... Looking past our precise captivity, was junky-contrived (not indicating H here) windowed gloss--relicky of urban and concrete jungle self-myth, as in a crystal palace--unredemable and ready to be kicked over, at the fore whose architecture is ungrasped like lightning, but has yet more pleroma in intermediary purple hues, since lightning at night has its preponderance in most observer's Mind.
^^^I'm a terminal case of having confessed to all my faults. Now like the atman, every blueMoon there's just a glimpse of what-all I'd blame for the context of fiery consumed hay days, substance all but yielded up in the eyes of those who had kept coming... It's embarrassing to find myself the accused whilst the mummer of folks travails mention less about me than my peop's passport functionaries sorta suppose. Thhhey don't care--and I don't know enough that the "little trouble" is self-professional, lament, and unreconciled praise...giving a damn, without subtle notice the widely esteemed is availing again.
^^^I thought it was obnoxiously surface of my cousin to write I-sraeli capitalized, and a-rab in lower case. I see the very impulse in a few moments of already-gotten-resolved in my own head. That I was to deal with folks--fucking personally--showered off the poltical animal that is soo useless to build up anyway with all the dirt of graft the integrity of one's people should have delivered to them... IN Jerusalem, I took a couple of buses to get to this Jewish neighborhood, then on foot across a no-man's land and into a tented and cinderblock precinct of Palestinians, to visit Reza Khan...Reza at any rate was part of his name. He sat me down on a two legged chair served me so exceptionally sweet mint tchai and we commenced to misunderstandings whose trappings of time and place were easily jettisoned. I was to give him some linens from Dr French here in Lextown, and honestly who knows if I had the right guy. His fellow denizens just pointed the way to him--I assumed the up & up.
Friday, February 04, 2011
Zadeh: Parkers Mill Rd: Florida during Thanksgiving
~#~Just thinking about meditation was a process toward being in focus-versification, like these astute states of mind would concord w/either some asana thing, or more higher chambers are conjured. Sitting, sitting, many days and I'd become monk-self attuned. I thought sitting here indian style was sitting at the behest of a kingly court--just not at his favor. Then once sitting (sesshun) was finding myself at centeredness, the sitting for myself: I was no longer in the nomenclature of an aspirant directive. In these day in day out moments of retreat, a doctor friend of the family would come over every so often, my studies thus on trial in loquacity. Yet in the pivot of this one cold Autumnal day I headed out Parkers Mill Rd to the water tower to sit under its immensity and read Flavius Josephus. Strangely to answer for myself no threat of credulity, and to suspire in peace, the yawn of yellowed sprattling foliage covering the loam--tho' cold embittered--had body definition, and mind was the blue tower, and deflated ball sun was kundalini release, a color sorely un-noted--and as inward fact out of my grasp. The continuity was my train of no-mind desire--sitting 'pon a power spot, calling it the shuir komah (the measure of the deified body). This measure of g^d's body - one length called parasang - something infinite to contemplate, and as per MY body in repose I imagined much conscious mapping in proximation with say conscious satellites, all these things submerged in an earth vessel, not unlike hot icebergs the emergent proportion a hint of an unvain earth undecided over her presentation an observer parses out....
~#An abundance of evidence seems shared that my consciousness feels chattel-like, any animal--I thought particularly an ibex. But to consult with remonstrations, a sense of integrity that has environs sooo ultimately willful, makes no artifice the orb of inner-sensei motive.
~#Equality is not a state of mind. The last state of numinous tension I thought I was experiencing as equanimity--was sitting in pine needles, Autumnal skies--and for a second I was tasting air with an appetite for a corpse butterfly to leap back into its vital place in the warm convection currents fascinan-woods.
**"You only have yourself to choose." Not sure where I heard that, or if it was imagined from some lyrical stipulate that I took off from--leaping into my personal sojourn. For a long time the variable of edutaining-things, say music TV or books, was something driving to the peak of its threshold, a moment between myself and its portents, where necessarily I'd decide to imagine it gone--make it gone. I mean turn off the best of it, and the mediocrity too. The necessary reflection wasn't just assuaging with its liberating vibe, but as a demarcation of only a few minutes ago--and then I could wonder what piece of it was still in me, as I rode on ahead. The imperturbable thoroughness with which this one album--it was Kaya, its Running Away & Sun is Shining respectively--I think--struck at avenues convened at the sonic homunculus adept I could only imagine as my own trial, was almost at the point of dissolution, driving down Versailles Rd in a buddy's Taurus. I saw what he didn't, that I was tethered to a subtle body and calling it the norm, but getting interrupted since my appreciation had languished--IN these travelogue moments, where ideally pitching the tape out the window was a "silver seed" born in the air to bare fruition til another day... Yet another day would likely be the concurrent evening approaching--just ducking the patter of a dry & heaviness, my trafficked self, an ample destination found when blue slumber had motherNight lend her ventral warmth.
**In Florida just recently (Thanksgiving), and pictures of Mom's family up and around the house there at my aunt's--feel like the cyst once removed left an imminent catharsis, wholly undenied. This one photo of Zadie, exactly the plaino guy I remember from a thousand commiserations, had less of his musk and dithering borne of the image, his personae, than my aunt in her conviction to make her home - a home - a place to regard him, but in pure hopes, perfumed rooms, time-passing extinquished. I watched crapulent TV movies, shows etc...the Bond one w/Brosnan, the last of a cold-war relevance was actually satiate. A breakfront off to the side of the TV had Zadie scanning the room: his mind in bald essense, complex & blah old man, was easily subsumed like my brothers from huge persistance-and-then-petering-out lept from his brow--very believable, quiescence as thus.
**Reading the bio of the author for The Natural. Really boring--and I love this guy. The same exact enthusiasm of hearing the call of the game, like Kerouac out on Desolation Peak, is capturing that 50s times & place. Potok in the simple book The Chosen, deals with this similar espoused bridge of physical opportunity, and competitive lauding. In my Zadie's chair, dimmed orangy feel from the carpet, dark filtrating eve thru our porch's broad windows--I watched a game play, but thru its audition, and not the distraction of visual media.
## Wilderness of Mirrors=documentary about Paul K. There's image & likeness, in man's rappore with what he'd want with the Absolute. Image is good enough, since it'd be impossible to verify we were anything like a creator being. I see people thru their efforts--it makes sense for a minute--but I'm devoured by karmic, that no-decision is recommended, arising but at the impetus of a similar convergence. Still, to be with it, say your "black magic record speaking" (L. Perry) that PK isn't dissauded from the absurd, makes the pallet of my meddle a broader context to achieve. This music, as Patty Smith uses assuaging some other condition, is "a forest of life underfoot." And it's the give & play of it's marketing self-reflecting in strong ether: Dylan's "I have nothing to live up to" is how one administers just what IS outside the known...that Nothing IS, and IS an encounter with a proof of Being--that no-self is contrived... It takes strong art to proove it. Listening to PK's stuff at the backdoor of his old domicile--where CommonGrounds is--some mirror where I am looking at father-brother and not considerately myself, but consciously organic, because I kept projecting his convalescence there--was appreciating... Told a bunch of folks--"hey, this music is dude who lived upstairs there" and the "whiteNoise vibratory properties" (Jack) was the vocal scrape of his presence undenied... panoramic I dare say, and he seemed very patient with our distraction!!
#*In Kabbalah there has been some yet original & perhaps coarse thought given to what ego is. The impulse of good (yetzer haTov), and the impulse of evil (yetzer haRa). Impulse comes from Yetzer--a going forth, like where the word for exodus comes from. With the ego one asks what about some-aspect of self that gets enlisted into the self-cause; with an exodus, one asks what had come along in our exile?
**aggressed certainty, primarily stricken of graft's late return**
#*I'm telling you I had to window shop & live life's currency--that bloodclot--and purchase peace of mind. Literally sit up & meditate at what would reasonably be release. Just like a #2 pencil I pick up from a school commissary, sketching urban profiles with no fence & contiguous quarters--its streets like mind corridors converging on me, intramantra slavery telling me in a seat of resolve there's no place other to be.
Thought about the purpose of a koan tonight. The one I like is--what I thought--What war is the electric spanking of war-babies (perhaps baby boomers) fighting if the slacker's war seem as accessed & intruded upon as in the theatre of man's agressed certainty...the more usual impulse?
!#Or rather just late, but inevitably met, then the wash of thought is the shame that make you high. Objectivity is always in negation, whether we meant to or not. For instance, I practically never make reference to a current event like nation against nation disconsonance. And it just takes one flimmer of the persisting half-thought somehow an Israeli can speak for me--making me see the heights of something perfect (my apathy, & natural disaffection)--an affliction of having become the convergence of something that is entirely supramundane--and it's at my feet.
#!Is Weisel's Williamsburg in that presinct, township? Alfred Kazin gave me a view...Potok definitely does it in In the Beginning--the most complex of the core-culture in a presentiment of diffident impact upon its sublimated communities, kind of narrative. Really subtle chimera from a precise twilight yawn of "sigh glances & whispers" and hints at microcosms thru incantations of Ostyuden (E. European Jewry), self-reproach for ugly irresolute self-Ness til pictures speak and tree canopies consume.
If my little sentient pets with that ancient deftness & acuity in seeking shadows underfoot are to tell me the detritus of well-being gets propitiated, then this katharis (Grk.) is had from ebullience of the vital norm: A "forest-of-life-undefoot" (P. Smith) is just as well as life's exquisite dust. These animals that express a trace of persons in a past awakened, seem to be therapy like the skies shedding messages from the ancient-ones.
~#An abundance of evidence seems shared that my consciousness feels chattel-like, any animal--I thought particularly an ibex. But to consult with remonstrations, a sense of integrity that has environs sooo ultimately willful, makes no artifice the orb of inner-sensei motive.
~#Equality is not a state of mind. The last state of numinous tension I thought I was experiencing as equanimity--was sitting in pine needles, Autumnal skies--and for a second I was tasting air with an appetite for a corpse butterfly to leap back into its vital place in the warm convection currents fascinan-woods.
**"You only have yourself to choose." Not sure where I heard that, or if it was imagined from some lyrical stipulate that I took off from--leaping into my personal sojourn. For a long time the variable of edutaining-things, say music TV or books, was something driving to the peak of its threshold, a moment between myself and its portents, where necessarily I'd decide to imagine it gone--make it gone. I mean turn off the best of it, and the mediocrity too. The necessary reflection wasn't just assuaging with its liberating vibe, but as a demarcation of only a few minutes ago--and then I could wonder what piece of it was still in me, as I rode on ahead. The imperturbable thoroughness with which this one album--it was Kaya, its Running Away & Sun is Shining respectively--I think--struck at avenues convened at the sonic homunculus adept I could only imagine as my own trial, was almost at the point of dissolution, driving down Versailles Rd in a buddy's Taurus. I saw what he didn't, that I was tethered to a subtle body and calling it the norm, but getting interrupted since my appreciation had languished--IN these travelogue moments, where ideally pitching the tape out the window was a "silver seed" born in the air to bare fruition til another day... Yet another day would likely be the concurrent evening approaching--just ducking the patter of a dry & heaviness, my trafficked self, an ample destination found when blue slumber had motherNight lend her ventral warmth.
**In Florida just recently (Thanksgiving), and pictures of Mom's family up and around the house there at my aunt's--feel like the cyst once removed left an imminent catharsis, wholly undenied. This one photo of Zadie, exactly the plaino guy I remember from a thousand commiserations, had less of his musk and dithering borne of the image, his personae, than my aunt in her conviction to make her home - a home - a place to regard him, but in pure hopes, perfumed rooms, time-passing extinquished. I watched crapulent TV movies, shows etc...the Bond one w/Brosnan, the last of a cold-war relevance was actually satiate. A breakfront off to the side of the TV had Zadie scanning the room: his mind in bald essense, complex & blah old man, was easily subsumed like my brothers from huge persistance-and-then-petering-out lept from his brow--very believable, quiescence as thus.
**Reading the bio of the author for The Natural. Really boring--and I love this guy. The same exact enthusiasm of hearing the call of the game, like Kerouac out on Desolation Peak, is capturing that 50s times & place. Potok in the simple book The Chosen, deals with this similar espoused bridge of physical opportunity, and competitive lauding. In my Zadie's chair, dimmed orangy feel from the carpet, dark filtrating eve thru our porch's broad windows--I watched a game play, but thru its audition, and not the distraction of visual media.
## Wilderness of Mirrors=documentary about Paul K. There's image & likeness, in man's rappore with what he'd want with the Absolute. Image is good enough, since it'd be impossible to verify we were anything like a creator being. I see people thru their efforts--it makes sense for a minute--but I'm devoured by karmic, that no-decision is recommended, arising but at the impetus of a similar convergence. Still, to be with it, say your "black magic record speaking" (L. Perry) that PK isn't dissauded from the absurd, makes the pallet of my meddle a broader context to achieve. This music, as Patty Smith uses assuaging some other condition, is "a forest of life underfoot." And it's the give & play of it's marketing self-reflecting in strong ether: Dylan's "I have nothing to live up to" is how one administers just what IS outside the known...that Nothing IS, and IS an encounter with a proof of Being--that no-self is contrived... It takes strong art to proove it. Listening to PK's stuff at the backdoor of his old domicile--where CommonGrounds is--some mirror where I am looking at father-brother and not considerately myself, but consciously organic, because I kept projecting his convalescence there--was appreciating... Told a bunch of folks--"hey, this music is dude who lived upstairs there" and the "whiteNoise vibratory properties" (Jack) was the vocal scrape of his presence undenied... panoramic I dare say, and he seemed very patient with our distraction!!
#*In Kabbalah there has been some yet original & perhaps coarse thought given to what ego is. The impulse of good (yetzer haTov), and the impulse of evil (yetzer haRa). Impulse comes from Yetzer--a going forth, like where the word for exodus comes from. With the ego one asks what about some-aspect of self that gets enlisted into the self-cause; with an exodus, one asks what had come along in our exile?
**aggressed certainty, primarily stricken of graft's late return**
#*I'm telling you I had to window shop & live life's currency--that bloodclot--and purchase peace of mind. Literally sit up & meditate at what would reasonably be release. Just like a #2 pencil I pick up from a school commissary, sketching urban profiles with no fence & contiguous quarters--its streets like mind corridors converging on me, intramantra slavery telling me in a seat of resolve there's no place other to be.
Thought about the purpose of a koan tonight. The one I like is--what I thought--What war is the electric spanking of war-babies (perhaps baby boomers) fighting if the slacker's war seem as accessed & intruded upon as in the theatre of man's agressed certainty...the more usual impulse?
!#Or rather just late, but inevitably met, then the wash of thought is the shame that make you high. Objectivity is always in negation, whether we meant to or not. For instance, I practically never make reference to a current event like nation against nation disconsonance. And it just takes one flimmer of the persisting half-thought somehow an Israeli can speak for me--making me see the heights of something perfect (my apathy, & natural disaffection)--an affliction of having become the convergence of something that is entirely supramundane--and it's at my feet.
#!Is Weisel's Williamsburg in that presinct, township? Alfred Kazin gave me a view...Potok definitely does it in In the Beginning--the most complex of the core-culture in a presentiment of diffident impact upon its sublimated communities, kind of narrative. Really subtle chimera from a precise twilight yawn of "sigh glances & whispers" and hints at microcosms thru incantations of Ostyuden (E. European Jewry), self-reproach for ugly irresolute self-Ness til pictures speak and tree canopies consume.
If my little sentient pets with that ancient deftness & acuity in seeking shadows underfoot are to tell me the detritus of well-being gets propitiated, then this katharis (Grk.) is had from ebullience of the vital norm: A "forest-of-life-undefoot" (P. Smith) is just as well as life's exquisite dust. These animals that express a trace of persons in a past awakened, seem to be therapy like the skies shedding messages from the ancient-ones.
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