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.