Sight: seen!

**My favorite dream in recent times is sorta a head above head look upon an astrolabe, like I was looking over my own shoulder. The astrolabe would rotate of its own volition. But if it was under my control (I just couldn't feel my hands' dexterity) then therein lies the strange phenomena of time passing with memoria expunged--nothing personal to measure; and my Free-will (voluntas) - that very awareness like pillars of consciousness collapsing because of the immensity of the staged affect from seeing moon arc and go down, then the sun glimmering somewhat like a deflated winter's sun...its light more approachable, but its remoteness denying its imminence. Over & over witnessing day in day out and crowding fluid feelings of my sense of being in a pocket of time: gut bucket weekdays, and plateau weekend in weird sabbatical reckonings--any and all pilgrimages in time like end of year, end of decade, end of any and all dispensational sensitivity...
^^^Subject: canopy vandalizes the ground with polygons
In an oak-riddled dialect with empty neighborhood:
The place my "head made-strong" was in lighted fields, aeries of light embankments--all slightly above me--being drawn up. I thought of deliberative bird song, tastes in my mouth--mantra breath, but no utterance to resume the dialect except for my drumming patter on a 12" Pearl cunga. In the garage door threshold one-drop speaking with my hands, then I lean to one side on my lawn chair, my head consoled by a gesture I see of Madame Blavatskii, her Esoteric & Exoteric Writings. Just how she has her fist as hammer quill to penetrate the frozen sea within, the very tabula rasa I was raising my eyes to...her hand holds sanctuary in a grip of something conceptual, tightness 'pon the head, her temple is grasped, theoria of my Fire brow, rebel stopping the fighting--the two threads of a horizon, white thread dark thread tethers me to anything propitiated in the fat soul of plenty!!
****Look at that adept tongue of Stevie Wonder. His music comes and my attention picks up, and then I'm brought to some equinox to meet & greet the strangely staged delivery. His delivery has language acuity--creative, but the discipline in this articulation say as compared to Farakhan has it established that the Mendicant (=Farakhan, for argument purposes) isn't anymore rife with self-profession than the (predominant) rosy colored mourn and soul of "black riddim bubble bouncing," & "black magic record speaking" (*Linton Kwesi Johnson &*Lee Perry respectively) we adduce in rock-steady and blue beat and rhythm & blues. Louis Farakhan--Nation of Islam preacher, shows something sustained in the valley of tongues which accords with the numinous, and yet shows only an existential valence--and certain colors as in an artist's cause is entirely a conflagration of language awash yet upon way different shores to receive...
****IT is all bunk to think that reading the tea leaves, or chicken innards or the trajectory of celestial bodies--tho' eminent, spectacular, and psychosomatic in the sense that IT may be helpful, has any true rational effect on the individual. Our consciousness construes our influences, our influences don't contrue US that advances evidence the Outward fact conspires for benefit or anything else. I'm deriving this from having listened to Richard Dawkins yesterday--a true breath of fresh air. This Thinker really is NOT ascerbic--he genuinely wants people to be critically aware.
**Miracles betray the last thing empirical that were the victuals of ascension. On & on to devise a dialect with moon soaked eyes, only in the valley of tongues - her taste, at my feast I'm donning plates to consume her providence. The angle bespeaks ocean's volumne of what lights the night...this blue slumber awake. Maimonides principle of Incorporeality to take a stand that Eternity is foundational & not this creation which ushers impermanence to the visage of likenesses, & revenue that beginnings are misunderstood dispensations we can't tear from antediluvian thick-with-it yawn of estates and skies. Unity is essense lept out of conscious satellites--like glowering cars dividing destinations from imminent suburban homes to fade away junctures up in blue pleroma arced from tree architecture comporting til our grasp graspes.

^^Maimon--the name is also the same word Muslims are more likely noted as in the Koran--was the Jewish theologian 800yrs ago defining Jewish ideal as reason. The Love for G-d was not a biblacy exposition, has Theoria & Meditation as man's ends (al-ghaya al-insaniyyah), so prayer & ritual is the impulse... devotion & meaning in being Present. One doesn't believe in the Absolute because there are no questions in mind! Reason Is--yet an Unknown with solitarian validity for you, isn't answer enough in resigning exile from self unto destiny, but rather being a proponet of fate's middling. This "mean" without our demur makes convention less general and shows one the Light in Night.
**In my green youth I just was found wonting--in the trough of sinewy thought what all it meant 'pon anxious cries of its reception was something I couldn't wait for. That weight in a pallet, that wait for mysteries leaving queries for anything coveting things I threw against sensual mind shores. No option to imagine myself in incidious gray days and only succumb to that. Gray mts in a Yugoslavian backdrop, looked bluer more usually til projecting forward was the imminent mt's release of you... Gray frozen ocean within, as Kafka would have it, contents halophilic, elements of its attribute to roil--blood, ebbs at the last step temporally. Complicating its liquid report... splurb, riddim, bouncing, a breath outside, aeries in the shelf-stow of its funky porridge.

Subject: blue monday people & I know there are a few
Winston Rodney (Burning Spear) lyricked IT is DRY & HEaVY... IT IT IT... and we must pull IT, like Jah's heavy load, like the Train on a collision course with the fate of a long distance journey!! The wet paint, an impressionable self is always a sense, for me, when I feel what I am being impacted with what is inopportune... Sly lyricked "If you feel it pulling back, you are going strong." Sometimes the ECLIPSE of some sense of being quite in league with an Other--for me, my brother--gets the empirical outward fact stated so BRIEFLY that I don't know any longer what it is I should grapple with, what it is I throw in with. I wondered about the line, satta massagana, in Jamaican patois... In Rockers--the Rasta movie, at one point some dude is indicated that he's "satta massagana": withal the subterfuge (w/o relying on my-own moral compass) of ghetto-ology shows this young blood sitting on the side-lines of even the minutiae of slackening-vocations from his fellow ghetto denizens, precisely his sitting-unannounced WAS what I call a denouement of something authorial. The guy is barely communicating a nod of support of some norm--and that ephemeral nod he catches from the pity of the protagonist is like he the uber-mensch is barely in line ahead of his submissive--this mon unreconciled with the give & take of goods & services . This man is THAT man, is I & I content with an imaginative narrative, the very thoughts feelings and actions as allegory to man's ends in Higher Ground.

The Purity of Soul's Release--would be in the temporal!!

^^PlEAse--*something anything motivate me; my motivation is observable in a surfeit of self-duty IN MIND, not actionably! So, I really really give a damn, and I know just that modicum of the vocabulary of self-adulation, but the very real truth that mostly nothing IS in fact that dear to me, and is not in my control stammers my project of self-worth... In the morning, at dawn I am on the street out in front of my house, hoofing it a few dozen paces over here to the shop, and donut days. All around reflections from head-lights, or light posts engaged and clarifying, makes the greetings of friends in time & in place--across distances, and thru the maya of dream-scapes in their wakening eclipse, strangely a stand tall and be counted few moments, pulling me up and making my trunk seem rooted again, make things seem like the ends-of-man in primary conditions stain the only pocket of the day's tally when all things truly are possible.

^^Before huge windows--about the 3rd floor at the Lex Downtown Library, looking out toward Main St. I'm sitting scanning embowering from the prism of ideation w/meditation portents viewable in the sly look of some Buddhist practitioner. He looks way out--in the serene context captured in this Indian Artbook--seized as upon the distance & simultaneity, his Forward-I Revolution is definitely behind the sincere homunculus mask, translator-face ...translating unknown primordial first thoughts!! In gradations I'm here at the pivot: his ebb like the ground at his feet is gathering throngs of gem shaped leaves, but (this place) wholly possessed by him since my floe denies his distance-covered in sharp-eyed veils LIFTED to demonstrate what is equally assumed--that his eyes are eased into looks closer to something cosmic and within me within him--just a glance toward the journey Inside! World-view is not actual, it is instead political and manipulation of them asses, can't be cultivated, bares not fruit, a consciousness leaden but emergent from the Material Void, stagnates the promise of inner-journeys strung... Light like a feather as if he has wings-- and concommitantly, if you have legs, you know you are on the Ground--are good aphorisms for taking my leave from unredemptive world's demise expectorated from Media -- all but fiction, all truth but none of it prone to my interests!!
-----IT is my attempt only to have someone imagine themselves as BEfore the big windows at the library--wide open pleroma, the spirit of the blue dome giving me up to urban supra-mundane...
Now, please, I am not trying get past people's usual vernacular--but there are a couple of points of entry. Just imagine a Buddha whose face is either strongly at attention--really taking in a sense of vastness; Or a Buddha who appears to be looking way deep behind his/her serene austere mask of Compassion... Are we inner journeying, or are we Moving into Relationship i.e. consciousness that is without!??
^^It seems really obvious that since the mind demands order--and is frontier bound due to it, that even the confusions and complexities we deal with will get adroitly placed into stocked shelves, libraries of thought furniture, and this is all a presumption of the Supra-Mundane Laws of the Proofs of Being: LAWS. My friend--the archeologist, gave me a definition sounding much like a Greek version, and etymological bearing of my last name, Lakes. Legas (and lagos is lakes in Spanish). But the name is quite like the word for Law. I had a conversation/seance few moments w/our mutual friend the night before, I said, If only I could begin again to dream all that litigical self-assertion, and threshold mythos that of expectations as hotly sincere...!! Certainly martyred language, what we call ourselves, what it feels like to have the mummer of self-referencial thrum of silent intervals in mantra's comforts is Illegal, but Permitted....and is the best way to sanction doing whatever we want with the book of rules in our season's thought event!!
^^The purchase of that jingle jangle morning paid for thru a life surfaced of all my changes, is Resources namely like money ina pocket...and still money me a bloodclot. Glad I could spend all the existential worth: I'm here withal, a new dawn. But why ask the angels if you are starting to bleed, if bleeding me was done to save my life? JUST wake up--Ok I submit. Feeling like mind is a cumbersome 3 oranges, 1rst pacing in someplace abbreviated, then throttling their splendor across my pillow, past my head pulling the "ancient rosy colors behind my eyelids" *Kerouac, to their fate and onto dolomite-florid tile floors. I spent valuable salutory days and I can't go back. Meanwhile to quote Elias Khoury *Palestinian author I register, " I can't get the sad man to stand up in my eyes."

^^My good man at work--he used to sit in intimate park crowds and listen to Krishnamurti. In time, maybe unsettled throes corrupting sublime notions makes sowing active orthopraxy get him to the fray Unchecked now. Iconclast nicely iced anarchism leaves supreme doors just vacuous. Still, at least anyone can say therein lies the intermediary: this or that observer--in the vacous. I know its dross of mind to court certain audition impulses, but to be true to anything we can say - & every word viable stabled irreducible - the worst sense can only be the smote day of language concommitant w/ vain 2 dimensional proxy deserted road... Not just why do I have to divulge the decisor, but who am I to swallow Folly-Wholly of the unparturitioned horizon.

^^The Anointed, take your pick (Avalokiteshvara--an incarnation of Compassion, object of Attention--lyrical ever+astute, promiser Enough of Becoming outside of self), was a fisher of men=the ole soul distinguished in giving back the prodigy of self-possession. The purity of the soul is oft-physical & actionable, more usually when noted in Biblacy. It's called *salah al-nafs*--the physical soul. In Aramaic, our language bridge from Semitic language to Indo-European, has this letter in nafs, the nun an N which does mean "fish." The telling of Hasidic lore thru antecedents - folk mysterion (propitiation), way more liberating in time's yawn, hopes down from up above TO the fish whose soul likely cannot incarnate. Jesus is a Fisher of Man. Salah recognize as Selah, rt ! eternity ! FORever ! but ask a Saudi what Liberation of the Soul, salah al-nafs means in context of the Liberation of the Body (that done in Being Amongst--part of the herd; "social living is the best" says Winston Rodney--Burning Spear) called salah al-badan, he said this like clarity of the sensual body...just purity. The Saudi's word was Purity. (so I think) Perfection. As at once time place community--I & I & I. Reconciled that we are the first out the door, and at the peak of empirical Shores.
^^SPOKE WITH A FELLOW from Eritrea. Sometimes the auspices of that quality of "otherness" is rather encumbering, acquistive in my composure because of how my thought language adduces the hole I'm down in. Rather than the freed up existential ...throes I am impelled through, I am prone and almost impacted by the "strange"... AND enduring less of the common aeries of free association. Notice the passport functionaries of folks and one would see when he or she must resign themselves to our loss of face: the translator face of human awakenings, is quite looking back in the mind's breeding consoling healing, but without the attributable conscious prop. Stealthy I gather of him, he imagines not much is going on--whereas the fruits of hearing is the purchase of a silent nod East and a heart dub of Africa's utility of the bridge toward awareness... No doubt his biological demeanor is a radical survival and victory as opposed to more or less convalescence I & I was steered through in my incarnations and channels from my ancestry. Humility is the only answer to most of an irreconcilable potential!!!

Pacing myself like I live next to a river, No water can put this Fire out

**My moment of release (journey inward) was a feeling I imagined about Gandhiji. And it was clearly a nod in effect into the loam and spread of my backyard. I was sitting in the computer room, with the peripheral window looking out to the summer arbor. The trafficked report of local roads and disparate birds, and heated conditions of forced thought scenarios and Valerie's murmurring chimey voice all colluded into the look of foilage, trees, bees, clement weather and Gandhi revealing (to me) I could ask anything right then--just be patient & have confidence.
Stumbling across campus some Sunday, I could have been studying a few thing then--what stands out is Rimbaud & Pilgrims which is an over-size book of images taken from Mongolia to Tibet of Buddhist appreciable moments in self-actualization. R. Gere's thing and very valuable for my tastes in what it records. The utter remote consternation with which just about anything ebbs & floes from my mind-sore IF I am wont to cease stuttering over presence of mind, usually is in the form of a question. The question and appeal to that one alterior self was finally (and un-cornered ever since) What do you want to do? And the lucid no-mind thoughts fluent in putting square pegs into rorschach excrescence answered back, Anything you want to do.
^^I'm telling this dude, whenever it seems that I rouse language say in mind's office (of said interlocutor)--it is just a big wave outside his constabulatory thought world, & I'm just following it in. So now having to deal with the ruins of babel's library, like Paul K lyricked, those papers were signed under duress--you've got nothing on me, is the tact recommended. Look at the stress, those fissures of its maintenance, therein lies his own imagination's narrative. I see & watch what I saw, but rankle to flip that switch off or on. Corporeal hulking thoughts from heated conditions of forced thought scenarios having more to do with Outward Fact than suffusing this brahmodya discussion in stanzas I alone make clear. If I deny my ego, its excrescence has the same favor stammering the fluent mind-sore back to its empty repose.
^^I call my archeologist friend who has a couple master's degrees, my dictionary punching bag. It isn't quite fair that I am reduced to drawing something fundamental in the confirming of denoted sense of words like voluntas, and the feel of the German word for world. But usually I see a reservois of what transpired as I gathered the concept of some book title-- And quite beyond that, walking in & around bookcases...usually it's Mom's because makes the corporeal hulking mass of thought thru literacy seem unbounded all the same.
Intellectus, memoria, voluntas (will)-- makes scribing oneself into the Book of Life, an actionable way to book a dream.
^^Malamud's* Pop recites a few verbs learned in nightSchool after his immigration here. Lights a cig. Melancholia is the report of his visage. Rosy-colored mourn: his progeny feels a Winter's sun every bit in its deflated ill-capacity; the three oranges of Prokofiev's symphonic delivery roll across his pillow in dull dust ridden brownstone. An ocean above making satellites into these celestial rooms emptied of our respite; noble work the give & take of places you ought to be.... My office is, my office is, a hotch-potch of prevailing motives in ambulations thru work-fields, I transverse as if its geometric pattern gives way to no perimeters. Rather I cut a path like the thrum of yarn.
*Malamud actually means "teacher" and naturally to unwilling students!
^^IF Kabbalah ought to be studied beginning at 40yrs old (the Ashkenazi view), then I aged quickly, because at 15-16 yrs old I felt compelled to make my head the event of the season. THoughtfulness is trepidacious self-preservation, try listening: your compassion causes me violence--to somewhat quote Leo Tolstoy. Self-consciousness is wisdom's impetus. Thought is Fear= because fear means you hate it, if u hate it, then you love it...where to begin?? Jews as victim: the vogue of the appeal from conscious crowd that the "wailer" hasn't the same appreciated fact that inverts *put any nation's name here* or individually on all points of the map. Some Jews market spiritually as give & play enduring tremendum & fascinans in victimhood as any other. Some religion is plastic.
^*^I get it that my friends think I am erasible: I take on forms of folks using language, that make me want to martyr the point of reference. It has to be done--otherwise we sit around watching great imagistic and educational docs -the latest and a very good one is like Enlighten Up and as we assume that their motives for harnessing the senses are made plain, perhaps it is not thru something more actively participating than a pique from an indifferent chorus. But I want my SENSE to be indicated by these passive abysmal whiling-away hrs spent taking in what I easily feel instructed over. Just picking up the language tools of ole yogins ...there (they are) extruded out thru media--astute people no doubt--and why would I ever deny self-simulation from exterior forms to a reductive more humble "becoming" that says world-view is no longer goal, but instead the tact to just know everything I possibly can about only One Thing. I asked the fellows, what about your sense of the day's entirety, what part OF it was a journey inward?
**Consciousness works every bit as propellant toward manufactured motive whether inwardly borne or Without, just THAT when consciousness is composed of the Outward Fact, appearances - materiality et al, what is subtle and substantial is being ignored.

^^Sat around the Cadilac dealer garage...
Read some of Kafka's thing there. I looked around and felt shamed for be sadder than most suspiring past me.
Upavasatha--when the god(s) dwell near. Like on the sabbath of a yr., or a mourning of someone whose lamented loss is thru praise, and self-simulation making sabbatical a "timely" renewal, rather a "turning around" in view of the departed presence-reckoned. Like we consider the prospects of being present. Another way of saying Answer (=restored, Renewed, redemption) is uncollaborated but is enough. Seeing the Buddhist concept (of sabbath) formally adduces the cavernous & mundane proponet of Jewish Lights-off, energy exertion denied, candles then lit, focus prayers called kavanot chanted *yes, like sufis. ...whose community now still has practioners of--the Yemenis, and they are the earliest still living remnant of community's originators. Meditation is feathers falling before vision visioning with a mean to survey what is quite past the present. And then in a world of slightly sublimated moments all conscious satellites becoming becoming as snow or feathers rousing in our scan of the road with head-lights in black as jet night... asserting minimal hindrance, in opaque steps.
^^Our imagination accumulates in the animal's ineffable Principal to his/her instinct. To imagine--it'd be like a conscious prop, say a vessel, or anterior of the instinctual awakening where man's consciousness illustrates the supra-mundane. Little fury things are curious of light and shadow and audition. A cat sometimes hunkers down his shadow traipsing tripping him in a venture toward some adversary. But I want the Absolute to see me, since I know we're not observing it.
Dylan offering that there is nothing really nothing really to turn off (as the country music plays soft and watching what we see Over at the opposite loft), always seemed believable to me. (things go On--he is saying) Still lately something as solid as my trod from shapeless mass to lanky shunted, bleeding stature says to in fact cease IT. And even Love in meditation's behalf means that Love to actually has a place outside, in our exile as some thing sublimated. The bleeding of presence, is the tally of body consciousness--a sense of actionable physicality tethered to every thing as manifest and cloistered. A lot of material void thwarting the ease I'd accede thru homeward environs... But things are necessarily proffered in grandmother consciousness so that they are dispatched: like our repose-meaning in shapeless mass fealty. That too can be turned off just due to its accounting. Consciousness alights to silence, but if silence is delivering w/acuity, the loading can't begin.