Native Congregations deny National irreality

Things get brighter and louder as the battle gets harder, and bottle gets hotter (everytime it is reached for). The tear of light, that very intensity, may be a light in mourning, the lament that never gives way--something solidifying integ...rity with what is only a deep aside. Senses do peak and are measurable in solitarian inquiry: for me ambling down old roads, haunting places, like the ghost-town is the last place we experience til the government comes along and pushes it down... I'm haunting myself like my alterior ghostly peer, observations within, answering to the most Self found in the deficit of self-duty demanding the necessary change. Finding OUT is one thing, tho' recompence is demanded by seeing the Outward Fact pregnant with demands for our attention AND is after, only after we hope down from up above... Finding Out references in the bridge toward transcendental awareness, make the path beckon assiduous gaits in mega-transect toward prone repose--Opened Up to chaossssssss, and its proportional gravid development.
Trees say, I am the people--do the right thing; "the health of crowd consciousness is indefinite prayers, and convincing pilgrimages with imparticular holy days." A kind of true democracy is the institute of nature's "cabala." The "reception" of land to sea, rivers bisecting universe, mother's heart as a trek to immanent release from nature to its annihilating propensity. Born of it, cycling and consciousness as its accidental excrescence, consciousness of the furtive voyager in light and chthonian reception--the trees deign man to wander its precincts with pentant slights of impermanence.
Devotion (in seasonal fading dawn!) actionable among the elect is in respiring clement days, & trees gainsay the sabbatical into waned energies, darker days, dormant or viscous sky. Walnut trees and all the bombast of black resinates proliferate around Fallon Rd in my old neighborhood. A place detracting the volition of my changes now, was the places of my Becoming then--in the certainty skies of my youth. Architecture of the trees-line tops at suburb's coalescent mean, Beaumont Park, have birds overcoming, taking to blue pleroma like smoke out of home's hearth, the philosophical thwarting of fires into heady arborial aeries... Dissipating some of the smoke's evidence in our parlor repose--white smoke exhalation (from the woody black smoke sighs) posits roads willfully bound since all that is required is a walk-about.

Castaneda's A Yaqui Way of Knowledge has a few moments of precise content, fulminate, but furtive and fluctuating from kaleidoscopic drug romance..., which has someone Experienced in advanced objective repose. The reader of such content evolves with the tide of considerable astral temptations--the canine witnessed while it lapped up water is my inquiry. How light florescences shower off of the animal, placing it in smart painted desert night as its anomaly--it is Lighting up the night! This self-same water trough across the garage from where I had lain, had obscure radiance of moon's allure--milky but neon on its comely surface, watching me watching it (the moon, the proffering water etc.), etching out the well of time: 25 minutes of life in transcendent bridge, is the conjuration of a life striven for meaning--so the sun always exigent behind, voids are becoming substance. Crowley's illicit repute never could traduce the light and shadow play in my forlorn solicitude--still his lens rapt of danger has night deliberative and judgmental, and yet I parsed qualia from his memoir (til much later when I threw it away into the recycling)--things like Buddhist contemplation never bedeviling me with raven's on gallows for shoulders, as other fiery meditations represented in the different genres, or his...

Subject: blueberries for breakfast--the fruits of hearing=my new mix: It ain't me, babe--the ethiopians--desmond Dekker--Bombino!!!-
Propositions contingent upon necessity, importance, non-importance, if "modality" is true or false (defined thusly in Websters), have to answer if the mores from social-ego paradigm is in effect the Compassionate Edifice. If in repair, that something is good for meditation, makes cessation from non-skillful grasping for modality always-in-flux, contentment and the genesis positing of answers, rather than power over necessities (and any further value statements): this being a thread to hope as it IS in a path but whose goal is negligible, since a path is all one can hope for.
Modes pedestrian in nature, man-free in dire reckoning to go far over, way over--damned goal oriented to Place, finds modality in coves of blue slumber Night purdah, physical map impressed as in subtler thresholds. In & out under deciduous boughs, the shadows impelling mind (w/lucidity) into tree's non-space in silent folds stuttered all along the "thrum of the sidewalk," (all but frayed til goal's reception is no longer the concern). But silent nod is affected-mind, apophasis rallied, and peace is made WITH whom transition can't be rallied: our "open-crowd" in the Hero's dementia of transition (his own), are yet receptacles (they are) to the inconsistant relief of his control. He'll only know to care--this compassionate edifice--in light of his considerable singularity. Shadows make him liberated in
singularity--no one else is defined by the squeeze of night's attrition!

Matter is an Efficient Cause when we suss Form (the Place, as if when speaking of the Absolute.)--matter proliferates actualization--the Observer is destined to reduce his assertions, since Form holds sway. Form requires less reason than it does a disclaimer on our aimlessness, & only after thwarting causelessness caloused misintuited Essense, Meaning meaning Form founds a Natural Congregation, as opposed to a National Cause. The pattern placed in effect from authority speaks of "security" the heathen must be ever more vigilant in appreciation. Psychological restraints are intra-mantra slavery that encourages interest in something immanent, when one rather should begin to use the cues of language as he hears them--Outwardly, rather than as he names his feelings.
Material void is Time--timeliness if What-Is sours from the misfortunate machinations of revision, always refuting authority "psychologically misapprehended," would have minds relish the shame that makes the heirophant (likeness of which he's made a nation of One) high (cleverly clinging to life undeveloped).
Listening to music with a stayed theme--bringing summer days of having been in the country-Catskill mts back to holistic emotion. The streams up in wooded D. Boone Forest ambiguation had still waters receiving wrought confessions--tarrywealthy consolation: enough ebb off of stepping stone banks... Here, in sensei fraught back room, a porch, has the same smell of my now past Aunt's house--and a making of that dialect relating to the Jewy atmosphere fulminate if only in its 0 sum rescue. Spirits are higher, vision of motives and clarity, the project of self-worth I can capture in just a couple of words "the tyrant of mind's vitae, a subtle form in solicitude, but undeniably the uncarved block."
The sigh of first moments observation of chattel mouldering, lying down--its shadow cast, shows the Joy frequently unannounced in man's. Still moonsoaked it (man's) would be and just as likely vacuously unearthed, tho' a cow sees an ally in its own! Mine is too paced, but body consciousness placed just so sky-prone, piles of stars make my margins in a pitch tone, colored like wet sand on top of dry. Ubiquitous by degrees, and present as humidity strati on summer's hillocky roads.
I stink like the black smoke respired, I mark black smudges on the pleroma from negativity invasive--Buddhist matreya-like; the white marks come with my volition thru this ground of being, and are the posit of jettisoned complacency...
Mom, just remember,it ain't news to me -or you- this place is become old.
The spiritual man is mad, I told her & the cement porch floor. And imagining absurdity/madness with sky liminal restraints, is Order enough, a vesseled prodigious carpeted sky instilling antiquity imminent but unapproachable. Rhythm bubble bouncing, depths in pitch, and home languishes remotely--with the lens of the former residents to the Place where I get received, the having-to-catch-up always in profiles from yawn in continuity: I eat what they've eaten. If the gravy-train train was public domain, it is gray water, say bio-waste, making me stink in hotel-like domicile--the first question raised! How long down the end of lonely street? Isn't love circumventing my mouldering solicit of motive to be the compassionate-dweller of another arabia's denizen?