The Youth in Me contends with ex nihilo=absolute On-spirit

I sight cold-creators' conscious message--they seem to have gotten somewhere. There as before me is this sort of conscious energy, a prop, and back in my vacuous space I am thwarted by their ideal. And yet there stands a sense of his or her effort as it proceeds in this yah moment. I take strides to represent it somehow, and I do, but only this man or that woman as "imminent," like mundane me: I see me, yes from that lens, and still it is only my last lumbering step that I find in my retreat. Who are they as only decisors of my self-profession? It almost doesn't take place: rather it is man and nature, his own albeit, but this most elusive of relationships, without the guise of I & Thou, or even I & I...


***Over at the creek behind the Episcopal Church a sump house sat with a bereft earthscraper. I waved Dostoevskii at the glint off of fractured glass covering gauges, wanting some token from an atmosphere at this essentially tragic timelessness. Lighted beginnings were hard knowing the array of festivals ahead pay coffers unreconciled by only disaster reduced in its effect by something as gross to topple its unfair designs. The appeal to console in self most of all, had the unpunctual sabbatical of my bridge toward wakened privy to deal with not a soul, not fucking one, whose o' plenty I admit having considered they had formidably been actually none other than the kohl in my eyes. Places given its exigency memorialized are conscious satellites, and when the deluge so spectral challenges the gloss surface to dissuade one's intercourse, truth in denouement is pathless. If I ask once whither I go--it is certain I dweet in the present.
***I look at the sky, I am donning horizontal repose. I glance at ubiquitous sidewalks, and I am vertical and pillaresque. Thinking about all the elements distorting one's demeanor, I'm reminded of an adept's life as a plant, or as an animal, or, if I knew enough about him/her--their chemical romance, in saintlike narratives, all grotesque anthropology. At once I see parts of me--the suspired expression particularly, as emerged from appearances. Certainly our "cousin" sentience is identity sources. It is not as if we are here to study the air, and the playground as light, unless we are directed to render seasons change in everyone's becoming as exhalant "liquid language awash." (Wallace Stevens)Breath in the black smoke, exhale the white - and watch how much incense can do w/o the nicotine delivery. (claiming tobacco as an incense votive) I like the pollen-messenger, and climate (aqlim *Arabic) of the greater will as something Superably Conscious. The bee-catcher in lavender high, takes mind to be entertainment of nothing other than stratigraphic of air... Tobacco: cagey high, draws maps in antiquated ways. If I could see the clung leaf on the ankle of Kaskerbeh's wife, or was it Kasturbai...? One is Gandhi's wife, the other is a Pte US aboriginy... To speak of Kaskurbeh (Kasturbhai is def. Asian Indian, I'm imagining!) I'm referring to the guy who first cultivated tobacco. Every night K's wife would ask him to go watch the stars to the edge of red rock massifs. The path to their look-out has a stream, and as this native house-maiden crosses every night, K follows her yet to her demise: she throws herself over inevitably. He takes the carcass and drags her across some meadow or field, the narrative says, and her bones in the loam produce the tobacco for the proselytic enjoyment. The high is endo-skeletal, I suggest, and is yet one more element whose sublime chaos bares out anew an extremis repose...
The shadow cast by trees next to this Lex corridor, looks like a draped bag, denying contours of the produce within. Cars are belched from the crest of hill, beyond my sight, and are tamed by the empty rapt presage of the day. If my shadow was a mirror, mouthfuls of fire would dot it.

The eaves, just before me make a linear shadow, threshold of memories, sitting in prolonged summery day's long ends, smoking cigarettes...metabolizing, as we did in agrarian circumstance. The shadows cast under those conditions were under a banana canopy. Designs on my day can be as subtle as the common peer-like striven travelogue, a flow of consciousness type read, which can all point to a retreat into some kind of chemical high--and yet I feel at my best staving off these things that are the least of me: nicotine delivery jettisoned...

My time trajectory in a kind of well-being involves a chimerical experience (dreamy), but due in part to this huge life of denial (of anything in the obstruction of mind-calvacade), the glyphs in mind, say, after having ambulated into new climes, are either proof things DO reach me, OR in fact, there is no connection from days' thresholds to the next embrace of What-Is!!! In weary walks up Nich'ville rd, after seances with cars threading the night's veil, I felt a strong impulse to anticipate the far-off mummer, all the while, then lidded auditive rush when traffic was the closest report. Kabbalah was a refrain in night's cloudy presence, and almost to Southland Dr, up in the yard of the older home giving character where it isn't otherwise expected, there is a sign in this yard: It says, Notary Public. "Notarikon" kept clacking like environs made up of more signs than just that--all of which felt tacit in synaesthete ways; notarikon is a method of mystic study -- and letter permutations are easily recommended in meditation, when a claimant feels an alliterative conduct when in fact, only drops of the ocean is administered...leaving what is toxic for another time. An invisible hand draws semblances, of this one big road w/lots of signs--to define life as a "gate." The hand is mind's nomenclature, always effective if the self promoted has one land on
a sense of the Outward fact, as opposed to self-preservation in Thoughts which establishes nothing in way of the distance strung heaving, and strewning presence in the pocket of complacency.
Are we old souls, have we just gotten here? How prolonged does the gate remain open, when life energy is acted upon by a new & timeless transitions?

The success with which efforts--physical albeit--tell us that an "impression" is made in the mind of the Actionable (those who act), that with a certain finesse this person details just how things lay--the lay of the land (or say the old man down the road appreciating his "shit-gimme!!"), something quite cathartic appeals to our minds sooo in need toward attunement. Marley says, "You speak I feel!!" And by that, one may appeal to the self-profession a wizened fellow prosecutes his or her attempt of ambulation toward our self-same resources, while viable material success is found without.
I like seeing people comport themselves like goats. Haunches all particularly high, an acuity in something physically adept, but unconsciously courted. Old people doing chores... and it isn't around the corner, rather their impermament record IS recording OUR's!!!
A man at once is an animal, comes from animal clemency, and animal ways tho' demonstrated in his appearance, are no longer superable as the distinction is made. G^d is conjured by Priests, but is no longer G^d as the Priest feels distinguished in His presence reconciled thru deeds or scripture. We emerge as from form, as from physical success...liberated and uncategorized.
In Jerusalem one of our rabbis was part of the S. African satellite community breeding these Literalists, of whom these exilic communities would tether religious causes to people like in my group--to make us good Jews?! This rabbi, in particular, had hair growing from the surface of his nose, and on the top of his ears, gave him grave sublimations because everything in these men's manner were indicators of what it is to be Believers/Righteous. The teeth the world has in his devekut* grasp--*the cleaving to stages of energies, attributes of an Absolute, his teffilin wrapped arms, meant war, and flat out the deigned response to a world unreadied for Jewish consciousness. His might in a praxis of utility, to represent something seemingly advertised as amongst this setting where no play-bill was necessary, retroactively made a World-view look reasoned and wonting of access. I ran thru that very door, baring what I thought was something responsible in a general understanding, comprising secular studies as the lens to look at this community's foundational example.

a fist curled in anger, captured in open palm, is actually unity

In opting for confusion, putting the undeliberative half-expressions in a box, jettisoning torpor, language still abides in the valley of tongues. The place of all the concommitant potentials is much like a ground of being, an empty vernacular tableau, where those in refrain from jumping into the fray only dream of the invisible hand--the decisor of the things out of our control. Louis Farakhan being interviewed one time had made a gesture like his hand designing circular descending pattern from the side of his head, as if the words in certain confidence are released out of such a guffaw. Literate thought presumes a restraint, and a volley of release from it, when language demurs from a conscious prop to a physical one...say, the poignant regard for one reservois of language in the flesh.
I just need to consider that the tools are for the simplest conjurations of the outward fact. And that being attention, is one big step toward not being expected to do much, but to favor ethereal ever-positing light. If will & memory are the tools where thoughts 'flect - and potentials are born, then the utility is that I accomodate something with no fissure in my victory in devotion, or sincerity. And yet these tools might vanquish the foe of self-assertion, ill-prepared self-profession... I could expect more, and if Himilayan memorialized space be spiritual awareness from teasing out an alternative to my self-deception as I inure it, I give it back to the first invisible hand to aright my furies kindling--then being true if only to inquiry in extinguishing self in throes of general awe, I've got nothing else to live uP to.