Travel is Meritable===MOM IN FOCUS

***sa'adyah in Arabic, hazlakhah in Hebrew, felicitas in Latin, pramudita in Sanskrit, & eudamonia in Greek means happiness. The arising of compassion, Karuna in Sanskrit, under the guise of conscious void, Sunyata, make a quest for being wrested by seeking a way...a becoming. Inspired by igniting one light, technically unsuitable from weird conflagrating effort, pollution makes a standard of an Aspirant...custodial duties tally physical impugning of voluntas, I can't necessarily will lightness of being. Anything that may add to the now approaching cosmos, in its probity had grotesque gods been cartage in vestiges of man's sanity, just indicts man for the lore of his complicity.

*** I stake no claim that joy is sundering predictably, but I imagine stripes of ways to orient myself looking back like I should share in memoria of real meaning, tarrying in truth. Went over to the Episcopal church & sat under pine trees to read, smell redolent environs in its quiet currents, and mostly explore the conflict appropriation of vanquished-solidarity from the deposits of intimidating mind-sores. It's hard to imagine auspicious indictments where I restore the fools to the paths bi-secting mine. Like I'm supposed to ready myself for that weather. The present doesn't tarry as much as 2 dimensional icons/Ideas allowing refrain of similitude in suspense. Meaning's wanderlust is the product (that art) from those echos of physical success in its purport (the ICON), when our acuity to the material is emergent and becoming, and thus consigned to nothing. Because we are manifesting material void, we indulge avid concern about becoming appearances and burying essense. Essense is lit in its becoming, but this essense is suspiring, an expiration, only known in our observable release as from it.
*** I feel like I'll be skipping vast intervals of time with Valerie at the convening of our thing--a gap of exaggerated memory and brandishing a surfeit of assiduous mourn that would have me question how proscribed it is that I have gotten emptier. Fish for me I'll tell her, don't forget the unincarnated sentence I've been handed. (Like) Chagal with his apology-accepted Believer-fish, which is likely showing a clone in the aural sea: one way of divining anthropothic other-worldly possibilities who deserve one another... The Hasids believe the fish are incomplete souls, restrained in this part of transmigration. I'm a herring unfit for my school, unchallenged in the deep with the report of the Tiamot--mercurial voidant-deep, in an all-too packed fluidity of mind. The ocean is inclined to parturition--but I'm born of mean release. Prone to the immensities of temporal water, like the fountain blue horizon cosmos, the stars are just another luminescent excuse to cut me when I can't feel it.
***Pretty weird talking about life literally huh, Mom? I mean here we all are around you--it is life as you know it. I dream about you. I can't find a critical awareness of who I am to anybody...if "they" keep coming--then they're over, I tell myself. Saying energy comes from other planets is like saying we move into consciousness. Consciousness is without--G-d, if there is, is a relationship without: this is the literal horizonal truth, presuming all margins and its cost of emptiness just beyond.

I was saying to my old neighbor of 27yrs (Melinda Higgins from Cut Corner and WRFL, if you recall?)--"strange how sisterly you are--and I feel estranged even from myself. ..........An angel poked in my window soul the other day--gave me my orders. She said, "you go onnn for now onnnn alone." As real as the back of my hand. It made me breath easier, like I had forgotten. Of course, there's no denying fellow travelers and their wisdom. I would never deny that.
I had a dream sometime back, but only after Mom's sister passed, from cancer. She led me thru neighborhood backyards, into a garage, and she was barefoot. Mom & I trailed her in this dream. As I followed her I was mindful of a stark fate harassing me--so I hastened my steps, I couldn't but follow... My proclivity for self-destruction (cigs!) gives a poor self-esteem, and no sanction. When my shame makes me high, as I weep, I almost swear it off (the meaning of lament!) like why do I deserve this healing, and others haven't the plentitude of all this emotion excersized like the blood of my spirits? My good friend says, Just try! I will, or rather I'll be critically aware--intellectus needs a heart's proponet & still I reflect and meditate, coarsely--meanwhile, my will is shot."
***Problem w/religion adducing salience is that usually it's a presentation, rather than an appreciation. The variable is, is it good for meditation? (Not necessary WWJD?--I'm saying.) New agey cagey stuff, some perhaps, think what-goes-on is dispensational, and his doctrine trifles in tea leaves' symbology. There ain't no norm, so antiquity thru lens purporting the same old actors, is self-denial. The Aryans, of the Avesta and of the Vedas, believed in a god for Expression/Speech, so profiles in media for astral representatives would likely start w/script that imbues man soul rEbElling, & his petty conscript to divine relationship (kathenotheistically)...as toward creator godheads per a certain need. So he is just talking about his participation in the creative, or its cessation. It has devotion-type praxis and while sitting upon contiguous observer's manifold, and enduring statements about temporal identities, would never have us demur from a natural canon of spiritual, relicky self-profession: I and Nature is eVer the cause without too much marketing of its vertex performance...
***The 1rst Autumnal leaf, as if, fell from the eaves in front of me in the garage. The dog noticed too, and after her steak she bowed to it & chewed on it. That part of American Splendor w/the wafting paper bag in windy aeries filmed like human emotions - elements working on it, is viable & mood availing. A work-a-day haunting fodder for season's clement designs... The melancholy locked in a cell, if Winter's approach w/gray sundered skies contains us at all, produces the domicile as a bland crime to the gravid lower unpierced pleroma... Summer, Fall, & Winter dons what is apropos to habituation of calender's transition--a year like a day, a week like a valley with enumerated shadows!! My weekends have the plateau effect, and gray encumbered thoughts, are reproven w/votive candle light and the "little smoke."

***We have to manifest nothing, so the victim has to deny himself. Nothing gets capsulated,, it's the project of our worth, it is finding out what is empirical in the most general sense. Only that we endureth gives it meaning--sometimes the efficient cause when beginnings speak of right-ordering past-relics of lesser-exile, the suggestion is valences are poor from self-profession. At one point we have this modality that allows the world seemingly find us in our corporeal agitation. If as in a chair expiring a thousand-deaths what is implicit is a dream where something intermediary is taking-notice, then like Marley chimes, if you keep coming, then you're over... The world is good when it seems to seek us.
^^^Neitzsche used the term mnemotechniques, meaning the art of forgetting. So, maybe forget the norm, and homogeneity of the integrity we establish confidences over thru the elements of the Path you have found, and consider Otherness in their mutual arising. They're probably experiencing the same release as you reconciled as propriety...from Traditions soooo recommended. Stole Neitzsche's Basic Writings from the Gaines Cntr for Humanities, knowing in time's unfurling I'd end up back there to return it, only after academician resposibilities took on currents of palimpsest days. The expectations of graded episteme self-profession, only means ordering knowledge bases because exemplar student efforts say it is within me to do that. It's like taking back language technology so as to refuse the manufacture of motives that I might proffer romans bildung, or taking on identity plainly in my own wizened concerns, as opposed to having the institution determine when & how I would ever receive that.
***Working at the Co-op way back, ole Carol Davis, lanky woman - my manager, feminist replete in every step mindful--spiritually goal-oriented, told me once about staying up in the country, the mts, I think, whence toting kindling and water etc was her grace sabbatical from toiling world of investiture from individuality in throes self-encouraged. I watched in Powaqatsi, now many times--a Libra repose of man with length of limb across his back buckets on either released end of the pole, dithering on path in 3rd World reproval of where my mind extenuates. I was this man, and I am her there, then, focused and visualizing, capitalizing of serene work-a-day mechanical runnerhood--conscious of my cog-ness, alive but in empty presidio, its gradin vanished & no one to create poles in dreamtime except remotely indicating lithe demeanor, prone state no matter the distance of my visage to theirs...
***Done formulating how I market meditation. There are still old actors framed in sublime-wealthy portes--stillness and weird possibilities to find peak moments to jump, djelug, skip, as thru new expressions 'pon the countenance of maya-foed selves, freeing space knowing knows knowing, and observer reflects intimately and not from my plastic confrontation (I can't give them their certain fu manchu face). Demons threaded into physical success, body liberation has its cost, being half of something ones propitiation has restored the spirit making presence statement the space-memorialized, but ascesis: this Becoming made asking feel literal so illusion lies un-named unpierced in its depth's promise.
***Heard the name Govind recently, & Govinda was an incarnation of Krishna. (Vishnu & Krishna interplay, at any rate...) I read that in a auto-bio. of Gandhi charitably handed to me by my brother's X in the early 90s. Haven't seen that name in a long time, and at any rate midnightblue Krishna's usual visage had conjured sublime proportions...I think therapeutically and helpful to me, minus the devotion. At the time John Coltrane was the immanent mind-sore & contemplative positor, so to speak. But adducing things-spiritual in the taste of JaZZ, just how it packs it up so one believes in the musicians' selfless entreaty made the spectral insouciance of Eastern bhakti something graspable. The mystique and how all religions and spiritual attainments travel is become what-all I would cultivate.
It is clear we are denied humanity in an ant's dream. Or perhaps granted a life to live by the dreams of the Australian green ant, dreaming the lives of the children throughout the world.
Going to bed as a king--waking up as a butterfly, living slavishly, honored by prone submission. The easy part is contrite differences--they matriculate w/propriety. The human condition is as yet extremely insignificant. Sometimes however my laurels reflect Krishnamurti's idea, as I read last night, that meditation is to get control of the mind, and then go beyond--with that goal I'll have to accede to his other recommendation, that being constituant teachers who may orient me, yet are still authorial--and is one of the things also to get beyond. For all intents and purposes I submit in the end it would still be better WITH a teacher--the Talmud says BUY them! Coltrane by his saintliness and pulpit in staged delivery, gets my propitiation...I have something to tell him!
***Singularity is the consequence of Sisyphusian designs with the pivot of life's swing. On one extremis impermanence bellows self-squalor; now down in the valley, one shadow (read: Black Elk Speaks)--and opposite an appreciable arising--we are thwarted, wizened now...this pole delivered the punch of indecision, the principal executor. The most familiar of lights extinguished--refusing to yield to absurd travelogues. That we've gotten to emergent reality is a task of duppy conquering. Seeing ubiquities contagion, naming the ill-contained (you & I), which is the persistant statement to presume our primacy will level the intimating liquid sky to its influence 'pon temporal reflections. If seeing primacy threatened, presumptions about a general awe are construed in interpretations moment to moment, the places deigned as "peak" resolve.

Fanning the flames of my wakened state with dreams

***I feel I've arisen last night--and not today, not this morning. My book Wanderings, the first thing I read intending to get caught up with station in life all point to reading, has those blue-gray pages smelling like newspaper, to tell me ...where memorialized spaces I would leave in troves of imagination, the tool to connect with and don new allies in time (and place). I read it back in about '94--this is the first retrieval of those expressions of sublime efforts. (In this book) The Helenism in Jewish thought what I've just now left off reading, is remarkable in that there are 3000 Greek words having made it into the Talmud. That gods (their gods) are subject to the same circumventing mistakes of something temporal--that pagans manifest, leaves what is expectant of earth bonds and its iconography, in light of Jewish theoria, the things held in higher ordeal. Meaning, a world-to-come to prevail as earth's denoument, is threading the astral hope in the weave of aural wailing as opposed to life as inverted from it and inconsistant when history's well-being is foulable with assurances of intransigence.
***One knows he has resumed, just not resuming--he's acknowledged neo-beginnings, and no path seems to prevail like emptying the one basket with kept serpent, while all other baskets try our willingness to exhort hai hai teacher father uniFORMity. We're convicted by the moment--the moment entreats us to expectations as its subject of surveillance. Certainly we're circumspect when a path eminent meets each striving step--and knowing where I was going - fluid & tacit - at once, consciousness came to me, & not necessarily as a-becoming... It was something spiritualizing me, that I had run to its passport probity--a path. Something gotten away from me & then reflecting, I concurred: it is mnemotechnical--I was trying to negotiate what wasn't news to me!! I had decided to erase what was beneath the ground of consciousness, so that something more bleak would compel me...less of me in fact, less to assume from my life, but in immense refrain forwarding the only cause life would persist with--vast distances to trod.

***Hope is luck. Hoping down from up above is deliberative over a path. The path gives life its transcendence, but it is creative--so luck as nothing to do with it. Mom's sister had cancer for over 11yrs. Dreamt suburbs, I'm padding the trapsing path she made - after she passed - I'm trailing her to the garage whose guffaw received us, which had the nomenclature of only a brief frequenting of the place I'd go & begin my day mowing, landscaping. Damnable and cursed these days, which in just one descriptor was my being innudated by two or three whirl-winds in the yard of one of our clients. Hellish, and yet now in somewhat convalescence, I see this space in thiS garage as perhaps the one unforseen in the dream. Mom was in the dream too. She and I both were following my barefoot Aunt Eleanor into idol-esque and stern intermediary dreamscape. The dream tabernacle had eternity all marred up in its inconvenience over my control at just where I grappled at the path meeting each step, quick-stepping, watching the mute persona of my Aunt.
***Lazy siesta, languid morning a couple Sundays ago, while reading Kazantzakis--his theodicy Report to Greco. Everytime my blue nod met the morning arising, a serene pleasure jettisoning the sober ego for the dreamt inner-verse, gave ego the pliant spirit that my particular brand of social fever would be fortified with everyone feeding my feeling of being Understood Through It. I'd gulp at the last calvacade of Lextown traffic, and as if these denizen vessels emanated from the quailed glance dowwwn the proximal corridor dowwwn into downtown proper, my kaleidoscopic inner-eye sorta naturally, sorta divinely watched semblance of day's constituency peel off the watch-tower half-empty cup. That some poingant designs on my ego is becoming variegated, the austere and remote rather signals folk, friends and family, drizzling into the precipitate identity cue...it was formidable that my mind, like loaded gun, shined out by its distributor thwarted an exercise in the day appreciating anything between me and anyone else mutually arising: it seemed like Nothing existed (between us) to make whiling away obscurant!!
^^^Where were those people of my historical well-being? That sociological water that flame consumes and is not deterred. They are borne aloft=black sinewy and dissolved... That need... I needed. The candle said HERE I'll appropriate it. No no I needed the candle for meditations, not tribulations...not yet one more relicked shard of self for curio in moments of release, that actually question if it is at all observerable. Is it Observable Release--the meridian of knowing we'd feel life escape, and no way to follow? Maybe not ask WHY I know I see, but just let its content distort what otherwise remained the Uncarved Block.
Go so far as to say this stela of self is the best of corner stone, and still the house stood without it...

Cornerstone rededicated: MARK, my brother. wrote

You know, I liked looking out that window because it was at ground level. It was as if I could get the perspective from the earth itself, perhaps as the little animals do, feeling part of the earth.

In my 90's respite--my room--I'd sit on the floor, basement window to my back looking out to the backyard, sometimes I'd light a candle & assert my meditations would graduate more formally. The candle presides in sentient cause like it was not only advent of my focus, but draws in favorable assent from those especially in my midnight raving who had congregated around--in pronouncements of my historical well-being. The silent assent comes from gaping gaffawed world broadcasting my ego-centricism, yet this crystal palace gets its character denied--the ego limps along: self-profession melts into smoking black sinewy smoke... At once I imagine the flame fed by factoring-in the solace of peers--it's familial, then the flame wields and flutters, throes of personae borne aloft take on new climates of exclamation... They're consumed like my eyes emptied of reservois of dire need: sociological water, and no water could put out that fire.
***A 1000 deaths in labyrinthine shadows behind me in the redoubt of place of study. One dream purporting of rivers of time, filling bottles of unseen Axial age Dispensationals--so to speak, meaning soft machines, people. 10,000 doubts occurring one & against the 10,000 things: These "things" maybe reconciled memories, figures and glyphs like 9 clouds behind "asha" (an Avestan word) = order, the world in Right Action, the Tao's version.
We all pass, but the mind's eye reflects on the inconsistancy of the impermanent record in the hesitation of a look withIN. We surrender to the inward journey, and notice refined reasons to give thanks & praises for the irony of our security