The world ends, but not tomorrow

***Like I'm talking to her:
I'm moving in circles where I'm forgetting you. I am still having to re-remember everything. It's not fair to you, and it makes life unbearable to me. I fell in love late. I get to the house in shadows. I watch lights in my eyes solution things I have no business knowing...these lights fade, and salient life distorts its continuity--pitch resolving cosmos, this moment. It's salience lost in its latent collection: if there were this provenance, why am I risen with its compulsion? (...as in your LOVE) And deceived by its warrant of success? (meaning we wait, it'll have to unfurl like a long road, but lots of signs on this road, and plenty of "deceptive" trappings of identity taking one on strange rides)

***Laura H's dialogue, then me saying:
Subject: gravity & smoke; chalice & wooden horse-eyes

Mom: Were you impressed with that mall?
Laura: Seriously? R u seriously asking me that question?
Mom: Yes
Laura: I despise malls, and I hate shopping. No, I wasn't impressed.

....saying:
If anything has taught me something of true democracy = Porch Sittin' , it's just-hating walking around feeling like my head has to shed the roseate colors behind my eyelids, that were otherwise less precipitous, meaning I only know then--at the mall, running for the the recesses is what I ought to do.

Using language of the great Elias Canetti---exposing the conduct that has grabbing hands grabbing all that they can. Instinct & over-wrought moral compass denies the proffered hand what it's supposedly due!! The hand is an antechamber," toward the "seizing," then "incorporation" of mysterious propensities of outward fact in its contagion. The open hands of Musselmanners in devotion; the receiving cupped hands in Jewish women's votive prayers waving across shabbos candles, then availing her face; the taut grip upon the integrity of doctrines in fundamentalist throes to stave off threats to self-preservation...: a populist emerging from experience to union with it in physical or spiritual success.
Ok, a little of what I say above is the case. That I sorta infer "moving on" isn't the case--but I feel threatened by it, as if I can't object to alternatives to our thing.... But I do in fact reject the alternatives, and will until we are in each other's arms again. I am just venting the "pain." Which is a weird word, it's more just longing--and I have a long history of longing... And LONG I am--wait wait that doesn't sound right. Anyway, this has a ring to it like I'm talking about solely just us--but in the end this small writ is about other sorta existential things--that DO NOT threaten us... I LOVE YOU.
***I gathered the concept of my first book, without reading it. I walked past chthonian bookcase....and read the lay of the land. Called myself alliterative, but I was prone only to the last open page. Toting around things made of whispers and nuances, knowing it wasn't enough, I think until you think about words--their vanity & cheapness--one's thirst begins to martyr the point. Kill yourself when expression loses its vehicle, and then walk or dance images, deigning language to follow.
***Man may be existential toward excelsior humanities more usually in evolved intellectus than women (if I'm in this box). If I'm in this box--man's--my lens is this miasma of agonistic possibilities; I compete with objective alterior selves. A self-profession, potent with exiles--yet potency in the looming temporal university, it's fondest enumeration, is feminine spirt; the most toxic. (...performing on me in spires of self-actualizing covenants...) That victories are critical, machine-distorted, competition dims her salient respite that her goal is that dream-scape ( of the intercourse of soul passions, of paths of splendor & fates), this lightness of being, her charge of giving away what is dear...
***
Sometimes it's just one word. It stammers in the arc of a room we ambulate. Fooled is the writing on the wall, when mindful. Pull the cold-lamp letters from white-noise vibratory properties off the wall, so prohibitive, yields like an urban facade...to something populist, painted in human schema--and lost to what is beyond anthropos, his/her spectral shore: certain skies just do not appertain... Damned is the invocation that the word creates, but as vain & cheap that they are, I'm doomed to eternal symbols, vague & flashing. And identity is what a life has become, but is no symbol!!!

TODAY, no end of the world

***Grafting my head to the floor, potential feeling almost energetic (like a cauldron conflagrated head) but without subtle presence as evident, a coffee table book on modern-astronomy, from the 60s actually, had cosmic pictures and fractal formulae for my thread to something grounded and immediate. Sounds with dispensations yawning, resound like air-conditioner units proximal and draining, my repose etching into noise cessation had that been the case. Everything echoing--all sensitivity letting blood... The meds I was on had its durations like a caterpillar metamorphosizing, pleroma skies outside this basement window made dry & heavy the day's long ends. Release was my sorrow that change was imminent--this was different for me--a phenomenon that trials (verb tense) peerless circumstance and characters in sounds-arriving advantage temporal world physical success and my submission as discomfitted loss. Oh the bitterness, no one to look to and receive my imaginary stare... The concept that authors present definitions in my path in langour suspense, must have worked--I knew sorely I gave a damn--an excellent presumption in rain-storms like ancestor's message vehicle in alliterative lightning shock, I would finesse throes of appearances...emerge as from I & Nature!!
***The Jewish atheist is a monk. A chair speaks of a thousand deaths, G*d speaks of a thousand lives. (thru a seive of unbelief, or unlived by anyone but an acolyte's conjecture of memorialized space.)
***True democracy =becoming a whisper next 700 yr old oak, just a glimpse framed out of pooled mouldered water--like that is relicky tumult into mind-patters, tho' my helpless anthropothic-trunk prone (and water ambulates in attention's margins), water-table beneath --funky, chthonian, tarrying stream its salient merciful keys...but impossibly theologized. Fountain night, pitch exhorting heavens, the new years are ringed, but arrested. This tree and that tree appreciates clime's greater-will toward treehood--neighborhood murmurs better architecture in tree tops sky-line, the flame of tree talons dispatch horizon's perfect thread... 10,000 fractured leaves weaving intentions of mind-sore from strange concealment!! Light's ultimate control, the birth of life, consciousness arising, water's ally is humanity as its vessel for light's intent.
***I found mind-relics in situ as to say images I perused showing pharonic chambers as well as some krishna blue figures, Hindu things, all coming to me in fertile glyphs. Glyphs in intrepid fiery self-profession, which made it clear to me, leaden consciousness would fall away, no sub-conscious makes wakened states any more oriented to recesses and thought primacy...it is one fluid state into the embrace of outward fact; the knowing of which may be abysmal, but thoroughly my own industry to alight the weird.
***Modeling the verity with these souls of dawn break, for me, found how I'm strung in reaction all the time: my breath extruding from guffaw of inviolable Other at once supposed, but next a yawn of day reconciles other dreams. Folks looking all possible, but remote, championing ground zero, I'm weaving throes of their superable repose. Folks look like folks in the diminutive, down in a well, with earth's lay formidable reaching us before them, they're subterranean, have already "made" habituation in the world. If we're driven into relationship, looking as into space evolving like stammers & whispers, down, down, dawn goes with Babylon falling, uncertain of the pivot to thwart the turbillon into recesses, ofcourse the fractalized self would be feared. So perhaps seeing what conscious crowd taxied-in, in a fine example of awakening--thing actual--but now, not waiting to see one's mornings get the clouds 9 dew, one may net the suspiring invocation of mutual arising of mind in constancy in bleary 5 o'clock evening's dust and torpor...
***I highly suggest reading the Closing of the Western Mind, by Charles Freeman. A great church history--critical of course in some ways, but the politics that went into deciding as upon the canon that inevitably led to why folks distinguish themselves as X-tian...makes unfalsification the primed response that beckons no opposite retort (the argument goes, life is evolvement, but our G*d started it.). The burden of evidence isn't clear til meta-physical stipulations are portent--I think it can be done, but a roseate receiver of man's worth can't be fate's quality. Karma/kama makes instincts met in trials over righting predeceased incarnations, typically not cures for our occurring in a world-to-come. So, life's meaning if there is one, is wrestling with this our exilic semi-adaptive willingness or not experience of anthropos...an immanent lens--no personal deity makes outward fact sacralize reflection to THIS inward journey, had we looked. One would look, had they a question in their nerve lit.

***I'm absolved before I barely try. Then, once the day is ensued--experiences alliterated as goal--I remember for now everyone has looked the other way, no real concern...I'm suppose to be fine the world deigns!! Starting down gutters in the lanes, I've no provenance there would be the same embrace of white noise vibratory properties of bldg's blinking eyes; I don't know any longer who has given me over to the streets again.
For fuck sake I'm rail thin--I cannot pick up a cig--I just have to remember the pale emptiness... read, and read more. Potok orients me to the "rosy colored mourn" of Yehudin sincerity, but I'm telling you Elie Wiesel, right now, talking about madness mostly in interrogatives, divines my modality in these moments--moment to moment--with immense emotional honesty; I look back a hundred-fold, something is there...I should suffer for it!!
***To heed the rave & calvacade of conscious crowd--not weighted upon as if healing needed investing in my despondency--feels like a goodconduct seeded furrow. I'm seeing agency as graviton in rational riddles like I'm likely self-profession when the center seeks oblivion. Imagine that reified self most available when kenotic matriculation alight in floes, rather than arguably a goal or presence-statement of postulating integrities... (so) rationalizing No-book condemns speaking with hands. Only inner-eye can deign memory 'flect aeries unconfessed never to be written because language has parturition underneath anything pith of mind withdraws, & acquisitive laser accurate suspiring of mind, winds of light, breaths, then exilic steps...corridors, plateaux, but to whom?

(so) rationalizing No-book condemns speaking with hands

What I mean by that, maybe suggests alliteration references tools, but fruits of hearing, the largesse maybe of books, still has the reader receive expression immediately, directly, rather than nuances of remote actions, other aims furthered!! No-book makes conscious props, symbols yet are mouthfuls of fire... conscious glyphs are libations in founts--thought is salience greed and who said one transpires without knowing something, anything at all, is redemption, from a less symbolic mediation=to empirical conduct, & less dalliance.

***A Jew courts non-belief in order to be a Believer. Take the lowest common denominator: haShoah, the Holocuast. In Auschwitz Jews, a minion, took G^d to court & found the Absolute guilty in absentsia. Giving meaning to the Unknown, is denying or being denied by the objective reality: Suffering! Particularly if "meaning" is evidence-poor. There is Nothing, Ayn-sof, outside the Known--and everything manifest in physical success, materially voidant. Wiesel mentions that in Exile, G^d experiences the attrition as well, perhaps, but the absurd has reduced hope to those with vitality as its discerning, making thought excersized in self-preservation as the prerogative for those with lives of meaning. Nothingness & essenselessness orient the sufferer to the miasma of the sticky business that G^d's word is sacralized and resourceful--unjust vestiges of Power and Victory which aren't attributable to the lowest-common-denominator. After this congregation relegates G^d to life's desperate void, they commenced w/their evening prayers.
***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.