THOUGHTS on Sarah Tilla, and other pieces

***I don't think somewhere in an Ultimate Reality that it was decided to deal me a full deck. Yet, I'm inclined in every game, halfing the deck, determining the stakes etc.... My fellow players thru a haze of pollution and night circumstance, look over in the place where I've taken seat, seem to suggest an existential surprise--basically mine, I'd come from the din of an agreed concensus life of sorrow.
***THE sun is not rhetorical. In fact it demands action and reaction to the event of its rising. There's a book whose title suggests that something makes the sun cast a shadow of its own--like something everybit more bright, intense, and perhaps vivifying. If the Absolute in What is-not is shared in the approach to the sun's What-Is, certainly, the thing denied perhaps tells us where we stand, and if our living supine is its supreme identity establishes us as its quarry....
The truth is closer to a big tale, an unfurling banquet of vast resource, and sometimes we know we will never dine.
***A hypnotic refrain for me continues to be Mom's literary trove. Isaac babel was in The Jewish Caravan, as was plenty pseudepigraphic material, Scholem Aleichem, exigetical stuff like the Khazars being possibly a link to the world of Scythians in Hasdai ibn Shaprut's letter reproduced for scholarly interested Jews like I thought was in my state of Becoming... And Russian histories, with varied interpretations of dispensations--the one I query now, that of Rasputin. This dangerous character seemed like pending doom. I probably imagined him as vacuous and imminent like an opposite affect to that of gentile kids and their Santa --I've barely indulged in his conduct & influences over the Romanovs of late 19th century til now. This book given to me by Rob Olson's buddy from H.S. is a good academic work, is precisely the feel and taste of things coming out of Mom's books--but rather from his Dad, the former county attourney of Jessamine cty of almost the last 30yrs. Progressive politically, his parents, worldly folks too, and a way for me to seize demonstrations of educational standards I would assume but without the reconcilation you'd think these folks demand. I didn't make the grades, I didn't get the romansbildung, but I do get the sense that a mutually arising would occur to me like them, of the episteme from cultures' contagion--walls I'd concommitantly drape theoria in the event of mind-sore prone to their books' proffering.
***Told Mom what haznea lekhet means. Later my brother informed me Mom can't "think" like she's used to. There's no delivering him from his point, cliche or not, he's the worst person to come to any psychologic straits with. If my idea of brahmodya, meaning the employment of that which is manifest of the silent accord when fascinans is salient, is this so damn less intrusive transitive life--I'm clearly less ambitious--when is it interesting to make an appeal to him or those like him, to fully divulge my lit wick of disambiguation? The sense of other is a ready refuge---if he were any more concretized emotionally, temporally, I might start imagining a general awe that may inspire. I saw him once I suppose in my worst thrum of which life unravels with schizophrenia at his dinner table, just up the street from here on Rebel, impenetrable with my signs of constraints in hellion awakenings out of the House--the House--and his baby and he were in static gesture, him feeding it. While I whispered roseate room 'flect light and heat at the pivot of baby in beautiful worlds, worlds, I didn't let the subtlety of the vision of Jeremy at the end of an umbilical cord escape my sense of the triune of meditation, travel--however experiential, & memorialized space, I tend to want to endure. Haznea lekhet means simple and humble. Lekhet I think denotes "way."
***A ganglion of self projected in reflection over graphed streets, like infrastructure all nerve-like, and still hidden in what coves we deign subsume us: In the suburbs, looking in the dim lanes, the thing so inviting in my life as a dog, was always the edge of drives, when they're neatly bricked in and tufts of grass all solemn and dormant--its patrons gone off to work or school, leaving me there sauntering by as the claimant. Also, shadows in the dust under trees, a blur comes to my eyes that there are impossible depths testified by its negligible contagion off the road, in squirrels' repair.
***I'm telling you, in space and in time your body all sinewy in the strain of illusion, for any distance between you and any relationship--physically space schismed or orbbed emotionally conscious props, creates mapped bodies, hand to foot til "there." Now what?
***I'm more dead, than asleep. I'm less busy being born, than I'm stultified, then waning into awakening. I'm dreaming more in fields of possibilities than its renomer in subterranean mind-sore, the sub-conscious.
***I like how character divines the degree of incorporation. Being denied meaning makes all things possible, since ground of being is contagious. If tobacco is burned in in proportion to its avatar ill-concealed, in her marketing it as votive, a season is imbued as the high in vistas of immensity rendered clement.
***The cultists of self-reliance may or may not prefer to effect cause. Meaning may give well-intentions, but has nothing to do with everyone's limited access to truth. (Moving into) consciousness without is love's price, what is dear is straying consciousness (without)--how the fray contrives our transperancy. Sight the holy fool as alterior I & Is, the gray core of over-stimulating when one is unversed to say his next existential garment was he who had the bravest ornament of release. The duppy's charisma requires the acuity in our moving transformative pirs saints mrabits - these kinds of teachers, into theoria renomer, meditations soundly credible, in their intent in making ground of being poingantly tremendum & reductive.
Moroccan Jews called their saints saddik, sayyid in arabic toward their holiness-purveyor (saddhu so clearly resonates with this...but I'm in the semitic theatre, really hamitic.). Jews almost never required piety thru miraculous possible healings by frequenting a saddik's grave, would usually visit his memorium to gratify festival's relief, wine to share with sometimes the Muslims there for same holyman imbibing coexistence--and definitely expected in core-culture's certain crowd.

**THINKING ABOUT MOM::: I know that she glimpses season's change and it isn't in fact what the time of yr is actually. Just flights of thought of what the temporal heralds, in memory--recent sensitivities to the sun's wealth & flourish. I'd say meeting elemental facts, with the entrails of calendric timeliness impossible to ascertain.
***It'll work, I swore I'd prevail. No filter between me and who suffers, sustains, lets go. I'm certain I'd always been accused of "signifying"--this awe of futures, suspect because telling one makes it seem your retreat is final. But imagining the sun inciting me, knowing my problem is being late for convening season's change--rather in an apex middling the calendar's solar proximity... If I'm incited, I reconcile not being born, & womb-tomb is nigh in every verily away cove.
***
The West goes wrong with destinies of spirituality, as if we're dogged til our implicit believing "problem" has our worth projected onto Mysteries. Certainly one's pain is proportionally a state with needing restored margins--rather, distortion & urgency definitely won't placate one suffering self-abnegating origins. If religion keeps the standard of selves-profession, cosmogony illustrated in lying prone absorbing in big circles immanent star tincture, out of mouthfuls of fire she's coming straight to me. This visage in electronic ocular prayers--behind my eyelids, Ginny & I went out Frogtown Ln., driving up to some farmfield. I step out of the ride, and a skein of crisp margins echo me into gravel and turf off of the road--it was like my shadow 'pon pleroma in her ever murmur from the sky.

SLEEP

***
If I've had one foe duppy (terribile & fascinans self-reflection)- it was life primatively slit open --I'm at once on the chromo miasmic thrust of Outward Fact ...outside blank sidewalk portending a vessel of blood like path, but in streams that vaguely prevail upon its banks. In poison suspense, this dream of horizonal shadows: where I stand, & where I don't! only gave me a hero's welcome - victory in graduated space, emancipated as if, since having resumed is all - cosmogony is higher-walking...

I'm no champion of the other's chance referendum of my pain.
***Gave Nanny a kiss Sunday---she was sleeping. Dire woe, the awakening--for what it is, for any or all of us, sometimes jettisons the dream.
Said No to everything, leaves me in my murk and solace. At once, I'm relieved of cooperation with mysteries. Time's ill power is exigent in its throne material procession I divulge to my imagination as paths in a walk-about, old brown in a dance of the unknown.
***It's not the context of my agonistic-race to episteme horizon, rather rt now it's content. To hear certain words make its seizing-range of what all falls into the valley of tongues, an ambush of the Rift valley, yud hey vov hey = Jah--now possibly beginning in the Negev, Is. more precisely the Sinai, and the plenitude of the Tiamat, Yemen, these environs verbed as voids... An old way of saying things!! --I don't know that Patti Smith was on to something saying she tired of a stipulate antiquity to define transcendence. Dude we can't excoriate something leaving us w/ residual confidences, it's a fact there's an ancient non-cosmetic even poesis to the pollution... I'm as confident in a survey of its voilablity on me as I am that the past belches meaning, lest thoughts become tridents of Less. Memory is recollection of dismal facts, if history is as language-is True, then expression roils in guffaws unwashed of our animals gift, a merciful compelling "statement" of predeceasing. The dust says dust, it will not traduce anything but the present.
***Everybody is a star--we are dust, star dust as ancient as the Outward Fact. Light too, as if... Life sprung, consciousness emanating, star vitae, but organic and egressing, and yet! Mouthfuls of pleroma born fire, and refugees every bit as part of neutron magnification: if we site the heavens, lift our heads in praise over awareness, then to relationship in immense distances are the project of all humanity's creativity. Gods are Creator Sky gods for anthropological reason: we counter distances, born of them. Here in temporal stewardship, why not think of ourselves as just orbiting monadic bodies. Monad, any unit of consciousness, as Madam Blavatskii in Exoteric/Esoteric Writing makes the case, imminent reality is celestial agency.
***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.
***In the hallway at Ohavay Zion (Love of Zion) synagogue I looked-on at this young mother with toddler collecting walkway dust dithering on the tiled floor. Our rabbi was blind and missing part of his leg from diabetes working against his vitae--he stood in the hallway, in gimple agitation about to ambulate up toward our classroom. The child hovering at adults' feet was making efforts to stand, and this mother, likely one of rabbi's pets for charity-cause, kept scooting the child's one leg so that she'd collapse again floor-supine somewhat... The integrity of Jewish morality made me realize then, it was entirely the moral compass in mind's eye, nothing of ethos I'm likely to conjure making Judaic conduct heavy & relatable in what other Jews would hand me: the rabbi was helpless doing his consumation according to the latitude folks fed him--tsedakah, charity--as he knew what in Torah was recommended. This woman, I'm realizing then, is not permanent rectitude of following days, my learning then. The folly and waste of core-culture as I watched in plastic media, til those opened doors of sheul lopped off my factoring-in profane without, & purity within, is as illusory as any motive one would establish and train toward his self-profession.
***Dreamt of my repose upon a marginal peak of a mountain, snowing comely, and the yeshiva bukrs, those students in an impression of the whole by a few souls were to hand up to me something of the Way--something doctrinaire my mind covets. The mt was made of margins, thin lines of contours, but transparent or white snowing veils, substance wont was emptiness--my orientation in a crevice -- I'm barely dormant as the silence of the remote witnesses. I reach toward the advance -- what I'm assuming is an advance, of their mitigating my studied intent. But they're not addressing me, seem verily sustained, strongly dutified, on various rocky outcrops--me left to suppose I'm as miasmic in the conjuration of my presence.

*** Thought about the irreconciling of having not conjured as much dionysiac, since the rational mind commits and rights me from solitarian escape - no trialing masks (alone with her) - whilst indulging apollonian failures, she has me strive without bionic appetence. Still is the desire (waiting for perturbment), silent is my lament--I fully believe I'd never been without
That cool air, the perfume and body's breath, spectral-glittery physical hesitancy--she's eye candy, but w/o frauding her with my sensual greed. My brother, my father's house, she's prepared...& to leave me jettisoned worse than cosmically. If the hand is an antechamber, my carnal-decor is the last thing in aural precincts that makes natural my repose in self-conscious respite, her love.
***Meditating on the doctrine of the experience of sleep: Is it a problem when naps traduce the long ends of the day? I thought catching convalescence is infact always good, but somehow I've quit marketing my perseverence. Imagining my emotional catharsis, I had at one point seen spans of months lay ahead. Now, with hopeful favorability, I see the usual day unfurl but inevitably its without me occupying a sense of evolving through it. It isn't only an impermanent record without segueways--my statement of presence has been fenced in--I barely know to give a damn. Enumeration of heady material time's control reveals less a conscious-pocket than observably solitarian idleness...
***
Intensity is the key, entrophy is a field of distrusted possibilities...how to be clever and create space in the denying factor, in my appreciating ebb? I can't anymore be the sun enriched yon of world in wakes behind me, in a certain sesshun in corner like-remote praxis--my helplessness conjured curious resolve, but my backyard started sorting itself out like dynamic lighted arbor in my eyes fixed on pools of sheen on this bedroom bric-a-brak floor in dusty exudation-- meditation in glittery glassy visuals ensues possible resonance and self-profession as if those (the yard's ) margins presume a standard--I know as far as maple tree canopy and coves of mind there in it thresh the perfunctory settled opinion: I'm true to the last breath; the arena of soul is translucent isles covering what we know from suffocating perfect ubiquity... I am in that sea, now it's framed, and forever is it frozen.
***People in transformation look all crisp & warrior-like. Taut expression prone to my wallowing in the mile--looking on, their efforts are made plain, but only unto jettisoning reasonable urban spaces, and rather they're convening the horizon - participating in netherly conduct. It'll work supposing a general awe, yet I am denied conscious crowd, clouded with propriety.
Remember you're tending to the same "gate" or bridge to awareness as ever... Your hope is the fire & prayer & communication of that hope.
A friend stated, the pond turns itself over. Maybe this is how there is some inversion in the ecosystem & so allegorically the human market place is in transformation, I'm not sure. But I responded as follows: The heart receives the blood of life, and empties as quickly. A roseate fountain, whose pondering affect, makes perfect surrender.
***My nose says nose, my feet say horiZONal yawn down 'pon the sidewalks. A go-down (warehouse) belches Zadie's furniture store and /or his garage in Kingston, Ny--like the redolent dust and forest of life, underneath me. An unlikely willow in a stunted yard off of Cedar St when I had usually walked past going to Student Cntr to read, marketing the day and its consumation of pieces of familial senses--the coves of warranted escapes somewhat denying them, my family, but giving me avenues to consider me in productive conduct like pantheoned peoples would give head-room and breadth of social clarity... Looming change, strict & prone, I'm oriented but asleep, dreaming, but lost in satori intermediation of chimerical!!!
***Too much bad weed in the garden (Rasta lyrics):
Institutions have teeth--the seizing and incorporation of identity is entreated, there are bionic rats in the garden, but the crickets shall inherit the earth.
Looking for the poesis of my come-uppance: as Whitman exclaimed of himself "I am Religion." Not something with abiding integrity--maybe, Believing in the G^d of your Nation -- and then your nation fails, then what OF your god.... We are a "becoming" not something with world-to-come scenarios...self-actualization is Now, religion as the purdah of distance strung...
**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!!!
***Try saying you've been doing that, and then do something else. Thinking in images, makes words coal-up, indeterminate, when I kindle Buddhist ideas. The inward and outward searing gaze of Buddhist effigies, as he looks onto, and into, makes precise a conscious prop as if beheld just to the fore. A nerve exposed, but tendered, roseate, but imminent, joy/pramudita makes me ask what candid filial thing could every be transgressed. Bob Marley quotes something I assume is biblacy, "when we laugh we pay, for the innocent blood, that gets shed everyday, Oh children mark my word..." Upon the gate's threshold, I had an urge to chortle, but the gatekeeper delayed my entry--expected the gate's guffaw as my supposed goal...sometime, when? Ahh, you'll see I thought--in his words...
***Mind-sore may reference something like urban convene point, infrastructure workers, and then the more vertex affect - front room window glowering in suburban constant, hearth behind--human-solace, & lamp yellow gloss tearing-up (weeps) the refraction, like conscious satellites. My report on the road in profane ambulation...the vehicle not biding roseate domicile blooms thirst for retiring souls. In neighborhood's reins on complacent maps in my head, some humbling muscular thought stocked the shelves with dun-colored and chocolate serpents none other than what I called resolute making gloss and material-voids of white-noise contagions its rigor appointment. Instincts inimitable of the crisp & warrior-like, I'm weary like a cave's stream, no hope like sun's genesis-fact tarrying the vitiate-denial of impermanence open-ended herald of atman as its tinder...