***There's the adjacent room. Nothing but aerobatic conjurings of my wish to collude. Go into it. Lay in a middling side between corners. Demand what lay without in encompassment as attention offered--I'm acquisitive. Fortunate sense over place as time, rather than time as memory is just what it means as duty to be concise over privations' little trouble--out of place. "How can I look at myself in this (dim) light?" Or, "how can I ask pedestrian self, why to be adjudged in pathless land?" This time?
***
***Our minds make perfect a certain cessation of this reflexive becoming. What is the mind when weirdly effective but dormant--dreams of limbs amble, incorporation of the design.
***I had stolen a heavy doorstop out behind the anthropology bldg next to MI King as it was in its new phase replaced by WT Young library some yrs back. On one of those protuberant bricked-block steam vents, I sat reading Pilgrims which has something P. Smith wrote in Buddhist thought; images black & white of Nepal, Tibet, Mongolia, other places...; and Dalai Lama's input to promote R. Gere's theme, matriculation of the dharma path. At home with the magnetic element of just this doorstop, I couldn't manifest the event of my propriety--negligence in institutional margins, how it incited my conduct, dipping in crowd-herd spaces, but then slipping away with a relic of this importuning, left me thinking of ways to answer for it. Tho' I didn't (want to) care. I wasn't smoking pot at this time before 6 yrs ago in the range of about 10yrs doing mostly without. And the liberation in physical--commandeering space at my beckon, had this harnessing of my senses in a precarious position. I had to fully believe reception Without was imminent. I used the doorstop without intention, meaning upon something but before no door but the hypothetical. The following week I brought it back, dreamt that night of tent-refuge, doorless, expectorating onto the beaches of Dahab--of note probably for Palestinian/Israeli negotiations having taken place within these last couple of yrs here, incurring terrorists' wrath. As for my habituating there for 10days or whatever it was, there were no resorts, or bldgs over 1 story. In the dream's verisimilitude - its truth to the reality in my apprehending say these Egyptian, not bedouine, restaurantuers--their personae, the dream had one of the Cairoene tote the bottle of Elite vodka we negotiated with w/intent to score more prodigiously, actually, ...he's ambling thru the tent entrance, waggling the bottle to warn, what was actually the case, that the vodka would sting the gash on boy-dude's leg. In reality--he smuggled the vodka away secretly, and very hush-hush. Kid probably need stitches. So, black tea was served, camels trodded between us behind tent's facade, and the beach 50 yards to go to Reed sea denying what-all we could see, the sky skying thither--out the framed tent portal.
***
Sleeping in our hotel room in 1000 Oaks, my brother on the adjacent bed, a strange testiment to presence etching into space, had left me prone in some subterranean foothold. I saw folds of light, neon like lit parking lots and nearby shopping cntr, all intensifying suspiring langor--giving it hard edges--green margins, energetic like my next breath fills 10 men's lungs, & not only mine. I'm underneath it all, older than the eucalyptus trees with their mesh of fallen leaves desicating willow-like. I imagined impatience in the treadway aeries-born (of this light)--if I were to clamber up its incandescent arc thru the patio doors. My brother certainly wasn't reifying in convalescence such vaguely sustained conscious space considerations... He couldn't have known he walks this mile in brevity to the equinox of parallel sojourne, me there, him residing thus! Buried underneath memorialized escape from my innocence as the youngest of the 4, I have acquisitive throne of awareness he's been packaging as less thrwarted anthropos figures, not leaving it all to the intentions of painted light-glyphs, I'm seeing, since he imagines his proxy in the world as a hand grappling likenesses - representing an uncarved-block: his stained countenance not meant to lose its intent as shapeless mass of man's wallow. And there is where he's yet witnessed.
***Moms: In beginnings, all things are possible. All things are possible--when you are really unable. Thanks for baring the children of light. It's not that I'm distracted from our distances strung. It is only that when I think the world is feathers falling, everything presented as unfurling times are pathless lands, because the little trouble is only a Becoming, no goal of negotiating you in striven industries (dear cosmopolitans!); your peace bidden in the slightest ways, I'm vexed & glad.
***
Reverence is culture--I may have used your_____to yoke these senses. Whenever the occasion when intimacy isn't manifesting of instinct, the wizened have exceedingly tried to impress out of biological reality paths demostrating cultural instincts. The instinct being his-reign, the father when sad, can't otherwise see his son but impossibly sad too. A blessing, confessional for the son. If thinking as much, I'm assenting to take the self-same planet, bomb atomic til the next load... --I was like 16, thought equinamity could be instinctual terrain. Self-expression = apprehension of utility in the empirical burden. Reverence demands ritual--yes I love her like ...just there before us, whereas affection gives man up to roiling wet mind, hard-wired, brick ubiquity, to dethrone convenience: arbeit macht mame loshen, work makes the mother tongue.
Black bubble bouncing ryddim--in the sink of self-process... Murke and resignation.
Washing dishes, life exquisite dust plashes as if this home is under the same catharsis, and a little bubble less than a 1/4 inch diameter wafts up thru thermals to my rt. I'm (verifiably weird) thinking, "hate" him now... Hmm, now? I don't know why I should hate anything or anyone, but I look at it quail-eyed, paranoic. Perfect glistening, getting to live by a wandered trajectory-- it is the tincture of the measure from some body conscious-ness? I'm rinsing the soap off my fingers w/opportunity to sweep a damp finger to my eye. Warm, scratchy feeling--a thing worthy of dreamtimes. Looking again to my side, a ploy of my sup flashes in my mind, then the bubble which had been above me, drops in a deflated scrabble vertical flap.
***
***The resolve is when I can dao onto authenticity. Really, mine is an irreverent and plaintive cry. A lament thru a parched sentence of music's potent succour =proxied with psychedelia in reggae's way-of-it & some felaheen sounds thru Hamza al-Din, those sounds arriving like my neighborhood streets unfurl--again in some mesmerizing brand. Irreverent, since I'm snubbed in finding the promised rose garden... (any special knowledge). Not realizing mine--is expected, but an Other is radicalized in all the kaleidoscopic proportions... specter is seamless virtue and still waters--the rest from worthless identity campaigns. To eschew rastafarian or judaism, you might expect implcit confidence is a sorry excuse for reverence in some so-called Provenance in the embodiment (say some fixed point in time=in messianic expectations, perhaps) of holiness occurring within the grasp of a man--temporality all but unknown in humilty, for some. But... Mainly I disagree that my family accepts few comers--in my head, as in something conservative pinging the interior self with perfect attention & regard. --all the foment of divided self. If you're half of something, the probity into the other half's possibilities is sovereign in our embrace of something feeling like a conscious crowd. However, family is only going to relinquish me toward student agency and maybe in terrible populations of silent throes they wait to be discovered... seen (then) as irrecognizably Core-culture, so obstensibly from Without, oppose my conventions, immanent.
Why is everything the last song I'll ever hear? Like, realizing a sense of a maurading Nov's rain, puddles like cheerful cups there to drain--in sublime feast of the senses. If fountainsky is the limit--give me that roof. Funksome thing (I bet that's been used) playing on cassette player some yrs back, I come up to a hill & I turn to corporeal heat of self--I ask, if now, then what? Burroughs selling pyretheum in reflection as his I apprehend, is his character's passage from Mrs so & so's kitchen out storm door - it framing the blue dome, where her son's imminent return emanates. His folky atmosphere there with her and her distraction as an If Only--untypically yields to this intuiting I would have reason to while away 10 houses back. Just the sky actually not really asking for my sabbatical, looking all in improbable hand's reach...
Friday, January 20, 2012
Monday, January 02, 2012
No Door? Precisely, life suspires, if sweetly, thus.
****
In my neighborhood surveillance out to the yards lining the street, I say again to myself, Those folks look like they'd be at home. And its spry connotation, all the activity one might assume, only sometimes trots out a miniscule persona--someone's dog sauntering, me aloof then--car doors shutting, the trafficked assailant has head aft, forward leaning to their own domicile. Some places to go, and what they've come home from. The chattering monkey mind of pychic thwart wholly in the stage of squirrel's ambulations, makes their ubiquity in burbs as unprofound as their hidden scat. The brain of squirrel baits. Woe, the dusty, riddled temporality of Minds. Tree limbs are black and wet, like a knit bark lair in commands to go-on-lay-your-head, man, lay....
***
The Shomer were Watchmen in Jerusalem, guarded spiritual resources temporally grounded, albeit. A priest, then at the Holy of Holies, performs the existential deed, says His Name, says it to safeguard the betrothed kehilla or kahal, the congregation that deigns impoverishing certain iconographic notions rather into rallies of action, performance--calls this black fire on white fire, if any language-technology, minds' glyph relicks be illusorily "termed." G^d is alliterative. So, a Shomer Shabbos is an Observant sabbath, which I may have had 3 unrelated weekends altogether to somehow filter the devotional corner stone to Jews. (holy days/festivals herded me into certain camps too) I told Mom I dreamt of a soldierly ...some marshalling figure, in the room I lived in here on Rebel, but at my emotionally missionizing 2nd oldest brother's home. A taunt of my own forces for security, but almost too exacting as Eric, perhaps...--even then, so dubious an image of dreamtime, thus I lain in resuming space--this dream--in the room of my respite. If this figure, a "thick shadow" not calling me to the door, or my window, but thru him thru those walls, would be a composite of Brother, it was clear to me his being animated & in chromo didactic, I didn't know him any better then in our ensuing shared sober light of day. And that conscious crowd being the largest bite into a persona of worlds unto Harmonia Mundi--it could be anybody. And my praises, even tho' a strain of prayer with glad certainty, would rejoin even fewer fellow ascendants. Would that vigil votives unleash the cleansing fire--as Adab & Abihu, there's nothing not already consumed, and the temple is where it ought to be--in the astral--where we have no business being gratified over the world calendric come-uppance, as to expect anything there but victims of our excession.
***I have to get lost in it. Sometimes to provoke memorialized space is silence resuming yet quickened while its adjuring this space, makes feeling in fewer demands on its readied intimations. The Priest - such an ascendant to alight contemplative steps, watches what he sees like letters enumerating, & beyond into speaking laser-green lettery margins, suggesting signs appurtenance of subtle bonds clearly authorial, and discriminating with and against a waking deed Unmeant in the narrative of cant & sojourne.
***A shrewd wonderwall, knowing few, by whatever bridge untrodded, have spoken to its appreciating luck of my tote. Belched out of coolness past frigid fog of steely cigarette smoke, Granny by way of a felt shadow, there possibly drapes me. In my hand, material world translated in nothing adjudged: my control was possibly inept (in the physical) but maya-tacit, just imagery could in its breach illumine feelings like I stroked a thousand razor blades. All systematically arrayed, as in a fine garment which enscounces with weeping incisions...my fingers, curtly benumbed, lie over the roseate-black sheath, blood feelings, nerves prone to her only way in. A fine garment, it proceedth from my trunk, rooted into my heart, but Heartfelt consistant with her remonstrations without--Granny's linen soul suit.
***I can tell you yearning is incitement, and meritable travel is insight. (I doff my hat.) The dreams stock in retinue of what was phenomenal places to have veritably performed, consistantly revelating (we) "look-at-these-paths." ....Is even more so the glance in gaps of nothing/something of less prone niches 'pon the folky carpets, spider's tarmac. It is ancient kindling they use in fueling let alone a minute's passing dreigh as to whatever extent--my age'll defy much ornamentation, I think... . Haven't actually seen a spider this winter--not inside. (Well, the cats eat them.) The one I fed in a couple of rallies, out by the little backyard barn & yeasty apple tree (in Beaumont) had the mantram in viral, say bacterial code, soul-eyed argumentive - vigilant, saying: "look into the life of realize." The wake of our 1/2 acre yard looked way-over far-over in fact a great theoria for metropole blue webbing--at once a kaleidoscopic cntr of reception.
***I saw my body yield to a mean, leaving my spine, bones generally, the prose of consciousness unwritten. I watched all flesh leave a lasting glimpse of a skull caricature & white docile creatures, my friends, whence the soul strained to exposure. In a dream, my legs were rent forward prone, then lopped off, denying my pace across proud land.
***
I put it this way to my buddy going thru something similarly--tho' the news is old, it's not gospel, gossip around the corner, but ought to be reinvented at its peaks, and strange unsubtle epiphanies: The dispensation of all things considered, one thing ill-contained emotionally, spiritually, but impermeable toward the sense that a shared awareness wouldst be the morrow... Mom, as of Monday at 12:13 pm has passed away. Now keeping my dad happy & active... I think the battle gets harder, but desperation is desires brain. And I've cultivated willingness to give a damn, mostly because I think Mom's given me about 10,000 reasons to--as in the case of the eyes of Evil-glowering, whose folly to think I'd ever reckon a defeatist, will sorely seek me in my meditations of worthy probity
***It is precisely anger I experience as an early departure from the golem-ghost, both incessant, by stifling the processes of emotions' control on intuitions of moods, my transitioning... Perhaps he like me is Yum of the Lakota's myth, having this imagined leash to a pivot united in suggestions of the 4 directions, like his brother in full suzerainty of one Direction: his release from the shared archetype of Space beginnings, is release from it, always expectorating in victories without. They start at the Teepee. Yum rides his back, or brings up the rear--but champions a larger conscious map still with presumptions of the 4 brothers' discriminations appreciating yet a greater share (for Yum) of a first leap out of temporal grounds interstices: University. Golem's leash commits him to the space in time, the pivot of pilgrimages like less vaguely in perhaps a tsadi's vigils--the golem as his charge. Tho' he can be imagined as sentient, there's no persona-shaming (egoism, shame's high?) since he's not meant to make accidents of humility--greed of noble causes to be understood in light of community, but he's the expositing of community. A cow composed of herd organism consciousness, dull in the field uniquely surface & palimpsest... Something written anew as in his prayers in devotions placed under his tongue. But defies contemplation of ubiquity interrupted--a lasting outpost for open crowd consciousness..
Subject: went to the temple tonite, maybe the 3 time in the last 12 yrs
Probably one a few earliest memory
Aside the tennis courts on IBM parkgrounds, Austin, Tx, family & I making what I thought was a rare outing, I was coming back from the coke machine which said Sprite on it--Easily remembered thinking spirit spirit spirit, "this is that word."--and I bet it's OK to say IT would taste this good was my quandry--I wasn't imbibing however. I was 6, the grass cushioning the courts was disparate but high, & wafting to recesses post-park. Up to maybe 50 yards of it to dense trees, maybe fields beyond that... Imminently intuiting luck, in this case being able to avoid snakes, was cagey, but mitigating if and when I'd traipse out in it. This day, I was almost sure my brothers confidently gave it resonance and worthy to be breached. And I stood at the approach of what was rather ungainly and boring, the courts--stilling my time won as Mom, playing tennis, says I'll give you it all, and whatever you have is good because I've vetted it: here, watch me make it "irresistably" unwell--the desperation of desire's brain!! I wouldn't in the end walk out into the wheaty grass, and that my grace wouldn't need these fears, dangers, complete thrall, to be challenged by meeting semblances for my fears. The grass was high, Texas is rife with snakes, and I saw no patience in intercessions: "you've been warned," I thought. Then I thought, "we've been warned." My mind held on to something like, It's laughable I could ever be consumed by what is rather in everyone's proximation. But to be consumed--this was immediate assurance.
**
I feel I'm asked to broker the silence. It comes to mind like a command, but yet also like an appeal--whatever volatile potentials recommend! If awakening drives observation on space then silence then nothing, this Nothingness is empty and awake as Kerouac rallies. So a plain of silence, nigh a plain of consciousness, endorsed by space. In jeopardy mayhem performs in my mind like a pulse of shuddering starlings diving in packs in the branches of a bradford pear tree: the caged bird of mind-sore's enumeration of a myriad of unhinged conscious goals. This was answer enough enough that survival was in the query of silence, because everything indicated what was beyond it.
A mt. waits for no truck or ours. Blooms sprout to attract the bee-catcher's quarry, why say it takes vital water from the loam, we sue for us? The deer imbibes water, I'm helpless to know I'm vivified in empirical burden, taking in the same if only satiate for me. My novel path, meets each step, but I'm out of door first knowing I'm summarily extinquished by what is Other. As much as I'd like to watch the pregnant surface recently-deluged, knowing its ubiquity-wealthy redemption ...its meaning makes "extent" calling an ocean full, elevating psalms of ubiquity, evident like rain bearing messages from antiquity, and plains of sea are demonstrated as that much more full. More. If the report of some fountain could be felt merely in one handful, we'd be denied the 10,000 lives leading us to its shore.
**Subject: awhile
If I could alight to a rappore with sweet Valerie that gives her a great irreverence, and if only to get back to a renown of herself to bring me there. Wondering if she can distinguish now nothing is better than her life thus, as her florid aura displays would yield even earthly wiles, so everthing is just so: her meditation--maybe a certainty, an emergent regard of self when she couldn't dither in her sincerity... In her pic (she's up in Connecticut) a ask her whom I'm looking at, as if. The one of the left, I say, not sure if I know her...but I have a litmus test, that may take awhile to be sure. ...tell her to think of it as an examination, a creative one albeit. Rather like a case of radical observation. Me looking at you, I mean her, yeah her, like lucid surfaces of reflecting watery forms. Ask her if her last name is Lakes.
Just one street light, under mothy lights in world's wealth of them, takes reins of self's pace finding proud land of any rd to take us there: the anywhere of now moment--or the keys actually found underfoot at a glance of shimmers leitmotif of its all-destined advance of night's victory, tho' you know you lost them in the alley.
G-d damn the discriminated emptiness--I mean that generally insulated in a guise without release, and still, into the distances resolving dialects between my responding to two unvaried fracturings of the self-same Light into which only under one does deign Resuming memories how light and its infinite vessel--this cosmic instruction of purity and pollution--had answers.
People be saying take-on faith even in Buddhist contexts: yet initiation, is a door w/probable assailing confidence... But why is Hope (faith?) constituent when the supposed Ascendent regards himself withOut? And still the sense of it is salient.
I woke up remonstrating in my senses that I should shake my head: the laughter of night's victors, pillow armies subdued as fanciful. In my eyes the broadcast of lighted fields in dayborn morning allowance, had the front yard tree dross in effect under a vital & esoteric sky. In thought tremors it felt and now looked as if I was scurried from underfoot of some wave-like sky nomenclature and its virile excuse to jettison me into regard of something ungraspable, was hyponotically apt for a following escalante into yet another possible chimera languishing... Cloud wave fighting splurb of dark motes stabbing (eternal) material success fundamentally reifying what immense possibilities was handing me my current repose. Only a skein in immanent vision records that reality gets no basis in life scaffolding of thread from possible vistas into the protuberance of man's built manor.
Nights wrest my friends, convocations untethered to vistas opened up to daylight, have some child in me anticipate my friend like the white thread of dawn distinguished from the black thread of starborn blue slumber. Now her identity marketed, to make mine consumable. Thought for her. Speech as to the most willing side of me, in green youth the once authorial Climate of the Greater-will is me undefeated by default. No one knows by then what was lost--the cost then is dooming us, yet to dream a kind of Becoming.
Noam Chomski had/has political concord & rhetoric to the same effect w/ E. Said. Side', its proper proununciation, is been such an uncool tho' wise Perspectives political interloper. Huge standards of etiquette to bare, seduced the while--leaving me guessing desire & diffidence, if intrigue to however critical or sensual a relationship is, is stultified with first impulse as the decisor, lacking emotional integrity. Patriarchical society must (suck &...) always receive symbolic reverence as transformative if only the miasma of honest emotions wouldn't have one defer from ordinary mundane experience: that as muse has his promisory begging for rights of access, provisons to have intercessors make his or His name beheld with Esteem.
In my neighborhood surveillance out to the yards lining the street, I say again to myself, Those folks look like they'd be at home. And its spry connotation, all the activity one might assume, only sometimes trots out a miniscule persona--someone's dog sauntering, me aloof then--car doors shutting, the trafficked assailant has head aft, forward leaning to their own domicile. Some places to go, and what they've come home from. The chattering monkey mind of pychic thwart wholly in the stage of squirrel's ambulations, makes their ubiquity in burbs as unprofound as their hidden scat. The brain of squirrel baits. Woe, the dusty, riddled temporality of Minds. Tree limbs are black and wet, like a knit bark lair in commands to go-on-lay-your-head, man, lay....
***
The Shomer were Watchmen in Jerusalem, guarded spiritual resources temporally grounded, albeit. A priest, then at the Holy of Holies, performs the existential deed, says His Name, says it to safeguard the betrothed kehilla or kahal, the congregation that deigns impoverishing certain iconographic notions rather into rallies of action, performance--calls this black fire on white fire, if any language-technology, minds' glyph relicks be illusorily "termed." G^d is alliterative. So, a Shomer Shabbos is an Observant sabbath, which I may have had 3 unrelated weekends altogether to somehow filter the devotional corner stone to Jews. (holy days/festivals herded me into certain camps too) I told Mom I dreamt of a soldierly ...some marshalling figure, in the room I lived in here on Rebel, but at my emotionally missionizing 2nd oldest brother's home. A taunt of my own forces for security, but almost too exacting as Eric, perhaps...--even then, so dubious an image of dreamtime, thus I lain in resuming space--this dream--in the room of my respite. If this figure, a "thick shadow" not calling me to the door, or my window, but thru him thru those walls, would be a composite of Brother, it was clear to me his being animated & in chromo didactic, I didn't know him any better then in our ensuing shared sober light of day. And that conscious crowd being the largest bite into a persona of worlds unto Harmonia Mundi--it could be anybody. And my praises, even tho' a strain of prayer with glad certainty, would rejoin even fewer fellow ascendants. Would that vigil votives unleash the cleansing fire--as Adab & Abihu, there's nothing not already consumed, and the temple is where it ought to be--in the astral--where we have no business being gratified over the world calendric come-uppance, as to expect anything there but victims of our excession.
***I have to get lost in it. Sometimes to provoke memorialized space is silence resuming yet quickened while its adjuring this space, makes feeling in fewer demands on its readied intimations. The Priest - such an ascendant to alight contemplative steps, watches what he sees like letters enumerating, & beyond into speaking laser-green lettery margins, suggesting signs appurtenance of subtle bonds clearly authorial, and discriminating with and against a waking deed Unmeant in the narrative of cant & sojourne.
***A shrewd wonderwall, knowing few, by whatever bridge untrodded, have spoken to its appreciating luck of my tote. Belched out of coolness past frigid fog of steely cigarette smoke, Granny by way of a felt shadow, there possibly drapes me. In my hand, material world translated in nothing adjudged: my control was possibly inept (in the physical) but maya-tacit, just imagery could in its breach illumine feelings like I stroked a thousand razor blades. All systematically arrayed, as in a fine garment which enscounces with weeping incisions...my fingers, curtly benumbed, lie over the roseate-black sheath, blood feelings, nerves prone to her only way in. A fine garment, it proceedth from my trunk, rooted into my heart, but Heartfelt consistant with her remonstrations without--Granny's linen soul suit.
***I can tell you yearning is incitement, and meritable travel is insight. (I doff my hat.) The dreams stock in retinue of what was phenomenal places to have veritably performed, consistantly revelating (we) "look-at-these-paths." ....Is even more so the glance in gaps of nothing/something of less prone niches 'pon the folky carpets, spider's tarmac. It is ancient kindling they use in fueling let alone a minute's passing dreigh as to whatever extent--my age'll defy much ornamentation, I think... . Haven't actually seen a spider this winter--not inside. (Well, the cats eat them.) The one I fed in a couple of rallies, out by the little backyard barn & yeasty apple tree (in Beaumont) had the mantram in viral, say bacterial code, soul-eyed argumentive - vigilant, saying: "look into the life of realize." The wake of our 1/2 acre yard looked way-over far-over in fact a great theoria for metropole blue webbing--at once a kaleidoscopic cntr of reception.
***I saw my body yield to a mean, leaving my spine, bones generally, the prose of consciousness unwritten. I watched all flesh leave a lasting glimpse of a skull caricature & white docile creatures, my friends, whence the soul strained to exposure. In a dream, my legs were rent forward prone, then lopped off, denying my pace across proud land.
***
I put it this way to my buddy going thru something similarly--tho' the news is old, it's not gospel, gossip around the corner, but ought to be reinvented at its peaks, and strange unsubtle epiphanies: The dispensation of all things considered, one thing ill-contained emotionally, spiritually, but impermeable toward the sense that a shared awareness wouldst be the morrow... Mom, as of Monday at 12:13 pm has passed away. Now keeping my dad happy & active... I think the battle gets harder, but desperation is desires brain. And I've cultivated willingness to give a damn, mostly because I think Mom's given me about 10,000 reasons to--as in the case of the eyes of Evil-glowering, whose folly to think I'd ever reckon a defeatist, will sorely seek me in my meditations of worthy probity
***It is precisely anger I experience as an early departure from the golem-ghost, both incessant, by stifling the processes of emotions' control on intuitions of moods, my transitioning... Perhaps he like me is Yum of the Lakota's myth, having this imagined leash to a pivot united in suggestions of the 4 directions, like his brother in full suzerainty of one Direction: his release from the shared archetype of Space beginnings, is release from it, always expectorating in victories without. They start at the Teepee. Yum rides his back, or brings up the rear--but champions a larger conscious map still with presumptions of the 4 brothers' discriminations appreciating yet a greater share (for Yum) of a first leap out of temporal grounds interstices: University. Golem's leash commits him to the space in time, the pivot of pilgrimages like less vaguely in perhaps a tsadi's vigils--the golem as his charge. Tho' he can be imagined as sentient, there's no persona-shaming (egoism, shame's high?) since he's not meant to make accidents of humility--greed of noble causes to be understood in light of community, but he's the expositing of community. A cow composed of herd organism consciousness, dull in the field uniquely surface & palimpsest... Something written anew as in his prayers in devotions placed under his tongue. But defies contemplation of ubiquity interrupted--a lasting outpost for open crowd consciousness..
Subject: went to the temple tonite, maybe the 3 time in the last 12 yrs
Probably one a few earliest memory
Aside the tennis courts on IBM parkgrounds, Austin, Tx, family & I making what I thought was a rare outing, I was coming back from the coke machine which said Sprite on it--Easily remembered thinking spirit spirit spirit, "this is that word."--and I bet it's OK to say IT would taste this good was my quandry--I wasn't imbibing however. I was 6, the grass cushioning the courts was disparate but high, & wafting to recesses post-park. Up to maybe 50 yards of it to dense trees, maybe fields beyond that... Imminently intuiting luck, in this case being able to avoid snakes, was cagey, but mitigating if and when I'd traipse out in it. This day, I was almost sure my brothers confidently gave it resonance and worthy to be breached. And I stood at the approach of what was rather ungainly and boring, the courts--stilling my time won as Mom, playing tennis, says I'll give you it all, and whatever you have is good because I've vetted it: here, watch me make it "irresistably" unwell--the desperation of desire's brain!! I wouldn't in the end walk out into the wheaty grass, and that my grace wouldn't need these fears, dangers, complete thrall, to be challenged by meeting semblances for my fears. The grass was high, Texas is rife with snakes, and I saw no patience in intercessions: "you've been warned," I thought. Then I thought, "we've been warned." My mind held on to something like, It's laughable I could ever be consumed by what is rather in everyone's proximation. But to be consumed--this was immediate assurance.
**
I feel I'm asked to broker the silence. It comes to mind like a command, but yet also like an appeal--whatever volatile potentials recommend! If awakening drives observation on space then silence then nothing, this Nothingness is empty and awake as Kerouac rallies. So a plain of silence, nigh a plain of consciousness, endorsed by space. In jeopardy mayhem performs in my mind like a pulse of shuddering starlings diving in packs in the branches of a bradford pear tree: the caged bird of mind-sore's enumeration of a myriad of unhinged conscious goals. This was answer enough enough that survival was in the query of silence, because everything indicated what was beyond it.
A mt. waits for no truck or ours. Blooms sprout to attract the bee-catcher's quarry, why say it takes vital water from the loam, we sue for us? The deer imbibes water, I'm helpless to know I'm vivified in empirical burden, taking in the same if only satiate for me. My novel path, meets each step, but I'm out of door first knowing I'm summarily extinquished by what is Other. As much as I'd like to watch the pregnant surface recently-deluged, knowing its ubiquity-wealthy redemption ...its meaning makes "extent" calling an ocean full, elevating psalms of ubiquity, evident like rain bearing messages from antiquity, and plains of sea are demonstrated as that much more full. More. If the report of some fountain could be felt merely in one handful, we'd be denied the 10,000 lives leading us to its shore.
**Subject: awhile
If I could alight to a rappore with sweet Valerie that gives her a great irreverence, and if only to get back to a renown of herself to bring me there. Wondering if she can distinguish now nothing is better than her life thus, as her florid aura displays would yield even earthly wiles, so everthing is just so: her meditation--maybe a certainty, an emergent regard of self when she couldn't dither in her sincerity... In her pic (she's up in Connecticut) a ask her whom I'm looking at, as if. The one of the left, I say, not sure if I know her...but I have a litmus test, that may take awhile to be sure. ...tell her to think of it as an examination, a creative one albeit. Rather like a case of radical observation. Me looking at you, I mean her, yeah her, like lucid surfaces of reflecting watery forms. Ask her if her last name is Lakes.
Just one street light, under mothy lights in world's wealth of them, takes reins of self's pace finding proud land of any rd to take us there: the anywhere of now moment--or the keys actually found underfoot at a glance of shimmers leitmotif of its all-destined advance of night's victory, tho' you know you lost them in the alley.
G-d damn the discriminated emptiness--I mean that generally insulated in a guise without release, and still, into the distances resolving dialects between my responding to two unvaried fracturings of the self-same Light into which only under one does deign Resuming memories how light and its infinite vessel--this cosmic instruction of purity and pollution--had answers.
People be saying take-on faith even in Buddhist contexts: yet initiation, is a door w/probable assailing confidence... But why is Hope (faith?) constituent when the supposed Ascendent regards himself withOut? And still the sense of it is salient.
I woke up remonstrating in my senses that I should shake my head: the laughter of night's victors, pillow armies subdued as fanciful. In my eyes the broadcast of lighted fields in dayborn morning allowance, had the front yard tree dross in effect under a vital & esoteric sky. In thought tremors it felt and now looked as if I was scurried from underfoot of some wave-like sky nomenclature and its virile excuse to jettison me into regard of something ungraspable, was hyponotically apt for a following escalante into yet another possible chimera languishing... Cloud wave fighting splurb of dark motes stabbing (eternal) material success fundamentally reifying what immense possibilities was handing me my current repose. Only a skein in immanent vision records that reality gets no basis in life scaffolding of thread from possible vistas into the protuberance of man's built manor.
Nights wrest my friends, convocations untethered to vistas opened up to daylight, have some child in me anticipate my friend like the white thread of dawn distinguished from the black thread of starborn blue slumber. Now her identity marketed, to make mine consumable. Thought for her. Speech as to the most willing side of me, in green youth the once authorial Climate of the Greater-will is me undefeated by default. No one knows by then what was lost--the cost then is dooming us, yet to dream a kind of Becoming.
Noam Chomski had/has political concord & rhetoric to the same effect w/ E. Said. Side', its proper proununciation, is been such an uncool tho' wise Perspectives political interloper. Huge standards of etiquette to bare, seduced the while--leaving me guessing desire & diffidence, if intrigue to however critical or sensual a relationship is, is stultified with first impulse as the decisor, lacking emotional integrity. Patriarchical society must (suck &...) always receive symbolic reverence as transformative if only the miasma of honest emotions wouldn't have one defer from ordinary mundane experience: that as muse has his promisory begging for rights of access, provisons to have intercessors make his or His name beheld with Esteem.
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