En het enyeh

***I think bears will inherit the earth--ought to. In Iron Bridge to next door in Blind River (I'm told Neil Young's hometown), a strained relief and interesting vacation, put me in dank, voluable forested world, getting a good few glimpses at bears. Valerie's riled dreamtime, like this animal in stone of mind promises a nightmarish dramatis she wishes she understood better to make her really like to sense or mettle w/the visceral pull of that indeterminant threat. Enduring as they do in Ontario, in their backyard a landfill, tho' their front yard seems to be the encroaching phenomenom letting me recollect a nature's victory---and here we had to slowly-quickly evade 2-3 bears', our having navigated the gate pedestrian, encumbered, heirarchical, everyone chirping and nodding to some of this effect, more so, back hoofing to the ride, I thought: the elders prodding somekind of time-signature. In some margin say in some too cool evening, but in a pool, the house of Lexington neighborhood processed in city boundaries, her dream promoting what's captured for me, just going there, as a there appears of any psalmody chimera. The tune, her lament, like a need for security... In water, this above ground pool she describes, bluegrass like in a local yard, but countrified in Ky anthemic way, or in Canadian wilds as her emanate bear/animal mind's eye content might appreciate, they are in the plastique transparent water with her--I've had her dream. Around Chernobyl, to the head of Babylon, it's evident an unlikely nature preserve, may have these animals proliferate, if distorted then weakening gratuitous numbers of the organic, so sentient-delivery machinations of radioactivity, but what of the odd superable genetic ascendant?
***He said we're using the same language--but putting emphasis on its diffident order. An approachable incredulity is what all this catharses invents, if one supposes there are states of unknowing, just as there are plains of consciousness... Arranging what is induced from word-technology w/o supplicancy (mine!) toward a goal, had him fooled. Language indicated identity supposed in rights of probity--and tho' a conscious prop is beheld, eventually one's conscience gets unstilled by antecedents in winks and nods toward definitions of some netherly campaign of escape=the heady repose beneath heaven's acquiry...while denying a temporal escape, was in the end what's needed. Words are cheap, and unfurls the surface, making imminent considerations the context for general-awe of life--its the efficient cause... Good enough, hopefully, because accruing memorialized space in ethereal future for a soul defined by scant evidence, has only what is sensed in usual defeat from its rigeur in physical liberation, likely impermanence.
***In my long distance run in the 90s, I'd sit in the split-level basement, house of my making, feeding the fireplace--where my eyes traipsed glowering into rallies of the inverse--that fire--of my empty cauldron. Bugler cigarettes, rarely if ever any green, but whose incidence with fire of mystic glyphs, taste now of my statements of Presence/immediacy. A brick on the hearth's been riven from the heft of logs dropped on it, now from greener wood and outdoor moisture has a gloss of gray and black. I think of its surface as serving up victuals from flames digitageous grapple into throaty chimney, and before that my solicitation... One wafting ash caught like artifact of compassions' boundlessness, I thought it magnified--as in The Last Temptation's messiah, the night confides in him even to the point extinction, someone finds him.
***In the Haroon Mt orchard, a date tree grew as provident summer's day retreat. My entrance was an exceptional passporte from a life which abideth in ever toppling the effect of serenity in potencia, with availling awe enumerating its examination. Had I stayed in mts' retreat, habituating to what would be unmissed that I'd endure w/o complexion--vipasana visions, however impulsive has authenticated an apex definition in a compassionate theatre. A nod to Kerouac: Just call me your broom, woman. And when I ask about eternity, remind me, Only a little to go.
***Experience is landed from up-above. Little blossoms of Mom's polyester chimera shirt, she's clouded cumulus abundant, omni-provident, stepping aft & no prospects she'd divine where I was following her, except maybe to the maples. The one to the right of the porch I've clung to and taken refuge upon the flat-porch roof--the last time the bland blue of the smoothly unreferencial sky, made this house's interior in its grasp demanding my coherence in less aerobatic hauntings... I'd do better to lurke under the eaves I imagined. Feathers falling. Ones sensory resolve is to go into it. Moving into experience, even in every tethery conduit of an enumeration of the possibilities--in sun born plateaux, which wholeness packages, expedites, thru it we're subsumed. So emanating relations sky-fallen, it falls, we're subsumed...down to it, down. Reduced yet bouyant, piercing truths can only inspire incumbancy.


***The window frames the yard - objective, willful - like Kerouac in suzerainty over the gnarled tree in a posture toward Mt Hozomeen--I'm here. Next to any window, like glad looks from sliding by neighborhood dormancy, warms in greeting-Kongfuzi/​Confucius-definitions of humanity. As Kazantzakis tells his reader, the best warmth is next to a window. His/Confucius is an Axial age conduct when the world's core-cultures reliquished a proud warrior god toward the edifice of peace, to be erected in the hearts reclination as mind-sore's salve. Revelation which inspires, its death reliquary, the loam of all fertile consent---I'm going to end up there. The seasons are up to the task to evade my graduated therapy--all the time in its sway, illustrates man's unwillingness to wade into the climate of the Greater Will. One might be reduced to deny heady inclement privations in the unknowing meanings of earth's consuming flourishes.
***Slatted window shadows project onto the opaque wall making trees liquid in its negative space--my tote of a deep-aside needs renegotiating... The Great Transformation, Karen Armstrong's book is before me--NPR playing--but I want to find a Dao concept, the Way, as if?-- tho' a "way" isn't one teacher's recommend--so perhaps the "daode" is what I need--the "power of the Way." The unfurling of March 3rd is throaty with thresholds til the long ends of the day. Let me clear the way for the suspiring unsaid. The mesmerizing sheen, now just a dusty square figure, hand-splayed sized, make my tired eyes cross, ...these hard-wood floors resonant letting my woody eyes filter night images, and new manufactured motives.... I put Chex cereal underneath my scarred front-yard tree, it lies uneaten surprisingly--the 2003 ice-storm & lightning damage since as this trees personality framed in proper rigeur. This cellulose sprawl --tree-fount of of liquid messages rained from ancients, where I had guessed at its demise, is up to a great vital struggle, her potentials match the task to stay around longer...
The one thing that may stunt my fantasia about living in the past is unhealth. But then again I'm fraught & mindful of dis-ease now. In an Amritsar throe of pathos--the reading of it along with the stupid Orientalism apeiron & undeveloped cult, lines up with haShoah--the atrocities of WWII in its humanities' contempt, I see a humid-roseate stay in some bungalow where Gandhi resigns himself in brahmacharyin conduct IN a fast. His attendants in harmonious machinations toward ahimsa--an awakened message with clear moral clemency, in this dream, I align withal in self-confessions. He's in prayer modalities and I sluice-by past silken curtains, but only catching my self-agency in thorough-going factotem wiles. In my seamless night slumbering--these days all in early 20th century-deriding of the coming industrial deluge, sleep comes-to in the intermediation of my bedside: white sheets cover my visage and two unknown persons veiled by too much day blanching this nesting concourse. The observer me in the dream, I'm looking as from the ceiling light, delivers the sense that I'm coupled with two others. H.P. Blavatskii & Gandhi are persisting in the skyline median effluence white sheeted but humbly dormant for a morning what ever intercourse.
***Making music mixes= beastboys w/bizmarke / w/Lee Scratch / them doing an instrumental jam dubby too called Shambala, different than but conveys what it good about P.K's Mandarin Jade; reading the scrolll draft of On the Rd; read about Hillel; staving off boredom, no-ing it is the root of a weird depression which persists but "doesn't consume" as my old h.s. debate buddy put it. __________If getting outside of ourselves is a strong representation in patterns one may get wise to--some extremity limb of distraction, I certainly can step into my shadow, meaning outbound of my formal mind-sore (a displacement, psychologically, of the greater yield of brings one down), and call myself present for the advantage in dysnomia/ a mire to be readily discriminated. I'm more bitter than acorn tannins. As Bob Marley's 1rst producer lyrics it, Thank G*d for making me Mad. So madness, miasma of intensity, is yet intensity, and intensity is the Key...

The charge of more enviable better self is when I feel luckily drawn into some halfLight, if giving-in has this so valent apprehension. The recommend of those having seen me thru incarnation in artifacts of my staggered paths in & out of their courtesies, dangle keys--if I'd only...? These folks framed in glowering corporate/domicile lights in the dullard tricks suburban living does, does it in salutaries breeding its weird silent science.

I got your tree

***funk in my blue--firmament, where I throw myself prone, comforts in what's true!!Why does giving Thanks & Praises all seem like at the trialling occasion's strongest mean --its surprise--as its "intended," its edifier? I respired two three hits from a rolly--if heady event be a season of confidence, knowing I don't have to get up, gives-Up respite's graduate his gradin objective--meaning I'm at the cntr of ambient theater. Fluid meditations or "laziness" I see in this connection with biblical treatment--just at the Common Era's intro--the sanhedrin - its certain appointees had not done the scholarship - couldn't justify independent thought, whereas Hillel had... The word used was "atziluth"--this term has impute toward mysticism not mentioned here (Talmud). In kabbalah it suggests "emanation." Rather like a sense of self-possession, I imagine as just that energy performing, its lesson something less explanate withOut yet wielding in miasma formlessness... Formlessness is the efficient cause in any paradisiacal dream--as opportune as the threshold toward liberation is become identity initiation --the what if & what-IS beyond from this space, this timely adjuring. Having wandered at the gates where life's fruit is yielding in The Orchard, one is sometimes in and amongst its notice in unknown seasons....
Earth crisis makes ascendancy over it taste of reckless immediacy.**
****The dirt is my calculator. Think: madrassah students writing in sandy media, & alef-bet chart on the wall--chumash studies ensuing over self-realizations parchment... My bones are buried in time's refuse, season's chimeras of nature's omnipotence. My bones enigma in its dross veil is replete in dionysian tendencies. Wanting to burn in a manner of mineral suttee to my animal's vitae consumption--oxidations of earth body dirt in cauldron soul...
Dirt is the receiving media and first bearer of literacy--the pugmarks bi-secting proudland live in slo-fidelity toward integer distances where the quarry is to be had--reading on we orient to the Other - 3/4ths of its essense suspires in fascinans!!
Mantram: notarikon: at-bash: word Virus:
While I sat quietly my tambeur whistling winded mind w/out much warning seemed to give me an interior view to its pre-eminent product--Me. Me as the reflexive Excuse-maker. Comes off like, That is just yourself in an artistic brush...sh...sh current "whap," what it is you'd ever think before self---is as so. I would write "whap" infinitely minaturized if only to show its cheap consistancy to make me awares. But, as compared to the teeth on time-piece's inner-workings redressing what we see as the emergent sun. Now the sun is quick light and in the subjective--I'm just seeing the mind prone, confident no new answers would impinge on arcing liberation spirits--no flight from One Knowing. I even saw a squirrel under my quickly shedded visage--there's no denying it, but there is no ascertaining whose beast identity these vestige consciousness-ings meant to adjure. Thusly being like a ferral squirrel's tail, her robotic flicker recommending the creaturely nomenclature to shift to accomodate life sensed.
***I fell off the rd into a garden. Sleeping there for a month eating only tomatoes and corn, pot to cook, some black bread. Thinking xleb, but this takes place in some vision w/interview of Chagall, I read of a writer's pilgrimage to Provence, and my brother's terminus at a French farm. Feasted in pure diet renunciations, then hit the rd naked again. Nothing to carry far-over way-over, revelling at my good luck, I tote maybe the peppery filmy dust off of the tomatoes--fruit sticky on my elaborated grip.

** A shadow reified is no shadow, but its illusory semblance, just to imagine--presenting it in our minds eye--would be definitions of what ever distortions of sullen empty stoic outline, this recalcitrant chalkboard shade of self-personified. The first thing met in rung rds toward city-mind, or village-raft nucleus..., I lumber into pivots of corridor en-trances to plateau speaking of solitarian trod.

***People leapt from my skein of form. From my mouth was more easily read. Like weeping and wailing figures, black cloaked, in tendony bites--gnashing my teeth like these cloaked hordes in expiation felt it unreasonable their last digs in my incorporation. Of course, throes of populist valor from set-freed tribute for their habituation in my mind administration was glyphed indian ink graffitti in my head. The worst of selfs' possession is in the past of churchy amens making nigh aums my relighted literate thoughts. Cannibals, eat eat eat.
***
The ego comprising the macro-mundi stowed in the micro-harmonia mind, has the soul adventuring in great intention to centers that are from without. I dreamt of stifling a door-handle from audible rotations in unassuming intervals. I realized it wasn't from the last time the door was shut. There was a steally mummer like an industrial AC unit atop a bldg--I saw a retired figure underneath it. Rusted convex gridded metal was his bed--tho' the subtlety of dormant, deer-like lair's dream caricature, thrum thrum thrum mollified the proneness toward something demur... What ole brown had fated in his path, was just yet another social-mediation in my muddy ego, letting this distance demonstrate straits of denizenship as my head 'pon a rock, there on family dusty bedsheets. Funny, curious, bookended artworks arising in good fields alighted--and strangely unvisited... bohemian ones by my brother were sanctioned in what it provoked, but I didn't want him to get away with it. As if to say, see the history, get to the mnemosyne of this shapeless mass life hands us--prodigious conscious props and little availing to establish why so conspicuous without it being ours in graphic stimulation: that we are light, and blood is what powers energetic consciousness--I'll stab the pitch fiber of intricate dreighed designs in my head.
***I'm the manifold of the machine ethic. A toothpick can be a machine. I'm just a vacuous-ascesis delivery device. Certainly this physical sense is the least of us--easiest expectation of soul forms. Speak to the dust & language is voguely esteemed as some subservient florish ....in what it states as it becomes leaf-blown detritus, more likely: the tree's expression of season's time-taking of man's pulse. Forests entreat exile. There's no thoroughfare. One foot in, the goal of its margins is yet a redeeming imposter. One can't be as among the people who are the trees, and wander alone. We've already answered the question: the tree fallen is the arbiter of sounds-arriving. Screwing the sun just for fun with earth's wine reworked biotic collected into its going--the sky skying's face; the trunk is a fount, just more muscular--its limbs, the lit side inverted from leafy parks providence ...roots' acquiry!
***Sitting sesshun, as if I'd get anywhere where real light makes me see beneath sullied season's constant footwork on my soul's advantage over body's success, would prevail under a stupendous theatre when Valerie sees me in real-time--it can't be pretty. Not formally meditation (I-ditation, if my yeahs were yeahs). Like I need it, tho'--it's just that it is closer to her expectation that my self-reliance demanded. How that is possible still can't strain the indifferent chorus I'm stricken to convulse into my babel-mind, measured in the arrayed slippery road down to its reduction: truth is our simple station--Babylon falling somewhere, verity of its incessant perfect execution of my braver essense... If ayurvedic (sense of macrobiotic appetites) paths unfurl, it won't be at the pace of my approximated success as I would have it. An Indian rug is where I'm going-- with a 1000 raw laments imagining exactly roseate wee hrs in family homes, exuberant in Dad's heady ablutions, and Mom's tea or lentils, something staved remarkable about an exposed nerve, some-fire, all-gathered, waiting but deciding... Thinking past the night, and dreams gestating from stars in usual sky births...
***Subject: fountains/veruna
I thought it prudent to steal stillness at my misapprehensions. It was hard to take such & such dream secluded in cold & fog where experience with appreciable content railed over denuded train's proud land. I'm the train, boxcar locked from without; Mind theatre, candles alighted--some whimpering, and I don't know why they illuminate cornerlessness; who else is lodged as cargo w/ticket to ride, leaving lights On?--at beginnings, nothing's decided: duality and a giant step--just how proud in its essense hidden? But could give amazingly prone soul's thwart of the body--this engine, no where nomadic to stone skip (me in a tumult toward...) into blue mozaics of i-ching-ing fortunes, fountains, one pinnacle look.
***As a student - higher education - after starting my final semester, never completed, was my last attempt to feel like I've indulged in that process with potentials like my fellows. Outside Russian class I sit at the heels of the calvacade of stupids with more solid sensitivity about there educational goals. At the feet of giants was easily demonstrated - but more auspicious without their presence in fact, as it was in Dahab where I would conjure their proximal advice, evidence of their stolid academician fates. The stranger in remote objectivity was all that distance from home colluding in time-whiling away as that ascertained space of the vision of me in a physical map to rank the conscious one. Red sea looked vague in imminent boundaries--mine were in the social mind-sore...but wrested from phantasmal winds coming out of the Sinai: agencies could have been afoot, but enlisted unconsciously because of the precarious nature of my readiness to project conscious-crowd causes--if only in corporeal clemency. Getting at the crest of personas enthroned by what my thinking then made into a perfect gloss by their directions-multiplied would be this invention of residing-self at their feet--not in their procession, necessarily. I thought them statuesque, permanent sensual pillars of corralled and focused procelytes to thought-fields of never-ending mindlessness.
***
Ezekiel's vision. Chariot, throne, fire, angels, archetypal beasts of burden so that the chariot has spacial success--seems to invent an answer of ex nihilo conventions. A river of gravid providence - so immense as to as imagine Pollution victuals..., losses to matriculate from skillful discriminations making eternality a toxic invocation of plentifold answers to its all too evident nourishment in stows behind purusha (humanity's)pantry-shadows. Ezekiel must incorporate the design of self-actualization's mean. He eats--is asked to eat--he told himself, likely, physical success is cultural instinct to have life perform in his agency, at his heart's minimum-maximum rhythm he can't faulter whilst prone to concessions outside the blood-lair . Within the deference to an awesome event that wakefulness conducts thru historical well-being, Jah proves his sovereignty of myth's constant at work in a mutual arising. As the imagination arises confessing memory, the inner-narrative admits to the dialect as an Absolute, an oracle awakened but resuming...