feeling very indo-european of late

I've become suspicious of liberating thought. If I were a writer of lives--Thoth or Metatrone--but namely mine (...today I am a fountain pen, or char and tree resin slashing empty slate w/perturbulent thought alliteration), I'd be fixated on the illusory. Like spirituality in the aspirant's victories from getting out of the way of nature. Nature says change apprehended, doesn't appreciate in our consolation. I needed convincing in bluey reception from soft ska harmonies saying, Go on man, lay your head. But, that I might in pared moments rear myself to engage these arriving sound benefactors, my account was decidely thoughtlessness--I'm there enough perhaps to fixate on the illusory giving it order, eudomonia in hard light, or soft machine struck by its mean formless morass--if to heed a well-meant (sweet) verse: ecstaticism at the crest of the inadvocate willful. I'm trying to be subject of a perfect inward query, while this mind enumerates thousands of 1rst vigilant steps to tear fate from its shadow--in the gloss slumber, I'll have only a path and its birth somewhere outlier to find some reckoning, like knowing which snowflake apropos of a silent winter demurred in emptiness is the key to it all. One may not apprehend nature, but only reflect it: the absurd is in the feeling of resuming to hang the ornament of self, while taking "a hammer to the frozen sea within," as Kafka subscribed.
***Little ocean drops spurious in their shunt across the tiled floor, as I sat relieving myself in an out of the way hostel in Luxor, made health, perhaps high blood pressure problems, querulous in focus, though I imagined, it may not be some malady. Almost sure, the geometric patterns left this green prone floor in deference to my senses painting metabolic rhythms--I knew vision romanced imminent material ties in fissures placated by sense organs placing me, somehow, in a median range to its fraught temporal absurdity. The apparition looked exactly like a round amoebic cells, transparent, and inwardly apprehended. When the same phenomenon occurred to me in grade school, it was certain to me mind tableaux needed what I'd adduce in very little regimen from what was assumed by what all the vacuous Other would wonder about in a similar event waning or thwarted in these contemporary spaces.
*********
Halucination or visualization technique? Either way, this solitarian moment--verily of monastate loneliness, was academic--I was riddled with a need for synthesis and record of my heady travail--the psychic event availing circa '96.***The resulting poison headache I had, actually painless, but as concommitant to my entire gord being obliviated in far-flung phenomenon, was a visual ride sluiced with its images yet unatmospheric--nothing around me was as animated. If you could imagine say a dozen framed graying kaleidoscopic mental images in shuttering project thru my face out of my eyes, then as before me in imitation of some musselmanner prayers caught in his hands, the seriousness of the sieve mind alighting to a strange temporal path, this would be the effect. Like a nerve in the sense organ mind had stowed intensity w/o evidence to what stimulated it, say nothing as ardent as a human visage, or garbage truck rifling slumbering am. distances occurring in spaces thwarted from my attention's convene--nothing anthropomorphic necessarily would otherwise give candor to memory. My only thought as the rattle of over-wrought fading visuals seeking imminence having me stand at attention & prone, was how will I ever get back to what expense I had gone to, to have such corporeal "signs" (of eclipsing foci) evaporate in such an ignorant stammer. *****I read, "he touched the lock, it fell open." S. Bellow. I was over sunning myself at Common Grounds--I sat next to some young thing, and she says, Fine, ..I'm skyping tho'. A sense that she'll be talking, but "no worries" like Aussy big milk bone confidence, naturally curious and automatically suspicious, pretty and annoyed. So, I'm there during the 5:15 breeze, while she's talking to her beau all laid out 2 am somewhere extra-continental. For some reason at one point she turned the laptop prone toward me, and there he was, looking intensified prolly pissed since his girl is making decisions for him-- he's not thinking of the course of lovely self-deception that's behind it. Her gift -- I'd be all marduk to her tiamah, world cleaved and made. (Confessed, I'm not this riffed or marauding to imagine, really.) She gets up, gathers her stuff and walks to a bike. My bike, I told her: exactly as old, same weary, worn lettering on once flecky maroon, dark color I thought, on a Fuji Sagres--good bike. In a small throe of my nostalgia, she's over in front of me now and takes the chain off. I fancied one woman, all women, just her--me just there, that it felt apropos of her gesturing to my locked heart and in her ridiculous (Assyrian) Astarte beworshipped sweet steps (Greek Aphrodite, Jewish Asherah, Egyption Isis) I believed her sugary power, fantisized seance communique orienting Valerie to my attention. Something for her to see: these thoughts like her passion benefactress' traipsing sisters, to her crest, and then she heralds...my love. G-d is what we chase to the margins. An island of sentient greed is what we hold in commonalities with folks when it is an excelsior retail service to our sincerity that discipline mitigates that fount of self-reserve. As to say this self-consciousness ought to have gone and warned us the sea around island self is the pity of ignorance. Therefore a likely enigma to call haShem, the Name, the proselyte invokes. The Name, the name is out there, the place and space we discriminate with evermore refined unknowing. The shore of imagination's limit gets evermore burdened by contriving that those odds (in mysteries of irreality) make valid presumptions of Observable Reality - what is known within the terrestrial imminence - is only what all the tremendum & fascinans of abject ocean voids in what a starry-eyed hopeful imagine implicit from belief. (...so that the unascertained be possible.) A similar cause to the rest of us but without the designs on ego's remnants in its glowering remonstration of intellectual authenticity: the high --it really lasted, knowing what it looks like to enumber, and be weary or wizened from however we'd observe in our ronching patterns of ego-riddled behavior, the artifacts of self-scrutiny--its humble richness. In the context, this life of sorrow--the rapproach to materialism--Belief's Control, and pigeon-holed communities in the vehement digression from a more rational event - identity is a product feeding an intent to expedite. Imagine: WE get to "know" when we are "witnessing" of Him/an Absolute of prescribed saved-self centricism. And that is when folks die for wish fulfillment. They'll witness (martyr & observe) to the death, meaning barely tolerating other wisdom traditions, or jettisoning, maybe dispatching the non-believer, when his (life) feels less likely the candidate (to his world-view) to give away=you'd be the next best thing. ***To reconcile within a language embarrassment moment, conceptually as Elie Wiesel or Gandhi's example, in the way they rallied something adept more to be said after an ideal perspective unpacked, the imminent fact reformed, is a kind of language divulged in the silence. Among proverbial teachers, an experience so-revealed is already in my visage, the emotive veil. And in sodden queries, even this stifling convene of mythos in its making, one may step out of acquiry of self-reflection, into unknown sense of his own emotional authenticity, and let the seignorial benevolence while denied communion, show him in his esteem for possibilities of what is to be resumed. ***The resulting poison headache I had, actually painless, but all-in-all extreme in far-flung phenomenon, was a visual ride sluiced with its images yet unatmospheric, steelly or frozen--nothing around me was as animated. If you could imagine say a dozen framed graying kaleidoscopic mental images in shuttering project thru my face out of my eyes, then as before me in imitation of some musselmanner prayers caught in his hands, the seriousness of the sieve mind alighting to a strange step upon dusty, unquenched by padded sufferable me, path, this would be the effect. Like a nerve in the sense organ mind had stowed intensity w/o evidence to what stimulated it, say nothing as ardent as a human visage, or garbage truck rifling slumbering am. distances occurring in spaces thwarted from my attention's convene--nothing anthropomorphic (nor fractal monsters, because things in this vision barely sustained in echolalia) necessarily would otherwise give candor to memory. My only thought as the rattle of over-wrought fading visuals seeking imminence having me stand at attention & prone, was how will I ever get back to what expense I had gone to, to have such corporeal "signs" (of eclipsing foci) evaporate in such an ignorant stammer. *** If the heart comes before the head, what we ascertain about the foreign culture where it is on offer, is the point at which we project emotional authenticity. If passions are rapt in dreamscape thru the chimera myth by way of the dream's subject with his heart proffered, it is likely the same as our industrial age whose "train" in same symbolism, suggests a journey with ticket to ride. Had I another chance to dine-on in the case beef heart, there in Cairo, I will have consumed the all important sentients' ditch of blood, throwing myself 'pon the banks of its burning chest, to wrestle intellection into relationship just proximal of those whose diet consciousness convenes a feast of culture. The ululations of blood magic roils in the seat of vitality, strangely halal, fly-drowned, and blessed by a tamborine playing insane man, banging the instrument head-high, spittle guffawed--spirit dissoluted, but adamantly sedentary in his availing precincts around the butcher shop. **************At the demise of the subconscious, awareness reproves attention as the ornament of scaffolding immeasurables, readied for a transparent exile into what-is. Leaden consciousness, known better in lighted fields of possiblilities, is met and reduced to a world normally getting louder, brighter, sharper in its thwart of our sentient appetites. In my habituating & weathering a philosophical excuse for my social break from the Mindful--those astride shrouded travelers' paths, a nod toward an Eastern hagiography, images as descriptors, a standard toward what one might only want to apprehend in never proven cosmogony, came to me projected into a footfall beyond the likely visual field. She looked devi-like and had many arms, perhaps merely a Rorschach glyph of physical success over appropriated theoria on what or who it is that would have reconciled this solitarian flood of circumstance. My eyes, rather, allied its receiving precincts to salutary neglect. That visualization definitely populated what otherwise had cold-lamping voidant demands on me, only glimpses at seignorial self-esteeming days, had continuities at the beck of my florid belief idealization would meet personae. Loneliness can't have left me alone. **************************In Zadie's old room, where my days were spent in the beck of where perspective in social-scapes I'd rather think upon being received--Mark's mural on the wall, and my futon next to Aunt Ginny's desk of antiquey smells destined to retire the ghosts I would host & reflect on... These studious theorias let no breathy domicile collusion alone left in reservois of seasons' vessel. Tiles (brown and institutional) clinically placed just so, the basement floor smothering in window's guffaw-belched tinctures of sun cumulation, my meditations were economies in higher ground purchase from flapping feet, ambulations, a dance to music making certain the neighborhood baring witness to the florescence of sounds arriving - the highway behind the houses, and a yield of jazz, lyrickless, until I heard the musician's recording speak in his voice thru the instruments piano, sax, drums, bass. To sit in any one place was a consignment some such read, like Geniza documents--translations of things 100s to a thousand yrs back, a pivot, this resolve over celestially Ignorant or spectral pilgrimages, travels' travails, men of vox mundi, speaking of nature, I & Nature, this lauding time that makes escape for Intellection on mood, not the mood of rapt quickly spent, our energies just to be heard--one may not feel relented of being seen. So, this 6th book of a canon, as if otherwise w/5, to stunt how the acolyte excels at his usual feat to oft recommend anointed of spiritual skill, at best makes a bridge between one & his being the first out the door. Lonely in the next man's shoes. Huge sway that her love, goddess love doesn't mean for her to repeat my woe like it is merely playful--she may know she can't see through me anymore. And I'll tell her what was immanent, insightful elicitor of dream's newer frame, she's my diminuation--a missed detail in my coarse project & moon's author, the trickster reflection on all the 4 brothers of 4 directions, and more clever than the stakes raised at what she ever wanted that he'd deliver, restore, have him seek votive languidly burning fire in her.