Boughs with unlikely thousands of coves

Cold-cool destiny is all that vigilance having so little to do with the present moment and yet, whether the now then-revealed was expected answers, one is certain something more auspicious is in order of a preachment in theoria. Lent of an appreciating meditation, makes vigilance a goal like being concealed in one's car while the window frames this or that day's horizon, & nothing properly pedestrian. Vanishing space in artwork finished--an etiquette & posturing of a mystery, and not to be out done by more interpretation. As to say, no path is safe without a natural tarmac. Here unknown ledger of truths born to die in the pivot of one shadow in one life's egress thru travelogue of traipsing across merely one room (or region--or field of possibilities) are to extinguish but one bliss craven candle lick.**************** **************Jumping from the Presbytarian church roof into sorta the courtyard tho' born out to a couple of acres to the road, a terresterial threshold of a greater yield toward my caprice after the ascent into the steeple, seemed vital--on the ground--thru stars of living nations emulatiing sky-light tincture, I first tasted my world-view in a blast of the syncretic. My fellow night-raver had provided a cer tain soup of his Dad's liquor stock, filling up our canteen. I maybe indulged reasonably this once, usually neglected on the whole--this fascinans specter, libations, was mystery beyond the label or consumption. A spiritual thing otherwise had proxy on the dionysian, I didn't need to be as certain as the bottle yielding a bleak commonality and cultivating of such as contentment & answer. If intrigue is what obliges a living lens--manifesting appearance just as availling animicule & creaturely wanderers project into "it"-- namely consciousness without form, the observer is an event of gloss and atrophying monadic industry within. It may take a riquer in certainty to view this much of one's distraction in such micro-relationship, a handful of stars broadcasting only hopeful origins, in katheno-primacies, to coin a word. I was happy over a reeling illusory, rapt that I would achieve something there anyway. A journal too decidely would remain placed in the high sky oriented peak--having nothing poetic enlisted in it, & there it remains. If your excuse while life's railing illusion as the climate of what powers-that-be demanding something of you challenges with new responsibilities, rights over your time, the losses you've taken to suppose the iconoclast..., tHere is tHis: observable release.************* ***********If ever I had to invent myself from a desperate moment of emptiness, it was during my slacker trek to Luxor, Egypt. Sitting out in front of a tea house, prone to desert sands and my imminent release from a growing state of confusion, I'm high from hashish to give it further nuance. Just the taste of feta is in my mouth, sweet tea (chai) in weird water--probably fossil water or the Nile's ancient infinite flow, hubbly-bubbly pipe full of the same along with phantom turbercular users before me and its coals are darkening. I actually felt lucky to recognize this sorta void and searing damned inevitability: I promised a refined matriculation having this new demand to jump out of time with intensity, which gives relics of what was beyond a graying shroud--hidden but not cowering in my own purdah of distance strung. I'm tHis, but tHis will not be a slavish loss of what could ever be, I thought. Maybe a not so cliche looking-glass got jettisoned, discordant and ill-preparation shunted however it would be seeking a runaway statement of presence... A "pharonic" slap in the nigh houses of eternity, Valley of Kings & Queens just out of town, beyond the River of Life in curt denial, I never made it across to visit.********** ******* **look up kathenotheism and you'll see why "katheno" primacies might work. G*d isn't necessary in its place.*********** *************Last night I felt animated, but while having much to learn about the constant of empty solutions to real problems, willingness to orient to things more readily unpacked remains my goal. Just stardust memories--no mutual arisings to suggest her in distant langour or happiness. No departure as to rally the time I'd sit here waiting or mountain conquered as if the day we would meet again is in the advance vision down-from-it. The rocky refute demands clamor out of trialling solitude. Life eludes in the irony of slow fidelity, too slow to know why she or I would care where it will lead.*********** **************The long haul toward a star unseen**** If you find yourself playing King of the Hill alone, as in your youth, expect the knowledge that your kingdom is in transition of your enslavement with gratuitous palimpsest migrations.************ *************I think I am on target with what Tolstoy develops while corresponding with Gandhi, but may be from The Kingdom of G*d is Within You. Whittled down only slightly he says, your compassion causes me violence. A thought--chohan maybe:: Why would I have asked you to recommend my respite, when it was your guidance that made me find this only absolute release, solitarian but prone, upon a cntr of awareness within, tethered to consciousness & relationship without? Absolute Release could be terminal or momentary, tragic or loving-kindness, I imagine. ******** *************Just realize dear reader, there's a lot to get here, & no I'm not confident anyone may fathom the blah blah. Imagining an existential duty, I bet he or she would feel equally untrialled in the artifacts of their creation... ******After the Rain: Lexington in your absence--night coolness barely bridged a sublime porte if human nature would nurture green alchemy: The overcast morning is pretty e nough, possibly encumbering too so that an inevitable gray skein that could reduce acclimation with a sense the favored sun always evading its seeker, still has the allowance earth denizenship can't be agonist yet. Halo dreamy and undandered, the trees look mushed as an oil painting, serene as the opaque, disappearing sky veil. The silent spaces, dust underfoot at tree's base, spaces of splendid life, now have the same heatherly hidden flow in the whoosh of tree boughs, coves still in languid yawn. If the trees were the people, the sentient have lifetimes to wander alone under their reach, of privy over emptiness of sky-fount machinations.************* ****************The grammar of my concept is as unique as 10,000 objets de plastique which may have an immense repair, the ocean, but sometimes the context in its quality of faux desertification (the vessel is more likely a promise)--because I may not have entered. And yet distances, that void, evoke the choice between two fountains, the white thread revealing the terribile decisor of relationship in what constitutes the temptress flower or star tincture blinking siren eyed release, sorting out eternities past the dark thread margins.*********** ***********Rand Paul your family came from other countries bringing a work ethic--your party's plan is endemic for its misapprehension of need for arts, sciences, and the rest of of it....stealling people's opportunities for like exceptions to the American norm, right under your nose that for some brainwashed biblical lens the "other" in your narrow view is jettisoned. One pluralist America. Of course the Ta ng family from Cambodia making those donuts for you & your sweet family, you love so much--they are exceptional because they made opportunity, and experienced conveniences in their American dream with USA infrastructure built by people who may prefer something other than sugary pastries...and political fastfood. See, those roads didn't build themselves... ************* ************Dying, but by the usual self-effacing marauder: I've been intoxicated by fear and terminus as long as I can remember: I was thinking of my memory's predeceased state, a kind of ode to Mom. It was desperation I felt as she laid on her death bed. Hers I could know, mine I was excersized by--levelled by loss before I could reconcile the lapse of mind appearance. In short, I was in a very remote, mayb e surface and unleashed way as I looked at her hErE from a life supposedly in rallying potential. I think of her death as strangely less obscene to me than others: she's been in mind before and since as opposed to her legs born to the ground one trods--as the adage, "You know you are on the ground if you have legs." salves nothing, she is become a heavenly accord I endured from my childhood in Texas--my first 6-7 yrs in Mom's dutiful & beautiful orb.*********** ************* Jumping from the Presbytarian church roof into sorta the courtyard tho' born out to a couple of acres to the road, a terresterial threshold of a greater yield toward my caprice after the ascent into the steeple, seemed vital--on the ground--thru stars of living nations emulatiing sky-light tincture, I first tasted my world-view in a blast of the syncretic. My fellow night-raver had provided a cer tain soup of his Dad's liquor stock, filling up our canteen. I maybe indulged reasonably this once, usually neglected on the whole--this fascinans specter, libations, was mystery beyond the label or consumption. A spiritual thing otherwise had proxy on the dionysian, I didn't need to be as certain as the bottle yielding a bleak commonality and cultivating of such as contentment & answer. If intrigue is what obliges a living lens--manifesting appearance just as availling animicule & creaturely wanderers project into "it"-- namely consciousness without form, the observer is an event of gloss and atrophying monadic industry within. It may take a riquer in certainty to view this much of one's distraction in such micro-relationship, a handful of stars broadcasting only hopeful origins, in katheno-primacies, to coin a word. I was happy over a reeling illusory, rapt that I would achieve something there anyway. A journal too decidely would remain placed in the high sky oriented peak--having nothing poetic enlisted in it, & there it remains. If your excuse while life's railing illusion as the climate of what powers-that-be demanding something of you challenges with new responsibilities, rights over your time, the losses you've taken to suppose the iconoclast..., tHere is tHis: observable release. **look up kathenotheism and you'll see why "katheno" primacies might work. G*d isn't necessary in its place. **********************************Kerouac's got the deed on meritable travel--a life worthy to trod: Everybody knows where you've been, not why you came--"everybody knows there's a meter on your bed." Leonard Cohen, this last quote, and a healthy dose of Neil Young influencing why I want to go there. If I were a clownish ubermensch, like a sarcastic poet so to speak, & if this life paints me in these garments of existence--the very anonymity of rank appearance crawling upon displayal identities, I'd be the guy called My name is Nobody supposing my identity in positive light making me a rather shrouded traveller. In this sense, I'm nowhere, knowing but not overstanding necessarily this is nowhere. I haven't many places demanding my attendance, different than most who may imagine "placeness" & identity. It is rather stark clarity of the outward fact having the ascendant imagine she's delivered to power-spots, but a trailling recommendation to assume having one just arrived with only ungainly passporte. This palimpsest migration is a life foundering in Maslow's depiction of primary need in our shelter, with destinations as chance extent to the place of her becoming.******* ****************Travelling is meritable--knowledge being attainable commerce in what sweet differences lend to the supra-pedestrian anthemic acquisitive conduct, knowing folks in brief comportment, ours astride old definitions of our going away. I'm lucky to grasp the pulse and commiseration with the folks there, still there in Egypt, one of whom took me to a ramshackle remains of some synagogue in Cairo or al- Kahira, the Victorious. In Luxor, where my brother & I watched a wedding--and on another occasion smoked hashish with a local clerk, white collar guy in town, proves our license, we thought to leave town, on one occasion, but scampered back without getting too far into the local agriculture. But also, we secreted our way into an empty mosque in an out of the way part of town, being sure not to touch the prayer rugs... nothing much within anyways. Whiling in the current of memory & wanting verity in my historical well-being, my heart feels bliss that I stood in this holy chamber (masjid) if this one could eek out of inevitable opiate stupor an otherwise strange nod to the conscious crowd organism where religion breaks its true value into crumbs.*********** ************On recommend from an ABC news article, avoidance and cleanliness, the hantavirus may be upon us. Rodent fecal... mmm mmm!! The industriousness or "exceptionalism" in the American dream in just a subtle example of whose fire to blame. Of course "bionic rats," if Tic Toc Teac has something in the way of clarion preachment to say, are in the garden--and what is a king if egalitarianism is sought keep ing the elite kleptocracy from denying ecological balance? A philosopher first, so not a king but rather a lauded permiss of education in how an economy might and must support green industry & science. The environment after all its nuance and balance is torn will have the purchase worse than mysterious tribulations of dis-ease, industry spells out very clearly what the prone consumer is going to be like to be poisoned by incorporate identities.************ ************** What about Providence? Creator being will, by his/her Name, put on offer a life worthy to retrieve. But then Confidence is an even greater decisor absolute. I know manufacturing motive is ultimately thoroughgoing, making relevant an otherwise potential mind. A rhetorical sense organ if thought breathes the fear in the thinker, if only to exhale the white smoke of thought's control, the ease of convenience. His mischief of treatment to well-up a world with recommends to moderation is the mean of experience usually hiding a risible event of caprice. One might see not much going-on, if he or she looked. And in the end, the very end, the closer the seeker surveys truth, truth is become the qualities of natural education and in our best attention the student wants Provenance!

Telling on the daemon to Mom & Zadie

I, the reader, want to notice "outward fact" slipped in here at the beginning of the following. It's crucial to imagine being committed to the climate of the power, weird power, totally, of the exile messianism contrives to resolve. So, talking about it serves to illustrate just that and nothing dialled up spiritually like a saint that would cover my back. (so as to personify) :: I'm starting to h ave a messianic sight (like Dharma orienting the way toward Brahma who manifests what-is, & Nothing outside the known) into outward fact in simple levering inversion, at once before me (scale tipping inevitably), and then gratuity of self (now terminal & efficient) standing, peaking, yawning every bit with all distances railling relationship in the guise of my intentions. **To think, endorse the sense that sighs, glances, and whispers start as woven garments, kaleidoscopic as finding seat of awareness, raised perspective, as under a cold lamp, maybe a deflated winter's sun, with antiquated reasons to revel in obuscated shadows under summer's bright pleroma eye.********************* The night stabbed a somewhat draining dispensation--but it is never as bad as it seems. Still, I felt this way. Painted my thoughts into the moon spiritually true... I write an ode to you, one word, "Sad." I'm thinking and imagining your philosophy works. Just very sad today--emptied. Wanted to try but my mind wouldn't forfeit a reason my spirit would believe. I don't know why I'm here. Odd and un ambitious objective reality, life slipping into nowhere I want to be. I don't want to look at people--nobody seeems knowable. My conscious map is dangerous--my sarcasm meets nothing liminal--I can't incite progress as I understand it. Nothing sets me apart from what I'd espouse. At the moment I go under somehow I'm washed ashore, stillness, solitarian, unworthy. An angel calls it finality vision. At the moment a plane flies overhead and the words, "steady as she goes" lodges in my head.************ *** One endures meditation, because there is never a time not right for prayer. Insight for candor that one would propound a preachment merely from the grandeur of the sage or the "absolute" quality painting a said doctrine unchallenged, is in the deficit of the illusory.************* **********Funny how this man's weapon (news article) rivals everything else toward his lost cause harnessing instincts, mounting the world with displayal primate ornaments of victim & victory. You'd think the arising possibilities would have intellection revered by more usually finding justice without merely the corrall of the agreeable, opting instead to cultivate becoming more prone, humbly available. A spectacle of self hanging off of body, industry self, "don't make me!" bullshit.************* *************Budget your theoria. Mental economy has all the graft of moving around leaden thought, savoring irrational sentient greed--getting it and putting it in you. Yet, the uncarved block is only paid off by nature. The most refined measure of nature is consciousness. Econonmize your philosophy by shortening the complexity of the worth THat you must know. No one is denying the intensity and sacrifice toward self-actualization, duty, self-awareness, but as Gandhi had said in his Experiments in Truth, the ascendant shouldn't keep a snake in one basket. Propitiation is giving away nothing so dear as clarion dispatchment of identities from empty boughs, empty boughs having reared season's personae unperturbed.*********** ***********Imagine my thread-voice like the wonky voice of Charlie Brown's teacher. That is the totallity of what this all could mean. A colliding morass of proverbial claims of a day's vain expression. ************* ************It occurs to me drawing meritable travel's memory while I sat in a village/town called Luxor, in Egypt, drinking black tea/chai, that a kind of distance strung of social conventions, fits a narrative over our being the first out the door in anything that one would experience. A cup of water scattered outside upon the dust of your threshold, is a threshold spilled out to a more receptive passer-by, if he or she would jump from parched dalliance to cross water.********* ************Seriously, imagine, if we could, any other species having the conversation of an understanding of their demise. In safe corralls of ideology & monies, we are still positting social even cosmic telos of extinction. We examine it palpably--biblically, ecologically, institutionally, & in violent revolutions. And that animal, whose intentions are obvious here, sight this feeling in your mind again of just such a tremor of impermanence: of course the lame dog, wasted kitty, scavenging polar bears if you've tuned into documentaries of the circumstance, this increasingly hotter planet... Do you think these creatures need to consort with authors of self-realization, a book, your G*d, anything other than a dramatic sunrise, to award or deny their spirit? Look at what we have in common--we are in the throes of the same intuition.********* ***********Remember these words, I tell myself in the fascinans of unfurling path into a valley with the solace of solitarian shadow, "I'm frail but stoic--concerned about life." Reason & beauty are always going rival misapprehensive mind, derision of acquisitive behavior. The purples and opaque pith of mind only remark on transparent coves s addling the outward fact with thoughts an entertaining mind expects to embrace alighting to what is just beyond. If thought traduced a gemini dream, the anthropos archetypes of self-reference, ranks theoria "epicurean" (secular), as opposed to implicit tethers strangling the skillful attention on "musterion narratives" to support reflexive tendencies in its least expression--finding oneself in relationship without.******* ******** In the school of life, the student is locked up in associations of egalitarian media; the guru moulders ineffectively as one's dull concern a thought subject is elusive - the lullaby of a graduate's concern ! It makes sense if I want it to imagine. A dialect defined by ad absurdum teacherly, academician stern-talk, making little appreciation beyond chil'run in a bubble of human breath mantram meaning "made-up" words! - primate endeavors over word-permutations, making content "pigeon" (liguistically) at best, bird-song at best too, like the untranslatable Brahmin liturgy in the Vedas. Expression is untrialled (we don't get to know content & authentic motive), relevant as what goes along with Expression: Spirit, Mind, & Body--but language wafts spry & in flux with soul dynamo, a triune of capsulate witnesses, victims, & unlikely victors. I'm starting to have a messianic sight into outward fact in simple levering inversion, at once before me (scale tipping inevitably), and then gratuity of self (now terminal & efficient) standing, peaking, yawning every bit with all distances railling relationship in the guise of my intentions. Complex machinery in identity, instrument in my physical success is toward prising a piece of loamy surroundings--making it me. I expect a gift to contribute to this certain malaise. Language can't compete with my intentions.********** *********JUST do it right, confidence comes later, or not at all. My view is, when inspired, suspire. When intensity leads to a threshold of promise, make certain the token key is understood that intuited passage meant gradients alighted as the usual, is because the usual is actually excelsior & irresistable. And still life has been a mapped or alliterative accord laterally, like reflections in a golden-eye.************ ***********Watery maternal eternality - to dust unto dusk, every life lent to the night, sorry star tincture souls. But physical sensitivities are the decisor to eudaemonia: loving-kindness & balance. No smuggling away notions of superable identities in brain anomalous conceit of these ultimately pedestrian strides into the lap of Creator unfortunately with regimens of receding goals: this can't be done. Why goals of once Bronze age social hellion reach without a concept of our word technology but by luck?************** ************As if I still lived at the Russian House, aloft and calling down from the porch roof which my front bedroom was borne onto, Zadie stood in the overgrown yard, in this dream, hand extended like giving away what nobody agrees is ours to give away anyway, life & redolent perception of it. I asked him to stay "right there" - this Zadie identity ronching in the conceit I would ever matriculate reality again with his stern grasp of my tarrying days. I only knew to develop concern that his slo-training watery personhood could ever feed me in mine--but it concretely wasn't enough to feel fathered & understood in these days no longer of his whiling bridge toward transcendent awareness, and alone in mine, incredulous nothing has changed. I sustained this sense of visitation like holding a theatre of diminutive chimera chromo values in a conscious pocket--my head, my only concern!--communicating to Grandfather I have the keys, & here "Keep your hand extended." The dream-catcher objector of these funerary thoughts redeemed, seems to nod affirmatively, while the turbillion of waking states was more likely his nod to the inevitable. I threw the keys to him, and like a gullet of some starved abyss and still enduring the shallow thought's tableau, they fell through his digital appeal offering or proffering into wet & tall black foresty foliage & grasses. Unreceived--I am--Zadie imparts my thorough-going possibilities, "Not yet," he says, and a kind of, "You'll see."************ ************Like a whine in a pattern of splaying row upon row of houses, I'm in wrought gait nothing in the world slowing for affect. A long-distance run of the mill life is beyond grasping its polluted relic of end-days--I'm trialled by a report of immediacy, 3 in the morning going up to Gardenside. A steady and painful ease stumbling into the self-knowledge everyone yields to dreams, while I'm in conscious? life, and thought I was dreaming too.******* ***********The dream left me to convey one mask. It was a warmed lost-in-domicile mask, but futile to characterize anything but dun corners, spider valleys, highwire fragments of sun in day's long-ending. The lure of translator faces restores even unremarkable introductions to my historical souled evidently slightly closer to her-life abiding self. To observe unassuming constants are also deliberately an adornment-free tho' reliable dream "coat," which is to say If-only I were some damned samyasin (ascetic) and clothes crawled on my body as needed... at any rate, the light alighting as garments ready to be shed, is prayed for - as potent as the need for some kind of hallelujah.*********** ***********The Golden Age: In my dream, the Hebrew I expected to be read & shared by the rabbi, turned out to be an Arabic recitation. Call & response seemed tentative just as my formative yrs' rabbi would have it, a nerve lit and a feeling radicalized of wizened scholars to drag the student into the white fire page, and poisoned in rich succor by the black fire ink. The younger language had preminence in Go itien's Geniza translations and Bernard Lewis' histories, what I had been reading, so not having to go around the corner to grasp certain prayer technology, left this dream, maybe two others, proximal in an intimate train of contemplation. In fortunate orientation, my interest in these studies, were tracked in convivencia to its authors of bellowing lives exchanging histories aloft and mercurial in the past, nigh and readied.********** **********Black tea: Chagal intones the Hasid in himself as a purveyor of felaheen, Arab farmer--as in Palestinian considerations, for me, and with the Arabia found elsewhere, and hopefully a nod to a variety of primacies, these lives of eastern Europe. His green agrarian lulls as wayfarer to the animal religion's love-damned glance. The shokhet (ritual slaughterer) in town--at his convenience, his kashrut (dietary laws) stress mercy, is enumerated in myth, because his blade is readied in theorias' reach of a gratuitous plan.********** **********Don't buy into the generation gap. The only self-profession is the very old in their imminent liberation, and when speaking of physical success. And in a vacuum they live outside machinery and devisement of transitive life, as examples toward impatience with deft withdrawal from the impermanent record.******** *******Anything that provides an excuse for aggression, people just lap it up. That one has the certain cloud hook, those who would imagine just once they had run for the whip--and not the whip to flagelate anybody but themselves to revere power, someones over you. Thinking about what it feeels like to route thought even at the expense of convenience.*********** ************Seriously, imagine, if we could, any other species having the conversation of an understanding of their demise. In safe corralls of ideology & monies, we are still positting social even cosmic telos of extinction. We examine it palpably--biblically, ecologically, institutionally, & in violent revolutions. And that animal, whose intentions are obvious here, sight this feeling in your mind again of just such a tremor of impermanence: of course the lame dog, wasted kitty, scavenging polar bears if you've tuned into documentaries of the circumstance, this increasingly hotter planet... Do you think these creatures need to consort with authors of self-realization, a book, your G*d, anything other than a dramatic sunrise, to award or deny their spirit? Look at what we have in common--we are in the throes of the same intuition*********** **********It occurs to me drawing meritable travel's memory while I sat in a village/town called Luxor, in Egypt, drinking black tea/chai, that a kind of distance strung of social conventions, fits a narrative over our being the first out the door in anything that one would experience. A cup of water scattered outside upon the dust of your threshold, is a threshold spilled out to a more receptive passer-by, if he or she would jump from parched dalliance to cross water.********* **********