Great Historian: Paul Kriwaczek

Before the news and after having nepalese tea & a last cigarette, I went out front yesterday to play my cunga drum. Everytime I imagine a stall in what I would ever communicate in percussion, the channel of something primary has an inept beginning itself. The second I placed my hand on the skin a single skyborn raindrop meets my slowly brown-spotted aged hand. The gray overcast was in filmy dust respiring provenance, again I qualify emasculation in bitter what-ifs--what if the air was something I knew about? What if the flush cool was ambrosia theoria, a garment of pillaresque winds to prove me stately & prone--not reduced to vacuity, gray melancholy and an infinite redound in playing to an unhearing blue dome? But getting full-up in yet a compromised bluey vessel, and my cup on offer as I know it, somewhere in its recesses the shadows make sense, the very sun's shadow, something more immanent - that it resides within appearance obfuscated - radiates with more truck than our emotional sun: the sun embowers me, and the sun is in its undoing embowered by a macro-cosmos. ******** **********I bet a good eau de parfum would be burnt oak leaves: porch-sittin' thought while reading a minimum of Jack Carol wic-wic wack's "some of the dharma" - a singular dweet, warble & knowing. I swear by a tree, gashing firmaments of black balloon memoria thing-actual. The trees look quickened with egyptian headiness, "void leaves" J.K's language, xenotropic with a thousand coves hiding the bark and toil response of tree ubiquity, which has spoken to humankind for a 100,000 yrs. En het enyeh: the castle of my eternity--pharonic in cool breeze, eyes cease, and all is wonderment. We the green ascendant leisurely never answer back--trees halloo, makes blue dome liMit wallow in preachment, circumvents the indefinite skein of moderation & emotion to which personhood alights. Manna fell from siniatic trees, an ant expectorant from acacia sweet tree sap. Propolis salve out of their veins, auyerveda slow night nurse smiles into the night to remember your new day sorted out in golden age boughs. *********** *********On Casten rd up in the Catskills one summer, I established certain train of thought, a sense of ethical levity in writings from Pumbadita and Sura, towns 2000 yrs ago in Babylon's vicinity, kehilla (Jewish community) supporting the first writers of the Talmud. A talmid is a student of Jewish ethical writings, "eternal" is the root word of "talmud, talmid". The other world-view experiement in tru th was edutaining Native American history, which was as spectral an event really until visiting Chaco Canyon, the wooded northern haunts incumbering and framing the natural world belonging to those easily closer to it than my cosmopolitan thought revenue could speak to. If I hadn't committed certain sovereignty to Judaism, that it would have performed in my mind as intellection's scaped-chattel & gray cloudy gnashings 'pon sacerdotal hearth, Native American to wax poetic in some kind of birth of another diaspora, would have been as peak in gainsay what transcendence couldn't have offered otherwise. *********** *******Post-Oxford intensive study: Once upon a time by the Red Sea. In Eilat, southerliest Israel, the Peace Cafe was nerve cntr to we europeans of every sort, british rednecks, rabble all and where I saw raw feelings in unjust moments & not being able to speculate on spending a shekhl, restoring monies still suspending me in unplanned chances of victuals being proffered later. I was becoming less and less sensitive to an essense until then revealed, now feeling anticipation supposing 'tis enough to know I was framing intentions on a gem-mind gone hellion and raiment-free to ornament intersection of well-being & the present moment. But, a tea in hand this one occasion, I went up to the one dude obviously looking past these moments, verifies he sees no one as resolute as his projection into the Negev. A mountain in intimate backyard setting looking into Amazonian terrain, makes a distant Negev mt an appanage of his butterfly consternation, the target of homeward aerobatic march one day soon, he submits. Into an abyss that made mine rejected - out of daemon aulic rhetorician, I feel I am told he's in the court of a king whose left no known anointed if the weapon of my lousy dispensation dispatches expansive truth arbitor--would-be assessors, in limbo telos before I can look past too. ******** ***********In a mild pocket of one winter, I dreamt a.c. outside my window inducing a glassy vexating wall, auditive chamber of chimera dialect. Within I felt courted in frictive origins, has me assess a field of possibilities discriminated now by the tool, yantra, the mosaic in mind media of a.c. mechination, sounding out random & inevitable stage where life performs as from the look and feel of where I le ap--this somewhere excluding too many unfielded possibilities. Mummer as opposed to birdsong makes skin-toned auditive hulking hearer spited in visualization method; careering fellowship with daliance and muses behind the unfolding week in liquid awash vesper glances leaves me attending horizons to experience the tongue withdrawn from a well of silence. ******* ************In solitude if allowing what excersizes my time there, language awash, anyone would speak to themselves more slowly. You will wonder at the languish to defend hearing, as it were, yourself, once the daemon rhetorician within leaves without assignation. "The felled tree" becomes, t-h-e f-a-l-l-e-n..., even stunted leaving mantra-slavery in ever more lapsed completion. If one speaks slowly inward, lapping up like waves against the mind's eye, he or she see more and more the illusion, illusion, that inner-attention is misdirected. The world in its mean ascension bade our silence and the mind is provenant. Outside my open window last night I listened to the gentle thwack of leaves falling out of the battle-weary front yard tree. I kept seeing one or two thought-parchment leaves getting away from wrested semi-permanence of their allied season's trifoliate taking their ornamental obfuscation in a bed under the tree. Out aloft streetlight high with more radical intentions, the avenue would trace the escapees agnosticism. ********* ***********While I smoke cigarettes, it seems to vent from my bones and teeth, rather than my lungs and sinuses. It is terrible to loose body consciousness that rarifies the event of suspiring. The sense that I am more corporate langors in mnemotechniques--cellular memory is merely the disruption from last night's last cigarette. To speak of Kaskurbeh, a Native American elucidator of tobacco use, is referri ng to the guy who first cultivated tobacco. Every night K's wife would ask him to go watch the stars with her to the edge of red rock massifs--imagining high desert here where they live is probable. The path to their awesome look-out has a stream, and as this native cosmic house-maiden crosses every night, K follows her yet to her demise: she throws herself over inevitably. He takes the carcass and drags her across some meadow or field, the narrative says, and her bones in the loam produce the tobacco for the proselytic enjoyment. The high is endo-skeletal, seems plausible in that her body basically deossifies and then represents the plant: symbolic death framed is sublime chaos, like a greedy earth eager to give-up its numinous succour, baring out anew an extremis repose... The shadow cast by trees next to this Lex corridor, looks like a draped grocery bag, denying contours of the produce within. Cars are belched from the crest of hill, beyond my sight, and are tamed by the empty rapt presage of the day. If my shadow was a mirror, mouthfuls of fire would dot it--out of them comes the pollution of my philosophy at the present moment. ******* **********" Vas makst a yid? - I thought of the following only today. Remembering Ohavay Zion before the move, and before that. Thought I'd share...really just felt like venting to the picture on the wall of Mom. I think the hebrew (signs, letters), if it copies and you can see it, should elicit the creative as deep aside: nothing there to haul but origins & poeses, and assure a schedule floe in what soaked a sense of Higher Ground for those reflecting, in this case that of study. While the exiled and its gravid implications to be exiled are prosyletic (warners), the exhorting with bluey spiritual language technology over tremendum, fascinans, and mysterium experience of kaddosh, קאַדדאָש holiness, I've seen more interestingly defined as "other." In my youth attending Hebrew class early-on, one afternoon Devorah (fellow student) was having a conversation with rabbi in Yiddish, ייִדיש. Yiddish is mostly Hebrew-Germanic written in Hebrew characters. Their calling back and forth with rabbi outside the classroom and in his office, and to my left Devorah channeling this ghetto language past me, white noise-cum-colored audition, language in its exclusivity of deprecare, to seek to avert, say, objective reality if it were concretized, consoled me in yet the ignorance of content. Still in my Yiddishe-kupf, Jewish head, ייִדיש קאָפּ then is the weird style of Hebrew being written from right to left, and the phenomena of alliteration in upside-down context - in effect recommending the "word" approachable & facile by any inversion. ************ **********In southern-most Israel I worked with Emmanuel, a Ghanese dude, in a tile factory, home depot kind of place. The African influence tho' mollified if only in foodstuffs, I noted from a can of South African pineapple, before Eilot, while I supped at the moshav, a communal farm--here I harvested bananas notably for sale to Palestinians in the main. In Eilot, down from the factory, or warehouse--whatever it was, a bleak jail sits where I heard what seemed to be yelling, maybe torture I reckoned, feeling subsumed enlisting the event of my liberation and youthful trek. Emmanuel seemed even more inculcated in some kind of limbo Israelis appropriated in that foreign workers like my fellow factotum only advanced something pragmatic but with equal force while dealing with their lambastic employers. Job 1 executed, leaves me to the streets and Red Sea shores where people-watching, Europeans vacationing mostly, lent the demographics of street urchins and wanderers to exemplify release. Elite vodka flowing freely was the rally point in libations--I mixed mine with Boysenberry juice--ended up thinking I was wrong and suicidal in my rare state of drunken swoon. Only after we get back from Egypt does the other illicit drug use begin, excusing the one hit of acid we split in Jerusalem. But, in Israel hashish would have gotten us in trouble--a more socially inviting and advertised indulgence--maybe jail could have been our fate, likely roughed-up while threatened with litigation and sent back to the states. ******** ***********My roommate, as street-prone an individual as I have personally ever been committed to, so to speak, mentions the numbing experience after chemical romance, its affect, was a "check-out" langor and the case of submission to an alienated mind. I imagine the starfield that combusts when one bangs their head, but in the dreigh moment, in approach to a certain loss in expectation, a conscious prop wo rks. The congregate of would-be swirling birds, jammed in a readied conscious betrayal, looks concretized, kind of similar to cooked marrow, white and expellant from sentient greed intensified in extreme barriers to attention. Even without the normative architecture of attention, a question in the nerve is lit, "How do I get back from here?" allays the glazy eye imposture of "knowing" abut in the field of heavy loss of control. Still, this is good enough--a critical dialect is been stultified, thoughts stabbing thoughts, killing the economy of mind, so the enlistment of mental nomenclature where contemplation may regularly alight, is going to again be found in the project of one's worth: like the revenue of time's birth--the despondent midnight-raver's rarified form 'pon the shores of release, an inverted control over attrition toward time's unlikely evasion. ********* **********The dust particulated on one of these dreidal candles is like traces of sinaitic sands, "just" features to sand media of chimera signatures--Kerouac's found mystics in another arabia, as other as a mystic unsealed, redeeming the once fallow whiling-away. A star of david shaped one mandala-esque could perform on a frozen sea-- a self-same desert but with its entrails presumed a modus vivendi: what is found at its surface is adjured from hollowed depths, life in its most mercurial assertions. Seawater & dust--we are, magnetic earth, and fire to divine human perspective in silent smoke disbursed as it mislocates the ascendant's reverence, like prudent instinct his being received in a state of self-knowing, paradise to the tune of an unexpected caricature of who he once was. Reified in vigilance, a primal gait, fragments of an encounter, the first vivid steps with worthy feet, the ground meets us likely surprised there is no horizon--but only momentarily, there is in fact only moving, becoming, going into relationship, as to the ends of stars' apertures, buried, interred in blue dome, as one can be a star and his limby radiance around you, baby. ******* ***********I'm late for winter--tho' it could be framed as per a desert-scape, the Sinai as I read about it in Walking the Bible, by Bruce Feiler, is a desert of an entirely different animal. I'm elaborating on a pretty evident reason why manna was thought to be the astral-substance attested to in the Old Testament. An ant remembers its wasp life. The green ant dreams under his mere acacia tree as exclusive to the ant so desperate a tree for less the prodigy of its desert's possession. The potency of and martial exuberance thru the crystaline sugar looking-glass the ant eats and finds its wasp ancestor adjured, is a shared feast. The wasp came and stayed; now a tree is in no permiss of continuity, incumbent only in a sky's monist state. So, there are other skies, but the acacia lives in enfeoffment-- its manna tears, and demur muse, giving-up to the Most-I or Sky in loci all or nothing fealty. Clemency in a tree's welfare, she awakens only in distant suzerain compulsion--but it is her awakening. It is the ant's becoming. ******** ***********I didn't cipher the direction the thoughts would come. Something intuitive over feeling had me look past rosy-color's subject to rather not so receptive-a-feeling as mindfulness that this color is all media to all subjects and artifacts of self, its media 'pon which I am written. Down streamy cusps of plashing visual waves, I only knew it was immanent. The author was ineffable, but I know I am he re yet inimitable. Identity approbates that these thoughts makes subject the approval of thoughtlessness, daemon martyring the closed crowd white noise-cum-colored audition, in his exclusivity of deprecare, to seek to avert, say, objective reality if it were concretized, still consoles me. Language so the vehicle with clarion but violent engine - thoughts accession in its abstract gait, or concourse , a path meeting the weird style of Hebrew permutations but ones choice in any ideographia meets the sentiment. Hebrew being written from right to left, and the phenomena of alliteration in upside-down context, because the reader might do this in large measure whilst what is read mitigates an essential mind - in effect recommending the "word" approachable & facile by any inversion, has a world of conscious prop, the frisson of marvelly self-awareness. ****** *********I figured out what I was trying to accomplish here looking into the finished skein of a puddle in my driveway--my face 1/2 a foot from being drenched. I did think about it. It was kind of a portal to china or in its place everything and and everyone to look as it were down on them on the otherside of the earth. No negative sense like I got some objectivity, but that folk seemed few and thus corralled in one visage. Dylan makes an interesting comment about there being no more folk, and that is made way for "poplore."

polygons and the razor's edge

POLYGONS OF LEPID'S SURVEY, WHERE HE WOULD LAND: I felt sure in some sense that memory espoused better than vapors a thing hidden in plain sight, withheld in the redound presence mine with the mission of its acquiry. I knew it was there and felt sullen not all of this plain of experience was objective (leaving little to expedite and sort out?) and still alighted to summary feeling more proliferate. The spry essense (nothing avails) and expense to go to find a lighter in this case ... sitting right in front of me, and I couldn't see it, sussed and not revealed. And so I reached there, my arm jagged as if pitch lightning furrows out of my head. It was there. ************* *************Eat the glass. The mask had cranberry glass vase-like quality, not chandelier like--like a King presenting his magnificense--but a vessel w/coloured noise & white noise in it maybe. Biting something from a perfect surface, as this glass! & then harvesting blueberries out of conscious clouds. On may way and going for well-being now past. *********** ************Sometimes not so terminal, and still::: I told her in the media of mind whisper, that daemon attendant I wondered about when it knelt in her lair, I spoke more usually to her than you selecting from my menu open. The same smoggy witness couldn't wallow in intercession long, I saw you as any caricature self-reflective, courting the same world's trampled path. And you're at this bridge in the reach of elusive authenticity, an oceanic-interred relativity, an open nerve born out of it & rooted into your heart's trough--primarily hidden of sensorial entanglement: It is awesome that you care--a roseate sun committed to our shadow's yawn. I ask in dream coloured noise, lofty issuant light mummer 'pon my brow, "How would it feel if I killed for you?" It would be something in me. Unfortuantely I am strained with that ability--I imagine you've been as statistical as ubiquity in the same-sea, auyervedic dispatched to sterile and neutral emotions... ************** ***********I'm adjured thru valiant ends some cult of self-reliance--in other words, I am cultivating the box in the stow of now, at the top of the stairs. (non-institutionally) Sign of diminutional mind getting past mind regarding sentient greed is a glyph of distance strung, education from the absurd teacher finding you, then method and discipline--timely mythos, numinous in the wield of thought's control & its inadequacy: sign, education, then discipline--these are the tripartite hearing we ought to give what language technology locates in things like G*d, the Existential, & as Gandhi recommended experimentation in consciousness. Knowledge is good, and practical knowledge isn't understood at the face of critical "meditations" of one's Belief as being negative (criticism), just because it defies the subject-you have become to see it (Logos, mythos, pistis--its enlistment. Knowledge.) in observably self-professional terms. If self-profession is threatened, look at the razor's edge that alighted you-the ascendant to standards to give no stay of those real & phantom dangers. The danger now is objectivity toward m0re change. ************ **************4 tinkers, a pair and their tools above - another pair seated at street level with their sundry berth closer, closer to the current of human market place. 4 cornered repair to alight personally if intentions seem clear, 1 looks over accruing contemplation and concord. These Cairenes in elegant & animal behaviors while sharing libations & victuals--think continental breakfast (black chai) and foulle, usually fava beans, what food is eaten tastes like senses aweful?--like a splendid & stupendous kind of aweful, in consuming uncultivated hrs apace simply getting outside oneself, when their trading's success fallows. The most literate of the quorum is resigned to a vigilant wish, which the other interpret as hopeful. ************* *************Mountainous day. I woke up at its peak. If a mountain lapses from groan to sigh, the sea had preference. J. K. says, "Truth is a pathless land, it is a pathless land." Imagine: at your leave and upon the valley's moment dissolute after the mountain is in its first notice & refinement. You step out and away, now halfway home... Are you projecting into reception, and of what kind? Isn't the mountain, the razor's edge, informing you in the gloss of the land, something would lie in the way? The mt is the most acceptable of what belies us temporally, but superably. So, one might bring Nangar parbet in the Himalayas ithru the window framing of a giant leap this one place amongst Western plastique. ********* *************I criticize solicitious psychologies, thinking that so & so has actually done me a favor now that I am knowing better. I like my mind full of courage I can't have made similar mistakes--and then in unlikely ways I am fenced-in with middling affect that I can't stand on merely this to deny static personality politics of experience goo. There is real & realistic. It is real I will have gotten weary giving a damn--and realistic no one would change for self-reflective reasons. ********** *************I blinked between chaos and the stay of the moment. I'm palimpsest like a monadic odor--or nomadic breath, freed in Sinai radiations and Cairene effulgence, I'm gritting at its antiquity. Sweating but in cooler shadows of the night coming, my first evening in Cairo is in sum my more marauding thought and pretensions I should especially be gratified at my brother's recommend to observe the green neon of bombast ornamenting of the masjids, mosques. Out into the streets behind the Americana, where we stayed, I see the only really lighted cityscapes, white lights in randomly ordered array, and then at 11 o'clock directionally I see past al-Dokki highway major thoroughfare, red neon. A marvelly color I felt the least readied to associate an otherwise green of paradise foisted ideal in my cryptic illusions what Yemeni Jews have in common with kallam, a sophisticated discussion Muslim's developed on the Language of G*d, Jews proffering as much in their mysticism. Green is a chromo value in the Place of peace, what language appreciates to orient the acolyte. In the mundi vox I could assume at the moment it might have been little pillow-army mummers--ants in regimented pedestrian winds, wack horns in gray hearth roads, muezzin channeling Billal, or I know I should hear the witnessing begin & resume. ************* ************In partite sluiced light rays I lie down brow upon an open book ciphering funky (unsophisticated in extent) formulaic thought of Madam Blavatskii. Andrapradesh comes up in magnetic curious some-place my nodding to its complacency (not had) to relent its offering my negotiable east. Wintry solace behind black thread white thread blinds, I'm compelled from the dreigh possibilities a tendrilly grip in my uncensored ceto-vimutti, the theosophy would have these mind affects, mind of category, you may choose (in mission) or discipline in humility, and in interests' volley thoroughgoing in a poorly resolved school. But the school of rapt student is of the daemon's enlistment to inner-scrutiny. For the grammar of this type content, Quail Creek in Austin had relicks of time's splay in immense apprehensions all-not-mine if what sweet waters meant is become an entirely different journey - if merit belongs to fate. Each moment defers to it like 10 doors to the same room or 10 fractures out of the same principal fountain. Earth tabernacle, gates to the forest's infancy alighting from limbs unpinned (of the wanderer), fruit unshed, sheltering boughs in quest. ************ ***********One shouldn't get caught-up over-elaborating what it is one is understood through. To steal a social travail, but apply what thin-line definition it is if one martyred language, radicalized toward a path nigh--to speak on imminent concerns, an instant record to man's intra-mantra slavery, the key revealed is to disguise one in moderation if pendular tremendum damned the ascendant to the fray. It is easy and recommended to do precisely not what everyone else does. ("recommend" is elastic here) Even in the enlistment of our likenesses that serves conveniently--spirituality isn't lock-step in usual ways or unusual ways. Imagine a Believer saying, "I go to temple because I get what 'I am' there for." Are they saying, Let's start what we've come in the room to do? It appears the building of our relent on the reins of salvation could have been unbuilt, and he or she would have been better for it. It would be just this experiment in truth--the Om colored & white noise filtering an indefinite chorus toward a vernacular to moderate the gratuity in crowd consciousness, an ego! University, a general sense-grammar on human family, as this visceral measuring of our body and mind in ascent or promotion, would be the experience of the one as the many. *********** **********Looking thru a yawn of road-runner outback, Texas bigger-biggness characterizing this road mom and I were driving down. From the vantage point where mom had pulled off and stopped, was entreating bloodclot say under the road and thru some flash of osmosis it bares a black pitch dao trans-infinitive, me one current sheath pondering, cresting upon a much graver body of the same. ************* ************I'll be here Less tomorrow, than and I am right Now. What is this life become, rather than Who Am I? So, the present consumates all past and potency for future. *********** **********Imagine in the beginning of the epic film Gandhi, Bapu & Kasturbai are re-inacting their marriage vows: the mutual tasting of sweet bread, circumambulating, they were, and the cultivation by apt human inspiration religion or self-actualization, lifts mundane earth into the mouthfuls of hope. There's a phantasmagoria of charged appetite sometimes from the taste of bread--many imagine. I sharpened sensitivity while factotum deliverer of this & other super-sensual victuals, money for it in my fist, I wasn't mystic, this, I was waving 'pon surf n turf. Dar al Islam halal circumspect, bread can't be cut, it's torn, don't wipe your hands on it--the prophet says tear it with your teeth as well. There is even a 3 second rule, if a mouthful of bread should drop...spare none for the devil. Most of the time in epicurean tote its ebullience was left uneaten by me & I became alligned in diet consciousness to something mantram couldn't alliterate in such coarse animal rigor--just running and eating rich foods. Walnuts, hazelnuts, cabbage, oats, tofu, & meat & bread--something that helped me think. Out in Swift Camp Creek trails--I had been lost there once--my brother and I made a fire and toasted Zadie's baked rye. My appetite wasn't uniform then, but I waxed easily ciphering dank woods from the yeast oblivion an aromatic molecular difference wholly insignificant. ********** *********איך וועט זייַן וואָס איך וועט זייַן*** A contract in honesty: To sue the future toward futile higher ground as to suffer pilgrimage now so that intuition yields salvation ill-defined by an assumed key to musterion. Propitiation in karmic avowal: My garment of existence levered society-self between ornamented timeliness to shed a more obvious dreamcoat. Some of my books have a graft of brain demarcations in them. Mom's mystic books had this magnetic Rorschach luminary prop, this first wealth poured in necessary vessel measured in suspiring breath, dusty hands peeling back mind haunts, definitions in mummering sun motes. ************ **********started political--but solipsism is monarchical--I may decide on the 1rst step into perception has left the world prone** The lens of core-culture, whatever that vehicle of populace may say--think about who one throws in with, in plastique romance, your appetites--how one is allowed to retrieve social conscience, however trivial, and what gives rises to insecurities, is a source of humility and human perspective. A lesson to inculcate, not to argue with the same reverence to retreat in confessional auspices in the same furious climate like pavement blandished souls--the other's lack of self-consciousness in splaying beck we ought to be somewhere we aren't now... Spirituality should feel unusual to those who'd seek. Unusual upon reflection over inciting relief from conformism--your own. If the moon is painted spiritually true, her ciphering is memory on encumbering boughed night, mothernight revelation, and her daytime revolution nature asking for subtlety.