Hypnosis from the over-hanging sunflowers

Once while Jimmy Carter was being interviewed, instead of terminal sense of tarmac blanched political uncertainties, I was rather pulled into framing americana theater looking literally past his TV irreality into silent-gong of this family room, disappearing vantage points. In a sort of enlistment of media and cult of personality badgering, the silent room's corner becomes an easy time signature, a point of reference that makes old rhetorician a sprite past the strange receptive langor of hallowed home. In my quiet self-observation, he makes for an encompassing discussion, a stolid space for his personality like he's graduating from shapeless mass auditive thrumming to formative unhesitant bono vox. Literally watching what I see has space compromised but non-anthropomorphic in the guise of his appreciating illocution. Sitting at the feet of giants may be part of the right descriptor here. Not my appraisal in serious hero-worship, but a swathe of general discriminations, a worldly power-broker whose weight is behemoth excersized. His storm-surge of sober ethics are determined by relics the unassuming masses live-through, lazy & detached by foundries in eclipsing fealties to poplore shed ignorantly and with watery content: to be different from that was only to admit his candor. ******** ******To discover why it is I found myself anticipating inevitably habituating here off of a particular corridor, yet yrs later, merely was a murmurring glance past the traffic lights at the top of the hill--Burroughs' images filling-in a bleary assumption of unremarkable transit. Memories like the ones from the pyrethrum-peddler in The Exterminator sounds out what I knew would pass, his mellowing preachments of average souls plaintively pained in the normative awash thru the current of more illicit deeds mindfully heaped in a protagonist's not really ever-going-home-again. An effective visual is of one lady speaking about her then passed son but now is object of her roseate reminiscence. He had come thru that very "door" whose sky event Burroughs describes as framing the son's imminent return. The green of the go-light is hiding while I sit prone peeking past the sun-visor into a piece of the sky dominating in places of relinquishing intensity. Not seeing was assignations enough that I am magnetic and the steel was nigh--a strange feeling and intuition had me the claimant of a future I hadn't yet devised. ******* ********Fydor Gladkov's Cement, of Socialist Realism content, was apropos distraction in a desert niche post-university life--the gravity from schools left far behind isn't a more courageous becoming in as much I'm then inundated from a greedy sentience--the prodigy of self-discovery in solitude. Flotilla of spirits eliciting spaces in nothing's sanction, I felt emptied of characterizing my academician career. My power-spot in the garage fluid in luminary noise, radio silence pregnable, thudding on my cunga, percussion justice is beat mercy and freedom, precipitous in asana-gestures, magic carpet-thrum laying on a more nihilist's ground zero expectation, studies' alight toward school's kaleidoscopic first motive upon this student. A heady mask of some particular instructor helps to postulate a star's radiant necessary accompaniment in a clay mind's self-scrutiny, a strange notion to be a piece of solemnities of distant lights strung. Red is the compliment of beauty in Russian society, but for me it was the color of a hesitant glance at my face after having determined against easy vanities for a number of months, until then. The "looking-glass" however was just space--a parody moment that had I looked upon my cadence, air would reflect an unlikely expression. I remonstrated and watched what I saw: aloof, more outside-theater orienting self, and crimson face makes me suspect of unknown "golam" independent-me in dusty ancient expression. ******** ******* I feel I'm still dreaming in a space on the firmament earth tabernacle meant for florid or sullied bloom against forest languidly sustaining the more wrought ecosystem. The expression out of earth guffaw reaching sun revelry in its vital mass alliterates like self-taught exquisitely lost design to be put upon what the elements will say with flora. Life sheds self-report, she executes volleys of existential consequence as poignant as exultations to serve ones escape from it. In the valley of tongues, psalm-fooled monist self-consciousness of a stone deposited in silence, with words tarrying in the plurb and verb of identity yielding, wanderer's soft-machine makes subtle a refined place withwhich illocution is reckoned by conscious-prop--the light of moments revealed, a sort of there-ness in what is other. ******** *********** It was a shock of that much energetic--it was that much light, yet where certain spectral shore allays the more refined waves, subtlety is left there - And I am left to a lateral barely justified recondite luminary comfort. Mind haunts if only in enough light to turn dreams into reality, the gloss & richness to deny point of concentration, making a row of the sensual & illusory unreined & appreciating objective reality. N. Young captures blindman running by the light of the night, steppin'-razor questioning some dodge and thoroughgoing toward conscious satellites, the present moment, says to me what stillness in approach to the field of experience, is by the same yield this pitch of mind, shadows or no horizons, thoughts-pivot to remark on the same breadth of lucidity. Blindmen see; a book opened up minds into its natural element in unlikely libraries; primacies are suffuse with folky redound, whose well filled of tarried sands-if this place is ones prodigy of special existence painted in glory, then meditations alighting to its very Source has memoria the consequence of language replaced by likeness. ******** *******When one is helpless, a feeling it may be apparent I cultivate, is for spiritual moon and distant fingers, and alas there may be no quality; perfunctory is hat fit and worn by what you are seen & understood by thru convenience relationship proffers yet illusorily, salutory moments are more accessible. Kafka knows exploitation & servile reality of ones daemon. His father in caricature has all that may be feared like big floats taking notice in the watery guffaw of earth's magnanimous wont of mercurial libations quench. The son is drowning in it and while already suffering in his dire last few moments that his father judged his doom by this contrived initiation--this alien method only to learn and swim--infamies of absurd reconciliation is breachment measurably the the pain of ignorance in less certainty on his unconscious impulses, now in objective reality tremendum like compassion's last cry in lightning vox self-report squelched. ******** *********The trafficking auto-wreck of horizons met, avails the easy qualia that one chromo-value of those vehicles would be only possible of this calvacade of mass transit. These flurries of hauling hell-bent rides if not ill-content in my iconoclasm, speak to radical identities just not there. Not there, but elsewhere. ********* *******An elliptical beginning-ending where he or she topples the effect of authenticity, the thing providing the concourse of change, and merely call themselves the tarmac of the long-lonesome highway--where else are we transcient, but not pedestrian. Numbness, graphic stella to an impenetrable apophasis, can be solid state, a sort of available space in limbo for belied presence, where to claim stable resolve. The grim reaper waits in the recesses of your mind--your dreams are his sieve. Pour it into the waking state--dream alive hard and fast unconscious impulses... ********* ******Beyond Rangoon can be found on youtube--Spalding Grey is briefly in it and its good cinema. Interesting part of this world... Know this about Burma, Myanmar, according Finding George Orwell in Burma, a book about that society, these folks read, and a lot in English. But it is because their technocracy is pulp and writ. Whereas here we tout poplore and need rights begged for and agonist in our reluctance to be prone deliberatively by those who shouldn't have that social executor. The answer is speak to the absence in our passion, place it upon the meritable conscious map where the others' indefinite chorus allows for its reverence. Imagine an inspired world-view pro-west, but has that whole psychologically rather adept eastern meditations flexing all the antiquity evanescent standard, superable and concerning those nodding east, but right there and silent & beautiful for them. ******* **********Really beautiful: think a little, but not too much--say little, mean it all... There is something else at the center of the universe, you are first out of the door, the project of your worth. Characterize yourself with dreams. Stop thinking of you. Draw your mom in her eternal complexion--find her heart bisecting the universe like all the rivers destined to enter the same-sea of mindfulness. Leave family and gods behind-- the world of silence either compliments your youthful patience, or clamors like tarrying stones, staggering in your fate by the still waters with a pretense of no known beginning. Think on your impermanence. Reflect the trees. Distinguish your exile in sky aerobatic recession. Think of G*d anywhere but by identity telos. Deny Creator-being if your will to live is memories of common doctrine. Because remember, what came recommended to you, and if you assume provincial antecedents, your privy is to consult w/treated and amended "practice."

Lanquid totalitariso; poesis becomer topoi poplorist

***********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 alighted language found mystics in another arabia, as other as a mystic unsealed, redeeming the once fallow whiling-away. The taxed eliciting box of time grabbing clock arm--history's wept orgone & the dao's vapors, our daylight for suss ing it, jumping-off of some sun's arrival in a world seen-through to mine. Clemency from that power it has over purusha, leaves of grass like haughty sundering elements in the present moment, just-a-moment. A star of david shaped one of mom's candles, 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 fluency as the ill-shared ancient mouldering reverence. A choice to thread the youthful notice of my "certain" skies "then" in thrall, bouyancy, smiles denials at survival ...embracing silence instead of confusion, but confusion & ambiguity rather than torpor. Sighs and glances, white-noise mischief, then a gradin approaches portal memory 'flect, blue-covers' skies throve all in a glimmer to frame an unnamed slumber--the dreamer now its ember's last hush. ******** ********--the loading begins then roseate upside attention, thinkin' don't leave it unsaid::: The Atlantic gets Pacific reputation, even if seas of serenity is the suspiring thing over our destiny. Without the news article intentionally framing a conscious hint that the Atlantic ever received the woes it belched from its bellowing aerobic pierced desert, endlessness capsulated in yawns of held breath before its power consumes, only spoke of splash, plurb, and verb of life still ever becoming, and a place for it to dream organically again. Water as baptism by fire: Abraham sat in Nimrod's furnance, flames licked without license to deny an angel's message. Prayer is fire, but the lotus is its enticement--the fire becomes a splendid cool bloom. Pain = analytical meditation is rank in appeal if existential crisis is become the lost director of thought's maturity. Salience = restored in the recessive attendant, objective reality uncolored to sample its deference to record the ascendant's vitality. Let's slash the abatement of benevolence with our machete writ! Out of an arising one of two doors, both shadows, one mind appearance, the other the hollowed potency consequence to any excess of Belief or Misbelief, whose quality announces delimitation--peace found not-only just around the corner, & cloud 9, contemplation is rational goal. *********** ******* I want a car that reflects all the lights. I want to take the trafficked this-world's denizens and reverse fates in our travelogue: I will meet the horizon, and this time nothing deprecare bore out of necessity, is a plain of experience rather where vessel alights toward moments of release--a blue-dome imminence is the truth nothing adduces. A horizon hangs the sky flowering discrimination of star approbation--our lives are stellar as its necessary accompaniment. Sentience is its unseen appendage, a star's reach and radiance thru mind appearance. There is no word for heart in my heart. A vessel contains anything but itself. Occasionally there is no verb for comportment to cross waters. My mind has no dialect if I were to tell but memories of sighs, glances, and whispers. The first verse temporal & green was image, the clay smell in the neighboring garden, "hallucination" and primacy in the deep aside. Flowers of constant summer observations, dust mote mortar to the more immense tabernacle. *********** *****A soul, this physical person--the ole guy succouring the fruits in respite, holding up the wall, supposing his work-a-day ethic, sisyphusian daliance professionally. A soul's garb handed-down, and the inheritor by two examples I know, wear deadmen's uniform. I'd say actually--and one of the dudes shared a smoke with the departed before he carried out his would-be identity effacement. An inane choice of assignations who we shall be in the experience of the cloudy migrational loam of society, earth-denizenship receiving memorialized spaces with more earth. Bldgs around us, but the ones in our dreams ignorred, there is everything to believe of white noise vibratory properties these bldgs become if salvation is lent upon any nomenclature the mind proffers. And images can't be anthropomorphic, in as much as sense discovers formlessness all too often. ********* ************Spare nothing but thoughts on enjoying life, the World of Silence waits with approval. Knowledge is sweet; the world is exclusive in its moderation. If one is born of joy and revelation, then appetite is untrialled while the ocean's report is known wholly by the path's thrum into origin's parturition --the radical puddle shed from her earth's garment of cloud's dust & water momentarily exiled. Your last best step at the place you've left behind is ok to jump from, and the last step before you committed a trespass, is another. Leaving yourself in the mindset - as to say behind - is easily spreading yourself too thin. Projecting those moments forward takes active thought. The paradox is the guarantee one sees past moments in the present--yet the imminent fact would have ronched the well-being of our history, where folks maintain their continuity, but not transition. *********** *********Israel rt before the first Intifada. Black turkish coffee under a banana canopy. In front of our usual field, a fathomable ardor under these West Bank desert skies, an unfortunate rat is kicked to death and displayed for ant comsumption. Raining langor and management's prohibitions to amble near the plantations perimeter. Rain and Palestinian lorries to haul a yield of spice plant cum mutant fruit. Week follows week, in all 4, signs in self-reliance & a skittering calendar, a day in each per 4 harvests in November's rain, lends day floes clear otherwise in 6 day intervals. This all seemingly an ironic coincidence. Fauwiz, a Palestinian farmer here to work for Shmuley like me, being in natural camaraderie with we pilgrims and slackers, led me out to a hanging banana bunch, say an 80lbs bunch, with its purple pendular unopened flower, thick and sap filled, to perform its circumcision and place its balm on my machete-cut thumb wound. My fellow traveller and I share Kent cigarettes to squat in repair under a banana leaf during down-pours, to smoke, and query a fertile crescent's missing sun. Subterranean modalities fuel a travelogue found as an ultimate sieve from the place of all my changes. ******** **********The tree outside my window strives vertical and is ornery with outstretched vagrant limbs, reluctant and elegant, impossible to sway. Silent coves in thousandfold orientations in sky architecture-- mollifies in this neighborhood haunted and w/lavender laundry olfaction. The woody trascendent, sentient what-if, leading to blue-dome sunder of a distant star-cousin's cellulose entanglement...in eudaemonian smile. It is observer-self. Here and now it is an integer, the Who of my unconscious, recognizable but not valid intellectus revenue. Lauded but not granting any sensory spoils usual assignations--truly iconoclast, the void within seeks discriminations just by being eclipsed. The "witness" one is evolving through finds observer displayed like margin's guard and in Indonesian shadow marionettes. It's too easy to say inevitably it looks all auyervedic, self-healing, when thought-image is music, shadows tied to voluntas and blood; the sounds jurist would otherwise want similar wane but fluid antedote to meet a fiery escape--thought angels elliptically dispatched. A listener hears prayers by prayer-rugs untravelled function say the blindman's hidden writ underneath it, its use only a shelter from present moment inclemency. But then rock n roll is a gospel Confession. And the East, man--the sinew to the blues you can't eat, is my key of renunciation reveling in the musterion of an exilic ethos. ******** ********When she's gone, then what... Once what gratified and gracefully replete, roseate so many times behind eyelids, yours validating unknowns in whiling tree-stands, has a thousand skyprone yrs of contemplation, when what was written within her is without her too--a cntr from without. Believe yourself, she wouldn't have known you so easily with release, say meditation, her vital ebb is likely where this man finds himself tethered--perhaps the cold light of thought was ornamented & sourced by her and self-preservation (thought's control) would be better esteemed by thought's angel. In times of her nature revealed, only you knew a life's guarantee of mega-transect makes conscious satellite of her placeless & unplaced fate for you. Consciousness is not owned, not its content. You're actually atrophying now to make room for you again in volatile I & I of agonist state... You're there, still--before her approach tho' some self of her is never met. One is tailored to only cultivate her myth. He just please him, telling himself an honest cult of self-reliance has her muse evanescence rendering this or that woman of her aulic eponymy in the book of dreams. ********** *******Having fought in Angola this friend once a soldier in South African army discovered a "terrorist's" fate for me. Only shaddered reflections work for me like prosthetic comportment. It doesn't seem like the same sentient greed to better my confidence, but inanimate liberated forms (thought graffitti) promising to restore me 'pon a cntr from without. The accused baptizing his consequencial self in a stream, I think. The one of extreme african environment, and suffering fount--this heralds what inner-scrutiny is in langor to that of midnight star-gazing--how it embalms neo-tree architecture, its sky thrum. Thoughts like tarrying stones are engrossed by a surface struggle, shimmering awhile like his lucidity, he is seeing jetsam as if the overstanding sky would still be obfuscated by distance. This jetsam coalesces around his hard guffaw, a smile recorded as if, but the sky-line now so apparent on the plastic surface of cool stream, is close, very close--the imminent threat was almost known too, the world squeezing in on him now. *********** *********I want a car that reflects all the lights. I want to take the trafficked this-world's denizens and reverse fates in our travelogue: I will meet the horizon, and this time nothing deprecare born out of necessity, is a plain of experience rather where vessel alights toward moments of release--a blue-dome imminence is the truth nothing adduces. A horizon hangs the sky flowering discrimination of sta r approbation--our lives are stellar as its necessary accompaniment. Sentience is its unseen appendage, a star's reach and radiance thru mind appearance. There is no word for heart in my heart. A vessel contains anything but itself. Occasionally there is no verb for comportment to cross waters. My mind has no dialect if I were to tell but memories of sighs, glances, and whispers. The first verse temporal & green was image, the clay smell in the neighboring garden, "hallucination" and primacy in the deep aside. Flowers of constant summer observations, dust mote mortar to the more immense tabernacle. *********** *******Spare nothing but thoughts on enjoying life, the World of Silence waits with approval. Knowledge is sweet; the world is exclusive in its moderation. If one is born of joy and revelation, then appetite is untrialled while the ocean's report is known wholly by the path's thrum into origin's parturition --the radical puddle shed from her earth's garment of cloud's dust & water momentarily exiled. Your last best step at the place you've left behind is ok to jump from, and the last step before you committed a trespass, is another. Leaving yourself in the mindset - as to say behind - is easily spreading yourself too thin. Projecting those moments forward takes active thought. The paradox is the guarantee one sees past moments in the present--yet the imminent fact would have ronched the well-being of our history, where folks maintain their continuity, but not transition.

Reify the leisure in the suns arising

I was up between 5:30-6. The cool am air was black and ambient like a few moments earlier when I was sleeping under the same caricature of dawn & pitch. Even by a few minutes til 7 o'clock, still as dark out, I'm looking out across the road to the old lady's house while her trees allow a heady nod of tiresome chimera. For a moment the continuity was mantram comfort--mind murmurs of stimulation remoteness & unconcern. The day tho' by its hastened beat still has a poignant absolute before the talking heads in cosmopolitan bivouac show the waking life's foundering time, the frenetic temperature of impatience in its popular throttling. A halloo seems in order - would have for me - the reflections on answers to a manufactured duty, how our world permanently gives a deft account on who it is that peeks thru dormancy to its very dismantling--is the reawakened reification of a sun's leisure. ***** ***********primal dance - abstract gait - aulic wrought reverence, poeses topoi on poplore 88888888-------living, living, going, going, ronching on bionic rats. I wish I could write that in Judeo-arabic. It would be a ghazzal. Nice Arabic word for poem. I think quoting folks consistantly is bullshit. As austere a definition for 1 can be, is to remove the blinds of your reluctance. ********* **********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 works. 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. ********** ********"You Can't Go Home Again" motivates me. Our eyes in Confession's meeting in the reason of lamp light, an inescapable night gotten to as we lurch out of a day from its alliterative dangers. The day of time--sorrowing; day of vast intervals between sabbatical. The sheens of light unperturbed, solid as dust mote so avoidant like a creator's eye sealed upon his world eye skein 'pon appearance derm. The day wrested for respite--the creative, "passive" in its unchallenged revenue. If there is a thought, then there is the principle to thought, the simple beginnings. If there is ... intelligence in the world, then there is its beginning, the intellect. For every condition there is its potential. This simplicity is known as G-d, according to the rationalists: If we dream thereby we must exist. To exist then whence that energy promoted reflection upon the necessary condition, there is a principle to existence. Though it may be beyond a dualistic approach as our minds accord, still one may necessarily expect a principle behind that value. But Prime Mover still remains only a wish. "Value" is a strange word--is only luck if what is implicit in Belief accords with Right Action in the acsendant's reconciling impermanence. Send your impermanence-in-denial regards, I'm sure the dead'll understand. Their ineffable station in the existential loam seems to be the mean of what to "understand" could ever offer out of Greater Will. ******** ********As austere a definition for one can be--his or her self-professional possession of conscious crowd, would-be awakened, is to remove the blinds of their reluctance to discriminate pathlessness in the crowd's repair. Foundational impulses and intentions redound with or without what is implicit in Belief. If my essense may offer something exciting paths of self-profession, it may be parcelled in empty gifts of soulful plateaux, presentiment of self fading in ellipses of path's end: there, there, or there. ********* **********I was up between 5:30-6. The cool am air was black and ambient like a few moments earlier when I was sleeping under the same caricature of dawn & pitch. Even by a few minutes til 7 o'clock, still as dark out, I'm looking out across the road to the old lady's house while her trees allow a heady nod of tiresome chimera. For a moment the continuity was mantram comfort--mind murmurs of stimulation remoteness & unconcern. The day tho' by its hastened beat still has a poignant absolute before the talking heads in cosmopolitan bivouac show the waking life's foundering time, the frenetic temperature of impatience in its popular throttling. A halloo seems in order - would have for me - the reflections on answers to a manufactured duty, how our world permanently gives a deft account on who it is that peeks thru dormancy to its very dismantling--is the reawakened reification of a star's leisure. ************* ******** I felt I should've shown deference for Valerie where otherwise I had not. I tend to stave off the mystery, or the draw, while getting what makes it opportune fulminate. It is my attempt to be intricate in all the artifacts of my well-being... I thought about the two most influencial women in my life last night when I took a drag off of my cigarette. Mom in her own way remains untallied. When I ex haled I tasted incense in my mouth. I imagined Alison's breath channelling thru me. In dreams they've both, Valerie & Alison, been emulated in musing dynamic, how my interests would enliven my brand of relativity out of headwaters thru symetrical sensuality these women allow. Alison not only thru past dispensation draws me into her maternal wisdom in remote sanction, but out of a completely different chamber in the cosmic house.A place of little actual daliance. Almost but not quite negligible because I sorted out her influence in contemporary assignations, though Valerie as significant other's agency is subtle traditional rappore & of course in current form a solace in what I feel I need. Rather they are a furrow in the same garden assuming the season of difference, tho' I'm inclined to wander from its access to the fruit born of both their qualities. Mrs Abraham-Lakes with the superable vantage, her reach through me is expression for my rapt grasp. If I know I approach the stellar nerve, light-vessel sound-angel to wander bank to bank, sensual poles of intimacy, making Valerie secondary, of course this wouldn't work. My sense that she is the substance in everything beautiful seems to develop "shared"-- the quality of her sauntering love where I lie alone with her but reaching for release as her star's gleaming appanage. From the very real etiquette I'm imagining verily all women thru the looking glass into her sweet earth agency... in the end beauty is elusively tethered to certainty how she is meant for me, Valerie... is still as anonymous in the love of a strange career in my fate. Valerie. Sweet Valerie. Anonymous? Think Ideal Mystery, exotic taste, those lips. This is precisely not waxing poetic over long time ago relationship. I think I'm able to develop a different sensitivity toward who I would have loved once--that I am in love now. And what that makes me imagine in the sea of possibilities, is my life moving toward a goal and reunion now. I don't leave myself behind doors of my past. Nostalgia is not what I accomplish here, I think. In the likely event the reader wouldn't know--Valerie & I expect a reunion sometime next yr. She's got out-of-state responsibilities...