Zakkai--Sakyamuni

I believe in a Living Loam. A Loving Loam, whose harmonies are psalmodies of loving Rain. The type of loam that won't harsh my mellow, thereso the One and Many loam of threshold inconsequence. Landed proud visor Rock blue eyes like Rock Spirit evocating Inyan of Lakota myth, mountain folk wealthy in earthen embrace where telogenesis are still-dreams of real shrouded travelers' macrocosm, those of longer lived denizens, the diamonds of rougher rough mind in the way of the tote of minds, just below. And even the iconograph's theorian glad on the cover of a Western invention to their, the first peoples' unique narrative. my voodun of backyard qualia same-sea book, has cave-cove notable precious stones rightly before saintly Lakota spirit-guide, in my hand before me. In the night of origins, humanity's spelunking adamic first homes are our first temples too--why not one in the sky?************* It is wrong the margins of our eschaton begin with the sky as our limit. One isn't cosmogonical only in her water & consciousness, the leviathan underlying straitened forms of consciousness, which has an Unchanging to wrest the luxury of whiling away. In Wanderings, Chaim Potok's archaeologically slightly remiss history, still alights comely askesis. This roseate and informative book shares the life of a first century Jew, Jochanan ben Zakkai, brings-out visualization if only a sojourn to the once gathered concept, always a place to jump from, an interest in compassionate intentions. A coffin which bore the scholar from an embattled Jerusalem is a funerary surmise in Rum's certain attempt in denying Jewish continuities. Perhaps a strange thought-world with similar visualization in hope for Dalai Lama's ply through his surviving the gallows 1900 yrs later. With Rome disestablishing the Jewish Temple 2000 yrs ago--as exiles go from historical beginnings--or an agon of materialism from the Chinese having Tibetan continuity refrain in Dharamsala, this ledger of escape to that of Jewish learning in Yavneh, is the recorded shot--out of the Axial Age--across the bow against magical thinking. The Library of Tibetan Works and Archives wouldn't be a kind of Determinist contrivance anymore than change would be apprehended in the mind of a student to the great Martin Buber Ginzberg visited 60 some yrs ago in the Jewish homeland. Messianism is an entirely mystical circumstance toward an example of the Original Man, but if you are holding a sapling, as stated in our Talmud, Book of Ethics, in your hand and then told the Messiah has come, plant the tree first, then find your way through a fullfillment of musterion. Meaning be practical, ones devotion is immanent (within). *************Convened my ugly yet saccharin street outside of work--funerary cars-in-train in its usual blissing, ambulance commands the unfurling moment in someone's jump from the plank of humanity. Did my regular walk until I come around to the Parks & Rec facility, the bellybutton nigh place of an esoteric walnut tree to that of an outlier pace. Across the footbridge up onto school grounds I saw a boy in coarse but spare suggestion of whiling away. Unillustrating, I'm thinking, he must see raw nerve and banal socializing to revealed techne, like done with it to serve classical I & Nature, sludgy creek of seasonally excluded midge clouds, seems recent, then redounds in their absence. In me an angel hears dependent arising network in everything else, tells me circular Anasazi Suns are glooing me as moss onto temporal shores in its sociation with Wolff Run watershed.. Enlighten me to this green room, salience to the rock mentational looking glass in perfect stillness, as the fleck and radiant material void anoints meaning in suspiring measured breaths. I'm too thirsty, so one of the two outdoor water fountains make less of the thing breaking my thought's concern into idiosyncracies. Starting in earnest this regimen of exercise has a primary moment I like to reexperience in an acuity sense to footfall upon the confidence anyone has of their own physical success. Crickets launch in auditive little chimy doorbells, then the wooden trill of locusts take over in my first few steps among suburban lording waned-of-wilderness trees.****************Do you know first thoughts? You are somebody, and yeahs are yeahs even bent past the accord an academician self-being into whose allowance in our office challenges but cultivates betting on subtle meaning, if muthoi, so variable between the walls of our intellection's ward of well-being. I'm watching Abba Eban, a former Israeli politico and historian as he narrated Heritage: Civilization and the Jews, with my ear tuned to Mom's sublime cultural expectation sought and dreamt. It's a feeling no different than looking upon bright meadows, no choice but to feel a subtle belonging. It's Mom through and through in my approach toward the concept of literacy, certain books albeit, but student of life altogether. If one had grown up with Hollywood as an essense to Sunday langor, TV and sunny adducement, a Spaghetti Western conjures a similar feeling of silent house corners and the next thing to consume my mind. I haven't had any regimen explanate ever, tho' explained if I were to assume being sorta ritualized, just this kaleidoscopic vantage on cultural values where going around the corner had no ply attempt, laying-down right here in my favorite place. The very first thing shone in my mind that Jews were phenomenalized--finding out like I've been only then awakened to these origins--had Native American proximating in What-if this antiquation to be self-aware had been at all like that, and also aren't all these X-tians of core-culture up to my same unique self-realized reserve, anthemic with unsophisticated banners--I am You deigned in such replete crowd consciousness, tho' out of tremendum & reach. A question I still ask, perhaps, Native Americans getting the most accretion.******************Have an opinion. Realizing that you may always be reconciled is a given, so follow your heart through a lens of one's mind. Anything is an anywhen with invective neuroses just as our confidences can illustrate half our best. Study. Meditate. If one is deigned of identity, that you have a will is a mission impossible; ask and know incomplete daliance to her potent mind, it sets like Grandmother's couch of consciousness, covered in ephemerally creased upholstery.*****************There's this concensus like bird droppings hit their mark that someone has a contemporary entreaty of our toiled wont of self-reflecting to place our right of veritable cosmic concern into the palm loyalties this pleasant entertaining of self actualization purveyors would have smeared across banners and Americana, thereso not always a compliment to the odds you've weighed what-is actually exoteric to the frontiers in self-knowing. Rewording Kriwaczek's bone-smashing opening, then to Job: ...our responsibility is made-already, in the hands G-d. During the war and murdering, our role in the "decision" was almost zero. And ole Job endures bad spiritual music tearing up his flesh. I'd have my step's intellection easily wandering to the tents among midbar na'ot, oases, if somewhere solitarian clarifies the prodigy of self-possession one is become, nothing gets his back--and only the frontiers of mystery matters, a void of lull to roiling swathes of space. Yes, but there is One Space. If there is a G-d On-high, everywhere else is left vacant.**************A cat's life at my crib has interesting feng shui meridians, if only prone with Ozkent 'pon me as his cat perch. These directions multiply, the room more the jetstream aerobatic, than interior shitty city receiver of narratives in bldgs and food. These lovely cats, my hoss cat here, collude so easily in world infinities, than the ephemeral bleat of TV irreality. Walking while getting free time at work, around the near neighborhood, I imagine things I like to reintroduce in this nature's cultivating ethic: animal, nature, breath, sunlight, and both he and I a lens for subtleties and wrought willingness to fly through shared fascinans when I get home, his dynamic contentment. There is a limby overhang to a couple of mullberry trees along the sidewalk lining a yard straight into the park, makes a sense of woodsy environs of mountains in Upstate NY spilling into this langoring day's descriptors. I wonder just how such formidable empiricism crystalizes in the expediting little minds, conscious bindles of sweet only love knowing creatures?****************You are a kind of emanating change, a catalyst like water and light. Electricity comes from other planets & you are an impulse compelling me to be vital that I may reach them. I burn from your gospel over white fire, and the black fire of this musterion proscribing issuant days of our future beat & passporte splendor. You are a star of an emboldening new definition for a gilded sky-ocean. Rivers bisect the universe, as a Mother's heart, like all the oceans of sated effulgence with new beginnings.**************This pic of my brother may appertain a mystic once at the telos step to haKotel, the Wailing Wall, where Holiness is fully dependent on a macro-world, its looking glass diminution offering its unfortunate effort, hard-won blow-out & ekstases. I'm a marabout (sufi) carpenter ant on the blacktop surface enjoined to lolly gag toward a chthonic sluice. Or a righteous butterfly tsadik peddling pollen from our ubiquitous tupelo clover. And then perhaps a sadhu solar ray of terrific sheen from a dull Scion, an abstemious ride, exhaust-veiling in the acrylic breeze better than mundaneity neo-transporting an otherwise dyad shore to that of our day's long ends--where I intend to find reprieve--a Western Socratic lapsed elation in ebullient colors and greed of identity--I give you white bread, and flat windows, beat eshewal. In a kingdom, monarch to infinitude and small details--my repair is the green smile of yard beds. By the gutter, in an out-of-the-light lane, I trace meaning painting the interior of my eyes a poignant color of shadows to rest consciousness, to sleep this life, to dream without matriculate sense, to tend fascinans within this everywhen. Begin the begin of dawn is the donkeys' standard poise right in my sight between me and the sun rising has their prescient guise accede timely, suss of our eager dharma dog.********************I'm just blown away at that noble candor the little-big Jerusalem donkey (my brother's) really heartfully projects--real live peace. His antagonist, sweet Nawla, Craig's white German shepherd, gallops too and more primordially surviving as the punishing fittest, I thought, while she dives to taste the dusty, flowery, yellow-butterflies on her tongue. Inside the main house now, the donkeys' barn slowing down, down respite & convictions, I muse Isaac Bashevis Singer is represented in just-so a book of Mom's, I thought, short-stories, only to imagine damn-well motivations manufactured for the sentient greed of spirit effluvial running under the black fire, and over the white fire adducing a book's phantasamogoric stain in my brain, those characters. That getting on the page, the appreciating figure music takes-on, is luckily tethered in being able to respect a scholar whose intention it is of history's crystal palace broken at its iconoclastic necessary machination I invent at its bombast.****************I just want to testify what adjures this nature, and this woman here, Susie Quinn, having no other diversion, what her love does for me. Like the black ants in miraging heat plotting impermanence for my edification, still, here these sojourned lifetimes later from moments sitting at our garage guffaw looking at my flat, redounding homestead driveway, my 4th is spent once upon this sorrow jettisoned day around closest in age brother Craig's house--I'm reminiscently imperiled now with their stimulating success of seasonal ease and easily dismissed seasons et al. I'm mnemosyne lopped off from these vibrations usually, and taking in a Summery snowball of musterion, everything matters so dearly; Mom's Lowery piano, a rug burned visual insinuation of feral farm lands, these gotten-to catching upful reasons to think into elastic fates... I kissed Craig's Jerusalem donkey, & if porch-sitting is fazed to define true democracy, his two-rescued vital in & of equine symbolizing unconscious impulses (the Vedic "niyama," I hope I correctly read), allows something else in subtle mentation.******************On down around the park, heading up toward the biggest pine tree I know, two big pin oaks in their sprawl individually bigger than the house whose yard they set lived & fractal, all the romantic silent neighborhood, in those appreciating thwack steps, lead to their stalwart shade and vibe. My Zadie's little cottage home in Kingston, NY, on Lay St. takes on my reach and discernment, feels good to re-remember summery foliage, a willow tree by his backyard leading to dense woods figure in fascinans' entreaty--assuming all these shadowy gifts of memoria--Stewart's Icecream shop at the top of his street, where we bought sweets, the Bowery Dug-out is the fish restaurant where we never ate, and the rest of town fairly unknown to me. I am as consumed in domestic, monarchical release to that of my vacationing enticed thinking, adduced with senses to jump from back then to an everywhen subtlety, the old man presence luckily solitarian and cool, thoughtless cloister of dross things swept away from my comely streets. How can our older generations suppose the kindly redolence to that of nature in changeless time of empty bottles, cipher of here-here, To Life-llibations, while I grasp wishing to meet minds pouring-out their licit answers?****************

GEUSH URVAN

Interesting seeing the wrought (self-acclaimed) ubermensch actionable in a world he can't damage. It is pure soul in the ephemeral luck when a fool does things with attention and understanding. Merill Lynch with their bull meandering around the crystal shop offers subtlety to a bovine's clop clop clop in ironic reflecting-wholeness through this world-to-come, that his complaint lived of mute and brute mindless courage is assuring our fealty to a musterion will, willing itself across the razor's edge. Geush Urvan warns Zarathustra he would be incomplete, metamorphically denied while being befouled from his kind marauded & consumed unceremoniously.*************You read, in one act, one mind--a hopeful other--through your one voice and terminal through another. Only until your analytical meditation became iconoclast, then someone had to wordlessly, tunelessly, paint the distance strung of an unopened book, its concept gathered as if motivated toward its answer. But there, that space, potent and only willingly from 2000 yrs of literation to the 100,000 humankind is been trodding proud land inventing a thing to name it.*******************Quality is not material? I go to Oxford, once, like Ky in a green hillocky way, cool too, thus the season coming on in late August. I sense a different moment in one place in contrast to whiling away in the wash of light, live in an essense to elsewhere, and then memorialized space in thousands of known & unknown earthen changes. But intentions, relating in spirit to nature, like fundamental nomenclature exaggerating the ground beneath our feet, a world reaching for its temporal-mission-purveyor has divining consciousness as one moves into it - its portents anointed in rocks, the sky, an arbor, this world.*******************Thoughts on this fascinating discussion between Satish Kumar & Richard Dawkins: Our material contest over attention enduring our infected spirit with abyssal ambition through physical success (moving down, down, into experience, ever the sorrow of encumbrance) makes a proposition to that of an inanimate world ill-vital, if unconscious, observable reality as the gratuity of appearances part of a network, sharing energy opposed to ours in our mean advance to be changed by it.****************You are completely closed off; you're asking for a right to be seen in that condition. Your closing, sleepy eyes, aren't registering a revolution to come. Our translator mask, worn by the abiding cipher upon his watch-tower inhibition, have his eyes pass-over their newly painted interior, when they are cut open to your dream.****************Listening to a variety of music, that of African titles, I am grateful to be transfixed through mantram lure of spiritually passporte language. Eje nlo gba ara mi King Sunny Ade' dubs up without reggae, but close superlative, and the hypnoses is glad, watery, yellow of African wakes in deep infinite equator heat.. Inkunzi ayi hlabi ngokusima is a lamp on origins too, other-worldly in prone whirling noise in his instrument, South African Jonny Sipho, this song arises in similar vulnerability as Mali's Ali Farka Toure' which is posted here. And not to be left undone in the valley of tongues, Spear of the Nation, Umkhonto We Sizwe, Prince Far I's preachment, his answer in concensus trance chanting to call & respond in biblacy, is an Old Testament believer on a Living G-d, may see sorrow not only between he and a Creator. ***************In pacing past my pine stand mid-way through my walk, today its redolence isn't suffocating from heat, but a morning garment of dawn catchment (moist) air. I breath in the pine, full of lung appetite, and while I am known for a fast footfall, I receive three inhalations, designing the langor of the few trees as I pass in four broad steps. I sense the old man whose house this is, his unconscious approval in my eyes of plants. The weary urban patrons of frenzy (close Lexington traffic) reminding he & I, like a conversation remits, nowhere recommends truth in nowhere to be. Amongst graying clouds, necessity makes the ceiling high above compose civilization, this silent, lazy Sunday, enjoined to an appropriated wilderness tabernacle, trees becoming more gonglike in its wind-made tremors, its conversation is manifest in whispers.****************That a jagged edged phrase would arise in the Moderate's mind as to why she is moderating rather than mania of pretensions with a Literalist as their okay ambition (Faith) giving a fix in would-be salient ethos, that somehow her Believing may have ones thinking prone (if assessed), winding in attention is a condition perhaps not otherwise cultivated. The first mistake the mind makes in the truck toward our pass of compassionate void is making value statements. The wet stuff in our head's first state is fragmentation, however gratuitous of a deep aside.**************An Autumn morning's re-narration: Little flitting robin off of the driveway looks resident and folky, not whistling--I discover its detective spy v spy gawking at personae warm neighborhood houses. Its form taking up my perspective in a small life, approbation as some kind of creative ardor, I'm more a part of consciousness in today's viscera with avian conscious expediters. Outward fact guise of bee-catchers, in the power of this-light climate among the earth's dispossessed, psalmody-wind's history called & hallooed I'm Present. Wanting such poise, aiming to get full-up and suspiring, I watch mundi red-seeing sky nomenclature squawk, traffic elapses by Kerouac's thinking upside-down, blood-monastate languages of I Am Here, Avalokiteshvara biographic organs of consciousness are inward-acting. Blue exuding cool comes off these bluegrass yards in a helpless yelp of earthen shade: It holds the coolness like blood of the heart as a kind of effluvial ditch, lush of proud land, mused-wildly from off the beaten path.**************My walk takes me past the UFO looking church right after the utility road leading to it. A hoary pine stand at the top of the neighborhood beginning that leg of my wandering has stifling heat complain in my ciphering lungs. And through ecclesia, perhaps in an extensive parking lot that lays out after the church, & under a tree, I'll sometimes sit and record a thought. The other day here I ruminate over St Raphael's close to my old memorialized space, as if this newer pedestrian qualia is as freed up and timely. An SUV with plates assigning Middle-town, NY origins, all black and rank in anonymity is flat opposite the white Escalade which takes us year after year to her mountains. This and an aroma of kasha mixed with the florid hotch-potch of tupelo clover paint colors of real retreat in my eyes. I didn't walk yesterday and today in the bop of appreciating imminent map, I realize conscious satellites, or almost, as if I say condoling things put upon where I belong.*****************All that movement & sound has a second long cast at people imparting a feeling of transformation, while acting behind a sublime babylon veil motoring to unknown horizons met. Cavalcading traffic in lopped-off dialects underneath blearing metal, their power is in threatening earthen wretched paths, upon bloodless vascular tarmac. A suburban denizen in lone ant execution wearing his sky blue walking shoes slipped on for utility shores around his house, carries folded clothes to the back of an SUV, really alliterates through metallic thrum my refrain between his silent anonymous patter and the margins of his nevermind neighborhood. I sip water at the waterhose tasting fountain at the edge of Southland Park, swimming and baseball draws summery faithful nigh, and past me into the park a boy in atrophied expressions winding by is buried in daliance loams, humidity thermals... Spend your time doing strange things with weird people is good advice, brings me to this: Is weird a state of mind? The guise of mind purveyor with less than a looking glass than her frenzy in nature persistent in moulds giving contour to wrought life is to ones threshold the first god and interior solace, and over 'til appreciated as ambition however mundane and greedily inspired. Is the mind out of the way of mind weird, or is statement of presence letting go, so mindful and exilic, and soooo weird the dynamic is bodas oro, a day consumed into lifetimes?***************Spend your time doing strange things with weird people, my man Thom relates, brings me to this: Is weird a state of mind? Is the mind out of the way of mind weird, or is statement of presence letting go, so mindful and exilic, and soooo weird?*************Like I've swallowed anything a pen may reveal through my realism, a pen hardens appetite, can make everything a mean flavor--feels plastique in my gut. "Transformational" by identity equating phenomenalizing source to that of resource.****************On down around the park, heading up toward the biggest pine tree I know, two big pin oaks in their sprawl individually bigger than the house whose yard they set lived & fractal, all the romantic silent neighborhood, in those appreciating thwack steps, lead to their stalwart shade and vibe. My Zadie's little cottage home in Kingston, NY, on Lay St. takes on my reach and discernment, feels good to re-remember summery foliage, a willow tree by his backyard leading to dense woods figure in fascinans' entreaty--assuming all these shadowy gifts of memoria--Stewart's Icecream shop at the top of his street, where we bought sweets, the Bowery Dug-out is the fish restaurant where we never ate, and the rest of town fairly unknown to me. I am as consumed in domestic, monarchical release to that of my vacationing enticed thinking, adduced with senses to jump from back then to an everywhen subtlety, the old man presence luckily solitarian and cool, thoughtless cloister of dross things swept away from my comely streets. How can our older generations suppose the kindly redolence to that of nature in changeless time of empty bottles, cipher of here-here, To Life-llibations, while I grasp wishing to meet minds pouring-out their licit answers?*******************So easy to see all our thought values replete in subject world, somewhere of proliferate spaces barely the salt grain of succour, and what of its taste. There are guarantees & divining of culture and if ephemeral, so by luck, an artist's voice eliciting the rather strange anthem of love in this case sung in Amharic, Arabic, & Hebrew, is how I'd want to hear her chiming while I'm less prone. I'm adduced from sounds-arrival to the sauntering purity of quiet steps into the rain, through green smoothish, almost undetectable lapse of texture, tupelo clover like star shards... The yoga bright and a Floridian ocean-fated lady stand under a tree out of the drizzle in a rare dry space and all alight what features the flowery redolence just under this ole soul, some gloss of today's rain deepens its gone-ness, into my love of fascinan's deference, her embrace, a rather Californian loveliness awaiting this evening's beautiful embrace, I think..**************Those plaintive days can seem more usual, the feel of langor when roommates and friends all are launched into our city splay. And how does this city funk up in forms where I've once emerged looking through and upon an aerating white staticky tableau, before me, shoulder high, like Lexington is only this certain project of light? A vision truly, and as consistent in recollection in time's stream of internal calculus as letting-go of a world is observable. Lexington's evanescence and my decisor (-agency) advancing in less cumulate sense, magnifying personalities as immediate in hometown watchtowers leaves me well out of it. I think, Why feel lopped off of dynamic waves over identity, now carried on horses with no faces?****************THE shadow knows, and is proven because I ain't got enough her. Once sussing about wrought thru time in daliance meant to surface between us. Sometimes I am completely wooden, futilely animate, in a tear's thrall, but you just don't know. And not in those indefinite shores, so remote--I wouldn't languish. I'm concerned to get subtle approach, mindful just then.*****************Yass, Yes, Jazz, beyond now. Yeahs are yeahs, culture soooo not the vulture. She's tradition, but new. The new message, the get-full. The biblacy of torn bibles is beat and social dust live under the feet of the tea-makers, fugue-takers, sounds arrive for you and the hip toward her best affect in self-actualization. These are songs of vulnerable instruments, oblivion mentating vox recollecting, oh yeah, the purveyors to some soul..***************Yass, Yes, Jazz, beyond now. Yeahs are yeahs, culture soooo not the vulture. She's tradition, but new. The new message, the get-full. The biblacy of torn bibles is beat and social dust live under the feet of the tea-makers, fugue-takers, sounds arrive for you and the hip toward her best affect in self-actualization. These are songs of vulnerable instruments, oblivion mentating vox recollecting, oh yeah, the purveyors to some soul..****************Seems only right a year on from a tobacco habit impossible for me, so dissociative & final to imagine its succour, its drink, but now to think in thanks and praises. The upsetting rather banal dis-ease coming to the disease in a theater of my body at war with itself, framing it as I imagine "certain" physical success that those around prove ought to be my norm, is regained somewhat that I feel motivated, alive. A psychologist had been to our business, recognized her from the place where I go for counseling, and I wondered how severe my languish must have appeared to her that one day... And just then, 'pon her leave, I called the gloom and dust of work all the decisor of reason less evanescent and cigarettes only musterion answer to ego amplified by pathos execrated from the behavior ward.*****************I want to tell the sea to reach me. Whiling away is the sands of change in all it can do. The 10,000 things of the Dao is become a deluge wailing in awe over a fecund deep-aside. I vibrate on but everything seems to go away. I imagine a feast, but it will be the last. The phantom-wont in luminescence of sister moon takes any seat she likes. I fall asleep wishing for her spirit to traduce sorrow & mundaneity, & her fire burns; it's an arising morning whose reality is principle to every beginning, and in shades of this present moment under reifying boughs giving-out, furrows blind through into the two threads, black & white, of the new dawn.****************I pace through Raven's Run today with sweet Cami Watts, the olfaction in streamy effulgence from the creek past the old mill tastes like the rust in my blood. Imagining something of final form enduring in the truck of my blood, come earthen evidence to nothing ever to wonder on impermanent record again. That antiquation of senses amounting to a seat of a thousand deaths, flows through me, now into me educated in micro-sensed world, mattering little otherwise feeling content with I & Nature. A lens over all of brother sister woods, avian monarchies, deer scat missed in my footfall? is where I think of Ivan Turgenev's Fathers & Sons and his anarchist posit of a new day thus, assessing the acacias of Russian-pathetic lands, and I get to see these Ky adjured cedars.**************