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?****************