A Sun God on My Back

Aton, the Solar disc ancient Egyptian god, is mentioned in an Abba Eban guided documentary rarefying the Biblical one cocoa of effulgent succour Creator revealing the Hebrew G*d, and moreso before an adherent is granted magnanimity of belief, there's the sun. Of one piece in an ironic mind is all the suggestive space of light, that our sun is the emulsive promise of it. The natural distance strung can make its furthest reach here the solace room adducing dust motes in a Sisyphusian baptism of light, molten star conflations toward cool earthen loam. Energy niches are metrical to our cosmogony. If these plain memorial candles tending like saints of night and tree coves were starry heiroglyphs bouncing temporal vision into the drape of lithium & photons, its mood purveyors live-up to restore and be given sight. Nirvana, bliss, its diamond hand upon your brow... Theoria's gate into claxons of green enchantment, the ascendent is become arborial. A sense to egoity valiantly denied, the candle is blown out, or something brighter engulfs us, hither a kenosis to our shady promotion is the new dawn phasing. The sun can't be less than Wisdom. One realizes an ultimate commentary to her spirit that truth is a pathless land, wandering, leaving tracks if inner-language is language to inner-experience thus-gone?***************Monism over that one thing which consolidates memory may well be a breath's control and nothing of real world news, studies, the pregnant fact of school years in their cadence, is about as much a mystery as remembering from remote light-house qualias in the face of confusion enumerating a rather Holy word for the biblical G*d for some, Adonai through my fascinans in turbillion slaver out of the valley of tongues where langauge awash encants rhythmically I Don't Know, precisely the Never You Mind of Jah, relates Karen Armstrong defining I am that I am thusly the ancient idiom of a tremendum mean in the exoteric. Monism = of one piece.*************Of course G*d is the exception to origins, if one is up against presuming the moment to moment furl of certainty that an existential burden indicates one's journey as resource to his/her belief, though with whom his & her feeling is less than confident one should suppose the virtuosity of self-being is borrowed of temporal assent.*************The traveler in ryddim to footfall, being the auditive culling consumer so nice and refreshed of the merit thinking on Israel and Egypt now, this world-beat, meaning a comfortable, contemporary sound, feels close enough to the Samite, his "Waterfall" I once had on a mix Devastation International could see clear through, offering up rather "Into the Groove," Ciccone Youth, all damn-well mind blowing. But in that space if a metric to the Creative has me compelled in those halcyon years in and around academician floe--the world more spiritual--it's the song you may try to find out of this Samite subtlety, called "Waterfall."

Having read about the language war, Zolondek's book.

If it's not the lack of research, or incompetency you might enlist, deprecare wishlist to reason what is other, then, no doubt, it's conspiratorial, you know, aliens.*************TEA IS SERVED. Served up for the morning's embellishment of the day's totality. Black tea in its samovar, in the corner of the ablutional-hand washing part of the restroom, when I'm compelled there at the Ohr Somayach Yeshivah (means Light of Happiness)--getting solid with just what it may be these guys would never speak to--certainty & overstanding this prone egoity. Eggs baked on a big cookie sheet with slices of green pepper, bland as that in cafeteria settings one December, Jerusalem. I wanted to imagine what it was the Orthodox expect of me--to do it even--maybe the words Yo Evam Veda, Sanskrit for Who is Knowing This, is good mantra (and excellently Sanskrit) to take on the priorty of empirical studious days, everything past the draw of loyalties--I'm haunted standing up behind my eyes. Easy to do that, because I got good at walking away, drifting from anything that which I'd deign with confusing probity, my tracks banging up the spaces where I emerge from my own footfall over irreducible proud land. UPON my arrival at Ohr Somayach yeshivah in Jerusalem this healthy proximity to learning was something I wanted to witness. In the room where Torah and Talmudic learning commenced, I walk past, I'm on cold open-to-the-outside foyer floors, looked into the shul where the arc dominates, but only saw individual students davening (=swaying in prayer). My mnemotechnical reckoning was brandished from the thoughts of the only living Hasid I knew (then)--yet wayward and thus more-up-my-alley--a saint now of Orientallism (sic), who I could suppose digested these kinds of settings. He was my older brother's Arabic professor & my Islamic Civilization professor--the same Dr Leon Zolondek at the Univ. of Ky. MEMORY is the internalizing of a procession of thought i.e. time & observing parallel to experience, living then in my mind--as to say--then, which is a fallacy. You are either NOW or you are in conflict, there isn't any alternative to that. This particular trip to Israel wasn't for study however--rather I was going to meet up with my friend who in a few days would deplane at Ben Gurion airport. The Moshav, communal farm, would be our longest stay in any one place while travelling for the 3 or so months in Israel and Egypt--and Zolondek was in the survey of my mind at a poignant moment. I was out on the perimeter of the banana fields--there on Moshav Fatsa'il, Ma'ale Ephraim, facing the noon day sun, thinking w/self assertiveness that Zolondek had socialist or Zionist values not alien to what I could absorb for myself there in Israel, a calling for all Jews I'm conduced but emphatically assuming. Zolondek, raised Chasidic turned his critical eye toward Islamic studies, so my yeahs could not be in fact my yeahs. I'm a student more than the knowledge acquisitive instructor, hence the distraction and what came next, which I almost interpreted as my comeuppance. Though the minefield around Zolondek's "person-ality" is only a phantom assumption on my part. I'm thinking out there in the hot sun, "Yeah, Zolondek would... " but I don't know what (over & over again in my mind) & then whack, I cut my thumb with my machete, but good--leaving me the rest of the day to do nothing and imagining the damnable stereotype sense of (wo)man's finger pressuring the earth as upon the ground to one's side as if I am more or less passionately fecund in Damning something...something, but didn't know what, ...the infiltration of agricultural implements and dirt from a desert come green plantation, banana farm, into my permeable body.*********************"Concrete" stirrings of a Creator, says Sam Harris, (miraculously) almost don't exist in the minds of some Conservative rabbis. So concrete claims, he relates, can't complement wish fulfillment over the faithful impassioned implicitly! in the makings of our world granting his adjudged significance. Imagine doctrine that mythologizes unto the actionable patriot, who will act on it in assent to its literalism, that suggests the very earth will scream out that his enemy is to be vanquished---the earth, you know, Trees & Rocks who would've been temporal & exemplary. And if Religion is bound in competition for souls, I'd say a definition for a life in the haunts of our certainty in at least one world, while yielding to serve a paradise in the minds of the believer with the biggest stick whose imminent continuity with that paradise is in the place where you stand, then one must argue for the brighter meadows of human nature to be matriculated.*******************A little deer sprite of my castle, whose lair has been this property certainly since the early 60s. I think I'll name her Shaina Madel after her once sentient eponymy, my mysterious little Jack Russell, here suspended in feeling, some temporal record curiously as mute and poignant in this verdant array.********************Ibn Shayk al Libbi said al Qaeda was getting down for the count in making Bathist alliances while he had been tortured. Tho' inevitably this is one hand clapping the blood-expensive anthro-rhythm within the lot of Arabian Regimes. I'm throwing (alliterating) stones as if through any assenting martial crowds. Ok, this terrible cultural pathos means the Base, I see. Interesting, seriously the study of certain words' root are places to see definitions of the pure and the profane... that vain game religions suppose You'd better get with, while tribally what are the wiles to have assent of Faithful convivencia; your duty held in charming embrasure, gate of gates, you see. Adjudged or not, the ancient, ancient, I mean like Akkadian Assyro-Babylonian (and for a thousand years one waits for Psalms, for instance, to be written down), in Hebrew just as it arises as ..Quds in Arabic, Holy, there is tremendum incited in the verily agreed upon nature to an immanent Creator. The sense of judgment and Other. The G-d that is Other. As One Thing and not so soon called to court, or brahmodya (Sanskrit) isn't sometimes only silence.**********************So if down by the shuttering well of your lament, and in the vital fountain of your gladness, you want to stand up in your eyes, able even through evanescence visually leaving a mayfly's sorrow of one day's chimeric dance, a numen of tracks are as eyes observing a thud and fall, its weird evocation in the Lub of blue pears as indefinite while they clutter the Autumn orchard's ground where one trods, and a choral silent Dub from a congregate interweave of prone-reaching trees making new integers of the architecture in our skyline.***************Content race dialect with the yass psalmodies of her yeahs, brotherly regard to sister-mothers--open doors for her, salutory as the student to brother-teacher, whiling in humanist eponymy seeing myself in his shoes, superficiaties mount and burnt books are gainsaying-authors of splendid turbillion histories, so we're more and more open to the possibilities overstanding a tremendous past.*****************I'll complain through thoughts that they ought to survive my wonder as I narrate what might be prone in a thrush feeling passing trees un-ownable by the yards kept-up by suburban folks. The air clothes me, smells of a McAlpins' changing-room floor, causes an interior knowing of my friends dust and water in my breath making metrical these sauntering paces' embrace. I go all the way to record the environ spaces just before the frontiers of unknowing. Lush in its watery filtration, wagging water maples, all-too coiffed juniper bushes are redolent and nice, the crowdless sidewalks look properly grown-over and unswept by mullberry bushes whose aquaintance I made under its corridor along a neighbor's ubiquitous chainlink fence. Under Winter clouds, I challenge our mollified green world to be sensorially defeated by a palimpsest Nile green only to call Kentucky skies a mellowing eternity in nothing dissimilar in an appreciating numen. To think on pharaonic close precincts, down by the mercurial White Nile next to the Temple of Luxor, I wander as a ghost with Americana as experential entrails, a mind bloom of Siniatic Winter coming-on, 35 degrees warmer than here yesterday. However full-up in what this life is become may feel is from moments reclining on the hood of my car before an emboldening world-view in assent to Israel & Egypt, till now that the tote of a deep aside is my beat acclaim to our New World, only the 15 minutes registering, mentating, just deboarding from the train having come from Cairo, in Luxor now, and taking a rather rickety carriage through the village, erases beneath a garment of nigh cultural existence, for a new volume of blood to abra-cadabra this prodigy of here & now endurance. My arms phenomenalize behind active eyes, mind-hands cleave and offer-up things, and showcase how I awaken the daemon in my head to watch what I see. Leaves tasted by their dun colors are tea dregs, tannins becoming savory with rainfall, clotted and blending with earthen intension.*****************Here's this guy with a walk of unconscious parsimony over one conversation then into the regions of exasperation however slight on to the next chromo-conversation as it says he's complicit with the day. Probably an incapably controlled alcoholic and reimagines the world in continua with tear-lens on a feeling of being full-up in pure approximation. His yeahs are the yeahs in an intimate imprecation, nodding to himself, a world is appreciated, culture isn't a vulture tho' it swoops down, condones unknowing. My nod might take-on a stranger's ken of contrarian witness, he's stabbed by fractal rites...if I dance in his plaintive brown shoes hiding my beer out behind a vacuum tinkerer, I would end by breaking spiritus sustained blood from fundamental aerobatism, lit and fully suspended and sheer like dust motes, vibed at the surfeit of business mind ill-leading tumultuously I'm now adduced to muse.***************I think it is clarion & a good goal that when I think in half-thoughts (my usual conceptual grammar), and then act on them with feeling or expression, while talking out of the top of my head, Susie is immediate in the assent with a meditation on what I could have meant. Enjoining less ardor than letting go of a daliance of peers who wouldn't understand why she is the head cornerstone over how I relate to my world is hilarious that an explanation about the solace of her embrace wasn't assumed if relationship to them had ever been as creative.****************Gives me chills. The man was inspired in a way the world will have needed mid-20th century. I'd demur out of expecting the self-same change one in the cult of self-reliance endures if Religion looks as dated with its catching up to political/social equities if the Pope is become so conveniently revered. But change by all means, of course. Be mindful that, "If You Believe in Things You Don't Understand, You Suffer." So, the game of human fate needs the logician over compassion, a social scientist who compares meditation & the sensual againbit with our rational event. I thank few in socially powerful heirarchies, unless they're dead, while Malcolm spoke to the university of our grotesque social doctrine, if it could change.**************One is timely to become restored to an actionable state--human progress--culture which works as software mentations all alight as primates down from their tree destined like desert ships, maintaining technology born from the purveyors of astrolabes, GPS the tarmac respite, transfusing earthen petrol whose paint empties into ethylene oceans, if her assent through polymerized avians evoke the night of nights, scribe tremors in my unknowable sky, the advantage of football out of doors toward a good enough reason having worn the hat of the empirical given as the sleep of bears with a relative awakening to our season of fulmination & meaning.************Into 70,000 yrs or more from when humanity walked out of Africa makes a sense of cultural birth seem viable on the horizons of Mother India, where most of the world graduates out of the root of our language modalities. When I sit and appreciate the sounds of the world once convened from our ancestors, how is it that such a diminutive feeling unique to this historical nomenclature can fuel this sensitivity of the taste transferred from the pebble on the tongue of antiquity to mine that of technocracy's dispensation? I walk into the spanning shadow's bridge between streetlights sussing the ground to find the key to creativity, blissed into the cool night, suspended by the thought that I'm under monarchical clouds while they cuckold our moon becoming the effluvial rays underpinning this desire I have for learning as a freelance academician instead of one commissioned with direction as before the two shadowy sides of the same eternal world thus-gone containing this one.*************On some of the oldest bricks of UK I sit reading Rimbaud, consider my reckless behavior ward and his motives behind stirring the senses in confidences with the sensual if repair to the desolation of angels ...yes, those in the night of Americana, tho' more chimeric than mine. Heated thoughts tarrying into an ill-median out of coarse forms to the silence in my presence streaming the morning of university-life working for me at all post a few years of tuitions and stints at study-abroad a surfeit in goals to meditate, be happy in self-knowing get-going. Everything I could get done through thoughtful twilights, just awakened from dreamstate & a long blue-slumber, I wallow in beautiful gray surfs knowing the taste of hearing more internally, than seeing a prise to daliance-plain colors. Inner-scrutinies are only the intonations of hill & valley to the conversation mattering to thoughts filtrating into shadowy micro-theaters to that of flat walls, white-noise, hrmmph of eye-targets vanishing in city-traffic burying the drums of conscious suspense.****************A Mother's tongue is a hand. What she says is tacit. She speaks, I feel. The grabbing hands of approbating time is rather her leisurely caress to free the din of blood from its flangy banks. The lassooing visual of our on-looking to the spiritual moon whose presence is become the floe-skin atop Mother Ganges, meanders issuant like a tether to her feet purveying its approach by a yawn glimmer.***************Lost driving to Clay City, I worked for this coal co. office at the time, and for some reason doing highway side of the road weed-eating out in Richmond. Driving away rather than homeward I had to pull into any establishment to get help, feel oriented to this day as a just artifact to the exoteric or the surface; with my schizophrenia full-blown, I couldn't touch the ground if I had to. Pull-up to what looked to be a real-world gone furniture outlet and folks were sitting in chairs of many lives bullshittin' and holding court, all in their prone quietudes, glands filtrating, expression intendings, rednecks, breathing through them... I ask how I get back to Richmond, then of nothing novel surmise it's the way I came, they thumb at me the road's lone entreaty, these thoughts where they've been wiped out. I am a sad, sad brother then, clinical no doubt, and in a f--k all bliss I get my 1982 Ford F-150 in line to make way back into Lexington while just like a mercury tear I am only within me that I'm greedy for my shadowy thought's tableaux. And guaranteed a bit of wisdom, learning that a purveyor of thought is sight's Will toward this world of appearances...to be restored unto conscious goals, I only needed to look.*******************