Ale 8s and Coomer's Ridge

Some late summer's day likely serving an irony of physical success, several years ago, I drive out to Red River Gorge intending on reading Kerouac's Big Sur in view of my version on a poignant spiritual exercise. Going through the entrance past Dessie Scott Orphanage, I serpentine through the Park till Coomer's Ridge looks to gainsay any further trail intrigue, so here like a half a dozen other times I amble down the ravine toward the creek. The ground beneath these feet in its saddling contours is my proud land, all in my ryddim-bluey heart pumping confidence wrought to bang a gong in Kerouac's defense of slacker or beat latitude. I sit at attention upon Corbin limestone, a rock of peak forest anonymity, thick carpeting leaves and organic detritus furl and keep the observer in sojourns to its human-empty haunts. I read a few pages, sweating on them, adorning caricature of these symbols in poesis meant in diffusion toward the bliss of insects buzzing raucously in fractal woody environs, try seeing it behind my eyes...probably do. On the way up I had inched through one leg of the trail with an eye like elephant trunk dragging on any exception the tapestry ground might appropriate, wanting the same hypnoses, that of leaves and inanimate chicken-feet pine impressions, rocks furrowing, the occasional ant colony machinations, anything and everything having made the pressed earth rather like a canvas lent to my senses, my leisure at its command to any article of thought and providential of mineral to my blood in the looking glass of clay.*************Food as culture becomes appetite appreciating at the same kind of consternation as renunciation behavior having diet explanate victuals reimagine a rather probably coarse intra-mantram growl arising as bite, bite, bite, gnash, savour, savory sensual intentions all floating upon the valley of our tongues. Some change in my senses filter exteriorizing bombast, the sharp edges to things perhaps actually not in the way, otherwise discoverable whither I feel I am running into them, the world pining to hit these shores, keeps coming, then it's over...come over swaggering into my consent, implicit that I am more of it than in recess ever reducible to it. When I eat, my food tastes rich, fecund by its premium, altogether too much, though I'm impeded by little other than fullness. Though Holy days have brought me into chance ritual in fasting, I vaguely assented while conscious goals on agreement with macrobiotic continuity make my eyes turn to plants, and wonder what it is that will eat me in the world to come.***************There have been times when in developing expression I knew whatever chimes resolute out of the top of my head that that is become my destiny. I want to see this experiential goal in the dark. A world incumbent as having elicted all its cost and content from a chthonian long-distance run, now with shadows newly embracing from the reach of my blue slumber. The darkness that's come to light is inverted--light streamy and coyly roseate--since daydreams made midnight into its clarion continuity to the sounds arriving with anti-clasms and softness to my thought-world.****************Home away from home is easily here on this road where I've come to live and work over the years since my youth described by its green adducement in making a cross town small trek, during those halcyon days, while only now I'm just down the street from our nineteen-eighties family destination. Into the 90s I come to live there, up the street, with my brother and his two thuggee sons. and may have had some impact on those boys, the place of their making & their world enduring then, because I had a clear, clear to me, goal in meditation, my brand of magisteria bringing visualization into some kind of consequence. "Touch the Earth" is a fantastic analytic piece (as it works for me) toward reconstituting good intentions acceding to power-spots, my habitation in chronometric gathering, touching the earth, the earth in how she chose to meet my footfall then. My body makes an allowance for our theoretically animated earth, pretends it reaches for me as I mellow prone on her yield to space. I would have the lighter of my two nephews walk across my back and legs after getting home from WRFL--I had been a DJ--while I had expression developing there, my feet generally brought me to and from this sociation & my transition from music awash ploying exoteric culture to that of an intimation of Jazz--a handful of really narrative rich artists I liked--crowns my thinking and was to interpret the good luck in an amazing cultivation of resource and source to it. My only hope to imagine how abject and vulnerable wherein a mind devolves had been to bring into contemplation for those boys as all things possible through the ear, that Bob Marley would have given a compassion and humanity not so evanescent to our bullish appreciation toward change.********************I would feel spiritual in starry accretions to antiquation, yielding to inventive memorial signatures of earthen habit and its barely belched troglodytic ralliers, that the conscious crowd has sky plurality berobed garment arighted in the existential, where I can shout in whispers that I am fecund, awake. But what sounds doctrinaire toward self-awareness is likely provenant only seeing once how I'm delivered to the shores of all-things-possible dreaming of truth and my pathetic, very human, exile from histories. Meanwhile as a need for community arises, thoughts on kinds of teachers may well easier lend to parsimony on this value-pained egoity, erring to remand who it is I glean the will to ask questions, and think on the huge regard for mindfulness outside the prise of this or that path with its issuant rites to codify Source. Ever-evolving in as much as a spirit is energetic over the auspices to observable reality, while enlisting our confidences is within the actionable state, having eschatons or promises Other Worldly can not prosper beyond an elaborate presence. One is tied to the sublime if the sublime endured is its purveyor transformed through the impermanent record.****************The being greater than that which nothing greater can be conceived? No, because one asks Who goes there, in case that bleary wind presages a real being, that being with whom your security remains inventive. A conscious prop thus-gone to the traducive Creative Being only because one hadn't asked more rarely, What is that or how does that happen? To whom, indeed. Remember the psychological value in the mirror of the Name one wouldn't question: Never you mind who I am, I am that I am. It fits our anthropic will so sweetly: "I would never question had it only been the wind." If you think that is your truth, how it's been warded off with revision after instinctual revision, there's a mind room where your imminent reception wasn't the guaranteed math of an acquisitive mind.***************I'm alighted as a specter, some kind of lepid chrysalis due toward a fate less than our sentience could assent, a record of impermanence being wiley to endure whither I imagine as auspicious one day, one direction east or west from the contours of this stream, ...now upon a bridge with antagonists inside its reach of my thoughts & tabula of light purveyor in her beat beauty transforming me into this hopeful mind that I could color. I've shut and locked my doors while there's a jetstream coming from these windows conferring in libertine space this room barely aroused. I've only just gotten here, starting what I've come in the room to do. The light glinting through fingering bush boughs at my window let enough sense of its pervasive quality having anyone imagine sunlight peeks at us & participates upon earthen thermals in mind-signatures of an ever-lighted day to author its contentment. A kind of an auditory hallucination? I can hear a flangy radio--Sweet Cherie's Craig, my brother agrees once, he said this house phenomenalizes antique radio audiences. The conversation in my head is of hearts and music, thus gone to preachment, a new silence entreating the vocal fountain now scrawling across some projected field around me would soon trail off, thereso with no clue but me biologic esteeming cellulose, an inner-voice is my recorded self, presence.***************I listen in my heart to issuant reading goals that arise in my thinking. I walk to the kitchen, think the epicurean is due in part for thoughts replete in that goal. In my slumbery repose, if night stillness shades my mind, I assume letters falling, words in assent, histories endorse a contemplation gluing light to reason. In high spirits I'm mentating in ways that can't happen till a book becomes licit internally; an author's dialect entreating my blotted mind's eye insists on capturing anything to say on cramped symbols & image for human voice, the purveying of emotions, audition, colors, and an underpinning of all my animicule nature as I borrow air from my face, barbarian webs of mantram-said pushing me into extremis, ideas awash while nothing blankets the shore. I'm whelmed at the shores of alliterating seas, while my feet dance over its report of wholly poesic blue plashing, inventively, grappling at the terminus sky adduced as a place to lean.********************Your eyes are loving, impresses beautiful footfall into the contentment of my loam, where it makes the unseen seeable, and a place of slumber dreamy. All your heart wails up while those acquisitive blue eyes la la la in reception. Anything greedy for intension is only a glow of sentience, courting our expanding moments in an arbor of love & plane of understanding, Your reason for being here isn't that it wouldn't have been, that now we can be deprecare, see how I made it... Instead both of us are down from the mountain, we're half-way home, finding the source in reflection all before us. My love is for you, Susie.************The neolithic culture is supposed in one resourceful model as beginning in Jericho, the Levant reaching back 10,000 years. I swear how lucky I feel to have rallied through there once, visiting water ciphoned from natural springs, only a strongly rigged canal coming from the hills, and an ancient synagogue with its consumate mosaic floor as scattered in definition to my fine appeal as it is with principle seemingly an incredible dance in my heels. Neolithic civilization gets behind us by 2000 BCE (before common era) though never entirely. Then Bronze Age, Iron Age. Later around 800 CE another industrial swathe in human chronometry of culture take them from the countryside. Country boy, city slicker, and the power in words like personhood or absolute spirit. The sense still so matriculate in something of contemporary vision on anthropos, its improbable embrace of techne is a newly colored thread to rejoin the horizon when the black and white ones become separate.. Industrial Age and Computer Age are in the eyes of living beholders. It's anecdotal and true, how nice having held the selah hand to have known my Pap born in 1896. Two centuries on and pollution is about us with arresting warrants.*************By the Episcopal church I look into the adjacent horse farm the rather vainly airy field lacking any trees until its hillocky inclination swings over past the back of the parking lot where I stand, has two horses out. Circle 4 just in view mummers & vrooooms in its clot of trafficking souls, and I thought it portrayed just as my caprice to laud an auditive theater radio frequency conventions, the very human plastique (transformational) world absorbed through equine senses. "The thoughts of a king are boundless. He thinks of horses and they become strong. The thoughts of a king are wholly correct. He thinks of horses and they break into a gallop." From "The Great Transformation," her book on the Axial Age, Karen Armstrong. A plurality to pastures locally informing mare & steed nerves in this spiritual poesis, above quoted, is the instruction of Right Order, one's "magical efficacy" in the climate of the power... its universal reign on seasons reciting cosmogony. An explanate sorta Will through ritual of the earliest known Sino-self-actualization effort, called "daode." Thought of as the potency in the way of heaven; the Way, Dao.***************