On the Razor's Edge, Koomer's Ridge - Thoughtful

With my ear vulnerable, sound is read in a kind of somnambulism at least through a spell of attention of squashed waking-state essence. The promising ways of language plain to brick their proscriptions, say, rather formalized to complete its feeling, are probably in its shadows of inmost appearance not always so easily averred as sounding-like-me - wordy rhythms may only seem capsulate and absorbed yet under the dependent distraction from the day's vagaries. Half-thoughts are dear to me and we're all half of something. Awash amid a toxic elegance toward degrees of an applied imagination or in strides of ratiocination, I'm more likely to sense a compassionate acceptance to things of constant sorrow always remembering what makes me enjoin the impermanent record to that of a loved one: ...but I've known you for such a long time now.**********Mom on and on, makes her world recent and thus stupendous in sanctioning over my moment to moment ironies. In front of her computer in our living room, then as thereness confides, yields in our becoming as memory reflects with music splendoring and on my mind while Winston Rodney toasts in "Jah no dead" my knowledge does increase, but I divine his sense utility to something alluring as his patois records. I examined in Jewish Thought come mystical definitions on the ABCs, the meaning of an organism permutated of symbols to the Hebrew Alef-bet, adjuring Wholeness: language. Which is "shalom" declaimable in its closest feeling, that of liminal Prosperity and through language alliterating verily in sum pathlessness her complement to this anywhen value of a world-to-come feels like release under that conceptual umbrella, parturient in weather 'yon in peak observation, this here theoretical and studied bucolic fated precinct animated to reanimation where only peace is spoken. Heaven, hardwon or as convenient as an ambient couch of consciousness plollocks dimpled by our leisure, loitering in light and sound, feeling and distance, content rich due to an exceptional meal perhaps, a life in this certain becoming, a philosophy of the senses even distilled toward a contemplative refuge, is an immanent prayer, an inmost meditation on water, honey, wine and milk. Today.***********Reaching for light, shouldn't the forest wanderer take the tree's habit as our renewed covention? I read about trees, stand among them touching the earth, just standing under nature's gospel encounter and grapnel custodian, I would embrace this world in that kind of expectation, potency, like these half-thoughts as Mom's paper bouquet once appreciated in the smiling ancestral character in its low-burning, cool-lights of our living room. The Players admits to soughing tastes in puddles and loam, he or she comes to peak experience, the millionth in a million days through whose amnioses they sleep as dreamers. Sitting at attention upon Corbin limestone, a rock of Koomer's ridge in forest anonymity, thick carpeting leaves and organic detritus furl and keep this observer in sojourns to its human-empty haunts. I read a few pages, sweating on them, inventing myself through poeses 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 is found in the looking glass of clay. Touching the earth is my definition of freedom.*************My favorite holiday. I've had years of lesser celebration and that impressed upon me missing my Mom more than ever. 2010 was the last Thanksgiving I would celebrate with her - we had come to Florida and spent a few days with her sister, my lovely Aunt Janice, ate a Greek Thanksgiving with my cousin Kelley and her fantastic in-laws and it was perfect. I watched a James Bond movie as the day ambulated into a rosy colored anywhen, The World is not Enough, and felt as traditionally conceived as all the days of my growing up. This year Susie and I are preparing most of the main courses to join her parents and some of her family, hoping for peace and unshrouding our view of an American history. May the Great Spirit descend to all our tables.********Then the G*d of our Nation had us think of a future sealed, all is alright. And when the Nation failed, grabbing hands grab as they can the power yet believed to be a god's meddle. There is truth to reconcile, and yet when will our human indulged idea-forces append such a day? No atheists in foxholes? In our wars, so to find meaning is all the value of something Certain in the next dodge to a suspiciously green earth's ending contest. Though you must love war as a means to rather effectively enjoin a god's corral of Belief, acting on behalf of nothing peaceful almost any god would've constructed atleast behaviorally as to emulate in their lush prising magic, an appetite to respect--a fire to quell in judgment. And aren't we againbitten so vulnerable to that eschaton, Moloks or meteorite heaving jinns in imaginations as the liminal passions to bound believers in rather sickening conventions?*********G*d exists thru rapt indictment, put on trial by stolen away religious Jews in Auschwitz, "guilty" had been the charge, the Creator is shown in cold and historical ambivalence. One may reckon "everything" implicit - a reason for everything - only because expression lends capsulate absurdity. Faith is an admittedly vain word game, with special concern as over an especially exclusive player. It is an ass-backwards and solipsist human social escape: an answer assumed before one could be sure what creative agency is true or crystalized to which he or she is reduced in Belief. Things spoken to in The Alphabet versus the Goddess would show biases in our symbolic social making. Forward all irony to those who it is that have controlled our symbolic give and play and thus shaped myth with mean physical results. Why is it ennobling to accept a sensible universe on somehow a rally of nothing provable?

*********Neti, neti, neti ...it is not. And just so you know I came to this sense of things, take it from thought's undesigned, leaping and sleeping, but consuming me merely from the experience I took in hopefully ceremonially, that I'm not so summarily dispatched from wont as having become a change too great than to adapt. No such thing as a confident and reverent memory, this duality of falling star silence and a purple sky lighted long enough to spoil the faithful in arrears of anything portent. Jupiter's Jah; Jinns thrusting martian meteorites = G*d is a Star. Just ask the Babylonians who gave us eden and our parturience through civilization, some kind of langue evolved abra cadabra of redounding knowledge, perhaps a demiurge as well. Maybe just reverently enduring, still jumping through models of the same ever inundating points of imagination and release varying of observation. But bend myth around living and dreaming, a living dream, get thee out of the valley of indecision, stay hungry for the grail with the truck of reason. Reason survives amid the simpler shit-gimme fealties of merely having One's Own Standards is what I am complaining as duplicity here, just not thinking things through, that compassion is loosened from its metonymic with mercy lest judgment continues to stain the table of parsimony which informs the Transformative with the advantage of occluding texts chosen from the body politic, namely assumptions on biblacy or just struck by the doctrinaire.*********It is an easy move on part of plural society rationalizing folks to expect diversity achieved among Drumpf's advisory positions, appointments and confidants. I declaim Kushner as the neat example of an auxillary police imagining what seethes more usually now in this world (bubbling-up) as a Ghetto. Think past the traditional plastique of our institutions and what the lack of iconoclasm does to shape a more scheming class divided society. His elite ethos can't reflect the consensus of Jews I grew up absorbing through the lens of my Mother's inspired world-view and American orientation. She and her two sisters are first generation born American citizens. My Grandparents embarked from Russia coming to the US as little babies with their parents who were escaping pogroms and discrimination right around the year 1900. Trusting my Jews to tell me, We're different and then aren't we all. Learning to impugn less socially realistic conservative trends (Arendt over Ayn Rand and erstwhile fundamentalism), while developing something tacit by eluding simple banner attitudes about other cultures - bad talk was not allowed in our house - the other in his and her fine caricature seem hardly different as feeling the compliment of one's small world as one that is sought after, hoping for that.************

Had a standard dachshund back right before the turn of the century. In the span of time having Reubel, his companionship matriculated even in dreams. I had named him, thinking of the name Reuben as one of Jacob's sons mispelled in my Grandfather's 19th century addition to Antiquities of the Jews, so Reubel, a dog of fading letters, study and a feeling to deny his impossibly culpable and palimpsest humanity, now a dog's eponymy. I dreamt that I was sitting on our roof's peak on a gasoline Esso can while the dog paraded in circular leaps over my lap, onto the roof and back again. The dream was precise in its realism strangely phenomenal to me since recently then inmost imagery had been well mimetic of foggy notions, just plainly felt like my dream stuff, then changed. This graphical difference making up my thought-field is because of the Navane meds I was on then, which soon made their use negligible. In a slightly more usual winter than what we're becoming used to this time of year we had had an apropos snow, so adventuring out in it, he could be my spirited reconnaisance playing in the half-acre back yard. I plopped him down into about a three/four foot drift. And here is when I gathered the news ole boy wouldn't be around in the near world-to-come. Sweet Reubel, my good friend just looks-on with wane attention to wriggle free. He seemed to say, It feels bleak--and I gotta stay, Man. Sad, sad--he was complicit with the contagion veil of earth's comely covering--he erred to project he had not much proud land to suss anymore. I hugged him up. Not very long after when the weather cleared he quit walking, making me promise his little dusty soul my explanate category of mind ...he would live-on somewhere, somewhere, always the neonic water-lapping creature sensate as a brujo barely emerging from the shadows. His kidneys got weird, and that was it.*************In sensate presence knowin' that I've prayed for this momentum in certain hard-won confidences alighting back to the surface even into a world more expansive than never actually promising its winsome analogue are: -I taught myself to speak moreso the second time. Imagine. -What people call self-consciousness I see as a feat to my objectivity eight miles high. In kabbalah some visualization I like to apprehend if I were to look beneath the meritable way as dreams dance through conscious maps, I'd look at these pieces determining my physical success of extenuating limbs, my body's lengthening to digits grapnel but linear in reprise, as source and toward their origins findable as the intermediate stuff of inner-tableaux. Again and again space conceived usually in aerobatism is sometimes the pedagogy of self in splay paths, a shiur komah (distance strung), literally Measure of the Higher Body, merging along the bonds of something corralling me into creative reality. My brother asked me, Why "moreso?" Kind of asking ...giving me latitude to interpret, Awash from anything to say, what happens down by those still waters? Well, it would be me more the proverbial daimon to my expression when only the peaks and valleys to whatever easy-speak or technique in conversational qualias becoming this content of a realist is hopefully what I've become, a listener inspite of believer to an absurd rambling rent vainly and impenetrable, hardly eased into any functional mimesis, has me respond perhaps just as magically to that kind feeling I wonder about with Bob Marley's phrasing, "Music a godly thing," that one's whole day deserves its canticle.*************With everything at the door of our acquisitive education it is easy to consider of what one is made by the mind's sensational ease of swampy complexion, that one is more sensibly defined in a crowd of selves, amalgamated caricature of survivors of sometimes hardly anything asked of us, the worth of whiling away. These happenstance reproductions of environment plied by our interests may arise while one imagines how distinguished an attempt from rooms or hallways, out-of-doors assent to commotion, the big and small of our habituations and any of our distractions if we are to spread probably critical intensions into the actionable world we call identity. There seems to be a lot to you and I. But isn't there our getting past any protuberance of cause and the empowerment to our dally and wont stricturing us, if any little trouble had been merely a bump in the road ...that amid an enduring human sentience which relies on most of our responsum contesting what-is through all that is absorbed by the animate fact of our subconscious realm, one would serve an intermodality in self-awareness adjuring the consummate Bump in the Road at any convene, any portrayable impulse and just as evocative only its wist, to consider the bridge into presence from any point, approaching from either side, sometimes at one of its arches, surviving the moment as prone observers, thereso as the eagle flies.************

Water speaks like the haunting relationship to dust. Look at everybody, they're riddled in liquid stars as ribs and bones destined for the one thing promising this hallelujah void in our sky scaffolding and outline of some celestial self-image, that we're sustained as much as its blue higher ocean in continua. I have a picture with my gesturing in gait inclination at my shadow. My brother captures the scene where we had been hiking out behind a shopping center in Newbury, Ca., (up the road from Ventura) which had a Rift Valley rawness to this interiorized heaved landscape. I felt awe in cosmogonic proud land. I grew lucky for the immanence of a clement day with my sure-footed wandering (by my fancy) that something in mind anticipates reflection rather than absence. My shadow arcs in front of me and as I remember other moments during that summer month, a rejoinder vibe through my senses pick up on the grassy vistas of Beaumont Park, only near my house. I live in my eyes--they suss while inventing this observer--looking for advantage in light's obfuscated subject, I reach a bit more than those gray-shaded grasses. In no more than a glance in hypostasis I find my body strewn in a composite of star tincture, just phenomenal, glossy refraction, a sense of within in a project of what is without.*************Japanese Thought works here though I'm fully unfamiliar other than watching likely documentaries over very much of their world. One book I read, The Gates of November, Chaim Potok's history making sense of the Russian-Jewish "Slepak" family, whose father early in the 20th century had been part of a gulag mutiny on a partly Japanese, partly Russian island, develops what is merely temporal so intoned by minds at work in less than aesthetic concerns albeit their earth we inherit reminds us it is a world barely disrobed of tenderness an arm's reach back of revolutions and the industrial revolutionizing which trials everyone in its haggard velocity. Opening to that which is apposite assuming more than men with their antagonisms, amid their migrations and political moves, some Japanese may conceive of ways that show and prove what is rather Beat, beautiful altogether but sublime like spirit and skillful thought. Compared to the State Absolutism once called Socialist Realism, limits and expectations for art and writing, how the Soviets stifled creativity, Drumpf so thoroughly disquietened on how the First Amendment is expressed ought to be as wary of his new deference for the public's Right to speak out. Japanese shibui means what laterally the Spanish elevate in analogue to the restless one, soul if anything, a "cool" specter, saying duende. And kabbalists could have legs here with the concept of mevin (maven). The One who Understands in whose acuity of mystic apposition come about through the yoking of preponderant models of peace, learning from self-inquiry and experiments in consciousness, comparative holinesses augur his and her more usually indefinite temporal reality.**********I love being able to arrive at a view to older persons in lure of all the intensions one may imagine studied, elevated and losing to an impervious consent to their beginnings. Wonder in their expressions and translatable masks that anoint immanent yearning seem so rightful with expectations of once stronger attention, intensity of flow made possible in more complexions to an internal gauge. In askesis I would have looked to those individuals every moment more real with an inventive spirit and their reasons still burning as long-distant runners in conference to inmost shores like a river of life bisecting all the earth but never a wish to become the drowned of the full-up ocean.***************

Kellyanne Conway proves in one fell swoop the racist politics in ascendency with Drumpf's campaign and pending initiatives. "Do you think you guys could have just had a decent message for the white working-class voters?" She said to Hillary's Director of Communications Jennifer Palmieri. Look hard at this language. Here she promotes class division and starting with race thinking those communities would've in her campaign's view made associations with Right, economic and cultural, because they are a class of White People. Textbook racism. Do entire communities of black and white people deserve attention from legislators etc? Without question. But not because appearances dictate. Don't forget Judge Curiel in Indiana was outed by Drumpf in purely racist terms. An imminent change redounds - oh how enticing - this political beast is underway and the dog whistling is already begun, now with rallies and postures to insinuate moods of incitement against minority values, when do our peers understand this very conscientiousness that instinctively warns us, why is inner-scrutiny feared?*********To the degree that we witness the Conservative reign on plying laws and attitude amid a sense of their vogue populism social division will append. Class Division currency in their ranks add a definition of Power to an already voluble social contract by implying only the strongest will survive, and by the way, one should see them as that ascendent to authority and vitality. It makes me wonder at the non-sense of that certain attribute of insularity throughout traditional communities. Culture sorts out expression and its limit and monies swear by it but look at the lack of culture and lack of openness! in conspicuous consumerism et al. Look at Drumpf going after individuals and not taking on the reach of an institution which would renew our sensitivities to those definitions of Power which F*&king protect the individual. And I'm not here to regret Core-culture - it is here and highly valued - meanwhile individual response to the whole of it is denounceable in Drumpf's view with a capitulating toxicity with whom the logic of the First Amendment is played. Yet his apparent racism redounding so to compel every sensible person becomes declaimable as a kind of feast I heard described in what exuded of an obvious logic from the other room as the News was in this morning's thoroughgoing. The newsman being interviewed, sorry I can't name him, says, The First Amendment is conveyed to us with a long banquet table of ideas. And while the commerce of identity is a kind of intrigue, as you get to the far end of the table, there may be some unsavory dishes not so complimentary of appetite: burning the flag, for instance. It doesn't happen much and thusly Americans may need only to reckon ...we have an erstwhile social realization at stake and most of it alights the dynamic in florid conviction everywhere else Americana is dreamed.**********Man, it's your world-view, an inquiry on our ratiocinating four corners meanly fecund with mostly people who happen to be just like you and me. A lotta masculine privilege is reified in games or antagonisms of security, boundaries and trust thereso an anschluss intension of usual travelogues and conscious maps become a burgeoning complexion of fealties - but isn't it more about the goddess than the alphabet, more the merciful harvest than the imperially appended resource? Water, water everywhere, and much denied to drink, and what of our skies and air? That warrior ethos would have everyone concede somehow. Just ask yourself how tall you stand just to deliver the symbols one thinks roundly in stoic proportions? Authoritarian mimeses that develop their analogue presume something perhaps anything less socially in that pedigree of controlling symbols to unity and faith for instance as postures defying the margins of that conservative worry amounting to an inflation of culture portrayed so conveniently as under threat and conspiratorized as soon to be called something that it is not!***************Mom intimated to me several times that I had always been my own worst critic. So here's part of an attitude that I can imagine she might have pointed to if being behind my eyes was as easy an exercise as having been framed in daliance moves and the expediter through chores of second nature objects. -- I think, there's no other way I can meditate on the acuity withwhich I imagine nature verily yoked. But nigh in comfortable transperancy objective reality occupies my light seeking senses, eyes to lamp, skin to stars, only to wander evidently released from its duppy forces whose argument of murmurrating fractures in the looking glass become deluged as somehow a functional observer dundering my senses.*********

***********Be that dead author, that biblacy's dreamt ascendent. Look at the penumbral crease of graying pages, blow away the elliptic shard of paper that ganked off your note utilized once as bookmark, its cool wish of renewed fealty in self-thinking those lateral handful of years back an idealist falling away through one season splintering by definition into fecund future shock as mirror on a thoroughgoing Observer (daimon) operating there and her distance strung, only brighter with superable change-umbrellas than the weather "everyone" imagined preparing for, invigilate with new language from thems-that-brung-us who will translate histories and the inelegant socially warped cycling as to how memory is pernicious or exceptional by veritable reason, with reason.*************I remember frontin' with egressed new intimacies 'these hands could be registered as lethal weapons' is Eastern typified, some martial ethic many an American young person tried to realize conscious of maybe imperial lurings (...culpable with maps) and through cultural improvisations. And so all merely upon my provincial sayso, I felt hurt even to think turning against anybody in this common urbanity and some respite has portents I imagined agonizing to the people I know ...would love. Signs, but this is no eschaton in conclusion. They dance less in concert or homogeny than the blues methinks better evolves in rivulet willowy melting air on a strung lonesome highway. That's Americana, a beat travelogue, disciplines of wanderlust, ole brown could have any of our proud land. I walk in dreams on emanately answerable footfall. Breathing in and out I feel bound to colorless grasp and space, then released where I live to meet point B, the place of some encounter, and everyone else evermore is ambivalently metricating toward the horizon's two threads.**************I'm trying to capture this one time out in front of the house on Williamsburg Rd where I grew up when some inner-voice had come to a halt and I feel impelled from the radiating hot reach of danger as though fiery wind from a loud gun thwack shot into my brain, then the requisite moment of dis-ease and I am floating away--damned nirvanic. Sitting out in front of the house on my lawn chair by the garage, trailing away from me is a world arupa, an existentially licit garment. Guns were drawn, the iconography of the mind has its 10,000 TVs stupidly play--their antennae reflecting, alarmed. I am mercurially seeking a solid statement to presence and drink in the cool shadows of our garage at my back exudating coves and dusty piles accreting our years of stowing and provisioning, lured in peak moments that I was a part of a spiritual reckoning--I had kind of a temporal if psychic hallucination. I could hear a flangey radio; the conversation in my head threatening that the vocal fountain now scrawling across some projected field around me would soon trail off, thereso with no clue that an inner-voice is my recorded self, presence founders. Take the old man or woman on the block, how do they stand in self-thinking, how has this feeling that we all have just gotten here given them their minds over matter? Black balloons. There is something monarchical about being under that much control as culpable subject to what is yours closed behind eyelids just as the sleeping physical world saying contentedly, go ahead, lay your head, evanescent of irreality, let the world change and make its demand, she is never enough, becomes licit of truth and in a tremendous blow-out of the usual I started to believe in dreams. Impermanence may have been my due. Vast powers just as an even more extreme light behind the sun, solarity fullness is sublimated, my profile casts a shadow yet by the sun--though it has its own light as in the field of reason, sometimes I'm formidable like the only thing in the sky. Some bird is flying across these near houses recapitulating an architecture to the skyline - she's a stark reminder of my sentience bound by that slow wink of an aweful hallelujah void, terribly, intangibly that I'd evolve from it. I look up into her space like it was as tactile as belched hot icebergs, 85 % of its life submerged, but evidenciary just so - I perk up, it threatens denial. I adjust on my haunches, it bobs forward. Then as if hands moulded from my consternation I imagined grabbing some mental nomenclature, a thought body reposed upon Grandma's couch and I am there till forever is compromised in the dream, asked to go out, outside for awhile, quit lingering--is the roseate truth and my repose held high in calamitous circumstances, then I peeked into brighter light and out of my material constraints. I watched what I saw.***************You are a product of TV atmosphere, the gradins' survivor of a quietened prone standard - daring anything or anyone to distill your rhetoric, ignorant of any vomitorium escape - you should go back to you. You can't stand how becoming the conscientious subtle body that you are is never enthroned just-so to regulate biases fast enough, so it's the fault of the channel you nod over, glean as good consumers a solicitous alliterative path, a banner ethic. The politically correct myth of your filter on how hard-hitting this factory of social promotion and concerns making you want things declaimed but meanly, because Yeah, a mean world comes till it's over, has improved the vituperative circle in that technocratic barrier now looking like a rather stupid existential garment, protects you from listening, from what we all need to do by actually shading discussion before false equivalencies deny a rational plurality, and thusly stepping upon the reach of Global Science deniers is in a word fundamental if one is to imagine Nature as the weathery teacher to a primary relationship as students of life.**********I want to believe dreams are the archetype to my enduring. Whatever Rock and Roll evokes, as magisteria, it has self-realization all through it. Rebel music ad her blues evolvement gives up a model of Release and exile, escape and stillness, shores of experience where the hunter and fighter are winsome, the gatherer true to prolific wandering. The mechanics to the lights of an inner science, phantoms or peak players of conscience, players thoughtful in social realism, bringing the warriors and their angels back to a street-view of your shrouded traveler. Self-realization effort. Manufacturing motive is key to hot wiring category of mind -- as a tree dances in lightning but visible in scaffolding detail, almost geometric -- seeing music as a godly thing, Marley inspired, tremendous, Thou whose power wouldn't cold I up, devoted to cold as cold and fire as watery electric, inventors of life, creators albeit through dreamy ambitions.*************

This Time of Year, Someone Judeo-Arabic, I Found the Music of my Youth, First Dance with Language, Invocation

A friend says to my lady, Susie, about me that she's feeling positive, with and of her day, because of something or things that I will have said, waxed ponderously. I imagine folks impacted every bit as physiologically as a sensory educated wise ape may be introducing ways of esteeming a conceptual world in the paucity of models, till confidence applies, where we're able to see an intellectual freedom plain to our common sense. For me, I pursued studies while in my nerves had I gotten bouyant and imaginably skillful by climbing down out of lush complexity, maybe great heights, then seemingly a feeling of approach manifested as if a spark or inner-fire is fanned. If metaphor could appreciate in mind sore theoria, the sparks that I'd chase are the knowing reins on insight tied to blind horses occupying a field of these thought-event's impermanent record overstanding my experience. But I chased evitable feeling to my sketch of letters in their thought values - they could've been avoided - and ultimately no feeling of threshold victories could compare anymore in that same way. I'm wont to vitalize ineffable impulse climates yet knowing I'm only langorously able to respect any change in this bucket full of trance egoity, this climate of some power, is just rare auspices of subjectivity but with like prayers as anyone in goals of peak observation.***************Watching that space of my youthful lasting intensity - you can see it in the athlete of lives' long-distance - just memories contentful and resolved as a phantom walking through then-realizations recollecting within, formative now. I feel like the Piper's son, maybe stealthily inwitted to running with an allegory of keys deliberative on purpose, whatever averring revelry is answered in my nerves that are lit, certainly truth is all in the language awash and exposed over inceptive shores. I would be content to filter everything as purpose. As opposed to its refute? Nature lapsing and models for chaos in terrible forces striven amid always the new realm of presence, the grail of dear identity given-up, a fecund surface of big floats taking notice. And isn't it all toward meaning, the corporeal hulking auditive mass, selves we point to giving and playing with its broken looking glass? Or exercised on immediate socially if realistic roles, whose progressions assume the uniformity of life stages wandering of disintegration, illuminable from a breach in the fog, where our teachers have stopped conceiving of the shit-gimme Who Am I so to imprecate standards till we are altogether in our daimon's dreamscape enduring the night of reason.******

****** Thus in my gambling hand I see the shape of my episteme's chariot to dispute my distraction, wandering in increments, convening inmost as an anschluss geist to my Festival of Thoughts, instead victuals of an open crowd convivencia are served like a world made to appear of what I could ever realize from the self-mythological climate of ephemeral nature. I spied in-between places portending clerics or ambassadors of lives come before mine, would be imaginable through evaporating portals summoned over the contest of sands first upright hourglass posture, the homogeny of standards meant to keep us safe; my teachers may have proscribed an imperative grappling in timeliness. Mr Cobb was our maintenance man at Garden Springs Elementary--could've been 1978. He warned me, Mr Schmidt didn't want any carrying-on, and then a whole word virus invigilated through my tissues, the pale white innocence of easy-speak is made sublime: dark and gray, gnashed and hidden among mythless coves, the ghostly Mr Cobb reflected like flurries of burnt newspaper what couldn't have been said about deep loss. Nothing to say, a thoughtful child bequeathed of fearful conflations to peal as messages into our chil'run minds - the bell playing to my empirical incumbency of an alien award to time and place, yet like a seed to sun rays' dessicating finality, even among shadows of rescue, never sure of going home again. A chega de saudade. I thought my foot fell to his path Forever then; the old man was eminently ancient. He's beat. Then like always I impelled my normative station. Students were stipulated not to mess with the help, but I felt rather socialist, maybe as later when the razor of revolution would cut my eyes open to see.***********Susie and I went to the Beaumont Library today. I felt ensconced and timeless in a usual vibe among these stacks of placating and more evidently glad letters. I'm caught up as moody as the leisurely blurt of revealed worlds in sacrifice to mere perusal and saunterings. As the empirical wonderment of books makes lush feelings where I'm lucky for the boundaries of my imagination, sitting with my reading convention's fluid art of forgetting, I think back to August, 1987, when I hoofed around Oxfordshire, finding one of the University libraries in-between days of class, once only to forward thoughtful ironies that there is a silent core to an unavoidable wisdom guaranteed to me. Therein aloft upon her heavy floors I felt I had visited with my student of life axiom ready to start what I had come in the room to do. The Yiddish language I studied then, Hebrew letters overstanding, all turned underneath, mired and uncollectable to the translating mask of youth developing with me then (I did get full credit, meanwhile...). Impossible to scale toward edutainments I'd become more adept in pronouncing later, the thing I would create in self-knowing, capsulating motives to learn inspite of the fact that it became excruciating to turn pages, all improve the hardwon powerspot I accede to now a few decades on nary any privilege under doctrinaire motives.******

*******In meditation, wholeness is my iconoclasm's Absolute. I only mean to brave assonance, see to it that I would adapt to this renunciate, grail of release, teloi of ideas, even the most feeling, seeking my wonder as hope for wholeness, well-being, reflective of identities suspicious of creating. There is no equality in mind, I tend to imagine, we only place that subtlety upon our thought's vagaries, as if a negotiable value to that of a prime mover and anything to suppose on Fate is in the tote of our sentient basket. Knowing that value statements are the first mistake of plain inquiry ...we all are adducing, as to place the relationship one has in second nature ways as our willing agents. I am properly mnemosyne live of the complexity I make loose in complementing the G*d of prayer and invigilate concern from times in the first few years to my youthful spiritual education. I sought the Orchard and unripened berries piqued with salt and sweet bread. In the hallways of Ohavay Zion (The Love of Zion) synagogue, Hebrew school had maybe usual for some rather one agonism I'd level at most my conceptual feelings toward my peers. How with a kind of ease, and why, did all things follow in these philosophical fields immuring fate with G*d, while no decision seemed apropos in my view? Inquiry, uh yeah, not acquisitive; something else would consume me. A contract with Good, yes, but whence the quantum encounter intends upon my intimated dawn to this one world fading, I wonder at the pathos in asking what this life has become if I had to ask it again. An answer from the other day stays within this current of mindfulness, all that is needed devoted to Loving-kindness: All thinkers driven to consider that Things Are, that we aren't quite alone, would be as commonly taken by imaginations imposing a reflection of our vitality as close to denying the surprise of our existence as though our hope for meaning had a concomitant superior being that deigns the very inquiry of mere wind and the thrush of change prised by our alienation painting all the world in its myriad stimulation of being as purpose.****************I tend to juggle Absolutes, but while I see into my wonder as hope for wholeness, still equations of our well-being, reflective of identities suspicious of creating, there is no equality in mind to that of a prime mover and anything to suppose on Fate, knowing that value statements are the first mistake of plain inquiry ...we all are adducing, as to place the relationship one has in second nature ways as our willing agents. I am properly mnemosyne live of the complexity I dispatch complementing the G*d of prayer and invigilate concern from times in the first few years to my youthful spiritual education. In the hallways of Ohavay Zion (The Love of Zion) synagogue, Hebrew school had maybe usual for some rather one agonism I'd level at most my conceptual feelings toward my peers. How with a kind of ease, and why, did all things follow in these philosophical fields immuring fate with G*d, while no decision seemed apropos in my view? An answer from the other day and today stays within the current of mindfulness, all that is needed devoted to Loving-kindness: The continual elements that spare us on in this one world announcing existence by having evolved into perceptual beings partly considering perhaps a faith in meaning, mostly is how we fluctuate in acts of will ecstatic beyond knowing the origins that would ultimately deny observation. All thinkers driven to consider that Things Are, that we aren't quite alone, would be as commonly taken by imaginations imposing a reflection of our vitality as close to denying the surprise of our existence as though our hope for meaning had a concomitant superior being that deigns the very inquiry of mere wind and the thrush of change prised by our alienation painting all the world in its myriad stimulation of being as purpose.*******

******Drumpf is a Big Man. A lugal, so-called in cultic Sumer's militarism. As enforceable as patterns through civilization's origin, Babylon's civilization, stirred embers out of the fire of Political antecedents in a couple thousand years as Stone Age (and beyond), yet technology, language of economies and jack-booted rigueur that foments symbols and advantage through those symbols of this kind are alive and representative through Drumpf purely a malefactory of the usual blind leading the blind convention and attitude. Eden was once invented in Mesopotamia, their marshes were idyllic and are becoming all but effaced out of the modern Industrial Age thanks to ignorant land reappropriation and socio-political denial toward the Shia who have been there for thousands of years. Just look at Drumpf's insensitivities toward his Political Opponents, add the anti-scientific brain-washing, unwillingness to accept Global Climate Change as reality and take some lines of Dylan's lyrics from Gates of Eden for what they are. We're in this together - oligarchies be damned: ******* "Relationships of ownership They whisper in the wings To those condemned to act accordingly And wait for succeeding kings And I will try to harmonize with songs The lonesome sparrow sings There are no kings inside the Gates of Eden." And: "The kingdoms of Experience In the precious winds they rot While paupers change possessions Each one wishing for what the other has got And the princess and the prince Discuss what's real and what is not It doesn't matter inside the Gates of Eden."*******The world we care about shouldn't have to play surrogate to imagine a lush excuse to ornament our irony of cathartic observations over the laments making uncertain our arising eudaimonic gainsayers, because only facts will do.*******One Christmas season I ran into a dude over at a friend's condo complex who had been in Ohavay Zion Hebrew school with me. Probably thirty years since we had rooted down certain meditations, and maybe understood something progressive, iconoclast of course, so the thing about an ineffably reasonable character to the prime mover of our being could allude to an acceptance of a rational and moral landscape, prone to nature as it is ephemeral and fleeting, unknowable till its model is the record. And seeing him makes me wonder at what degree has core-culture become acceptable or unpacked in thralls of immediate revelers whose cadence sometimes is expectation where and when ironies begin. As I'm not community translating through our calendar peculiarities, even while our evident Holiest Days are emergent, while bringing me to humble concerns, still I feel I reasonably asked him, even kinda, not moreso if to erase intimations of our Jewishness (Yiddishkeit), Had he thrown-in with Christian whatever? ...diet apathies are obvious, biases might be thoughtful, who cares while admitting to the drift of commonalities...! Saying to him, Jesus is just alright, man? It's not dismissive, it's who our family is, actually, what it is to reach back, seeing ways of emergent spiritualism where antecedents, as for everyone, are made of the history of myth. I didn't let him answer. Had the world been so curious that what is possible around the corner in a rather human mission gives and plays epistemologically buffered already, so apparent in that conviction to walk an American middle-path, studying the Other as their hopes are granted by their seers purveying Tradition and continuity, mine would trust in knowing our shared prophets even better through those dreamt lives evolving in the hearts of yours as Maimonides, the Rambam, would have it. From The Guide to the Perplexed, the Word makes us students of any Nation, maybe one gaining from a plural zeitgeist.**************Another blue Monday thus-gone, but Right-on with positive vibrations. I always notice my second look while any color orange, orange-red, yellow-orange, like that, arises, feeling something has happened with luck toward an operative future and no loss of flecting mind for the greed of change cuts me like Light in its chance surfeit within. I'm a long-distance runner, just can't take the race, a life alive to follow the yield of a fecund river. Seems though the anticipation of the climate to my apprehensions are conditions fully-involving, always the give and play of a deep-aside, intensifying for those reasons, but only more tacit than the usual escape from drawback shores. It's like we're about something, huh? So, what is there actually relaying out of our leisure to fend for the ground beneath our feet while meditation is made of our caprice to see it as true oblative Earth as it is Thus-gone? Me? I feel young, that I just got here. Surprised enough to consider nirvanas and what was wonderful and aweful at once in this microcosm, tremendous and releasing me, but bound (I am), like the saturate volition of a middle uncomforming current. Hendrix lyricking, Will I live tomorrow? Well I just can't say Will I live tomorrow? Well I just can't say But I know for sure I don't live today Well, that's Hope. I mean, everybody knows what is before us is ever-meaningful and ever-recessed within and without techne at an antiquation's premium, even these last few minutes.**************If I ran around imagining any encounter with women is my opportunity for sexual satisfaction there I would be prone as fly-paper, with anybody in common circumstance seeing an apparent and profound discursive expression stuck in a replete self-consciousness that almost no excuse could unpack, embarrassing me, and denying a contract with Good where I am, admittedly, vulnerable to give a damn Because I've Been Educated to seek women as a key to Cultural continuity I am utterly prone to expect. Meanwhile, as Drumpf swears among the cavalcade of Deplorables that his blinders are on in dealing with the Other, conveniently denying knowing David Duke, for instance, or lauding the ghoulish conspiracist Alex Jones, who flies from his (anti-rational Noatic) Arc in raven deceit to pick through the entrails at the illusion of malefactory only he has seen, somehow, a Truth of presumption that the like-minded domino nod of homogeny supports without any compromise to the lowest common denominator of suffering, usually, any thoughtful person might recognize. And again, why didn't it matter before to the Conservative establishment, whose violent rhetoric, gun sodomian attitude, blame game damning to overstand ANYBODY dependent upon governance, that the use of virulent racist symbols needed to be jettisoned from the democratic exceptionalism to be cultivated and shared amid this experiment in our conduct as the rhythm and beat to the American Dream? Can anybody explain that overt prejudice in the more capable hands in Conservative ranks? How does anything that this past-grappling Party conceives as opportunity become imaginable for the working class when pure animus against intellectualism and factory over Global Climate Change is ignored? --The accompanying image is of the single-most monarchical principal to the Republican Party here visiting the Bitberg Cemetery giving memorial to our fallen enemies, German SS, while having ignored an imploring American Jewish community not to Forget.***********

Slapstick and my Cold Kicks

We're all animals that dine at a lifetime's table. The Dalai Lama related a teaching, saying, the deer drinks replenishing water - the stream can't be missed, becomes invisive - why say she does so for you? And within the conference of taste that indicates a thoroughly on-going feast, how the victuals of experience are praised and adjured, reckons a level that may be in agreement with our vitality of mirth. Our minds compartmentalize, some calling everything of an eschaton's nod at our future station, the heaven and hell's target to our laments. If one were to imagine an encounter of full-on eudaimonia, instincts almost allow for a caprice in prostration to something or someone as a complete vehicle or plain embodiment of life's ambition to be happy. Except, how else would one encourage our privileged own happiness than to project and vibrate-on as anything but a goal of identity's sake, and rather approach this world barely lasting in conspiracies' riddled loss just as the years divide us from tribulations blameable to that of an argued Absolute, political, social or universal (whatever that may mean) bound to be trialed by chaos, as confident episteme from the case of our unknowing! Catastrophes and holocausts have endowed our pillow armies with the meaning of greedy survival, why does everything and everyone have to be complicit in those sulky and fiendish moral battles? All Lives Matter, but the plain disambiguation of that fact is that Black Lives Matter as a community implicit to our goal of American Exceptiionalism, whose dream and implementation should be born to our shared Democracy.

*************To look up into tree canopies determines the most ethereal breath I can take; where else as unbothered is the whole day in the swathe of such objective pneuma? And their polygon splays of light, lovely through amelioration of sharp eyes, designed to play in apposite mirthful intensions plain upon silent ground, dance among the most recent of our perceptual fetters rattling so to be matched by expression. But I'm frozen, hexed by meaning, swayed to feel these agonist hypnoses common to me, imagining ravenous sentient greed, I'm the game of conscious Hangman toward a world awakening like an ocean's swell refractalizing its climate maker's glimmering message, that slowly and by a mounting effort second nature objects enumerate by invading the present as if their dust becomes their washed away garment of this here colorfield immediacy. Immediate, now, but with the grace of the world of things lopping comfortably ever-was and by an eternal saunter their lauded velocity into its summoning, their encounter etches its surveillance as slowly as one traces leisure from a star sometimes obscured by shadows of rescue.***********Drumpf's son promotes "deplorable" symbols representing the furthest Right view to append White Superiority, Drumpf himself lauds completely insane racists and conspiracists like Alex Jones and somehow our unfortunately bamboozled political opponents engage this "conversation" willing to break present institutions, intensify blindly toward an abstract come vile power, till we're divided and conquered, classist even moreso in that Corporations are granted personhood satisfying their only argument imagining Democrats wholly irresponsible of a Job One way forward. Read the tea leaves Conservatives, you're making moves to deny the existential reality of our plural union - sweet to the taste of a history that ought not be erased, and teachable within institutions which may reflect this Union. Why? Divided by a corporate ethos where the government can no longer help to protect the environment that we share and ought not exploit, and employees working full-time but who barely obtain a standard of living to make it out of poverty, somehow sounds-out a Liberal Agenda not Huge enough, not a Great American Dream to awaken from ...lulling in the vast washes of our population that can make sense to this completely self-absorbed Billionaire and his Fearful of the Other constituency. Brother and sisterhood trumps hate.

************Got nothing to do, then read. Bored, ready for life? Get an ole book made of trees and sit there and pretend you're not stupid. And pretend that your emotional entreaties don't need an exacting encounter with someone or some subtlety where your pretending really does cause you grief. You think, well, the flow of your norm isn't just any kind of myth, but, you must admit, it has to be your concession that psychologically you've paid all the cost, you've stimulated all manner of extremis in contact with the soothing of egoity's flagging the project of your worth: there's the real news - all your changes have usually been written down...! Read because it is your developing meditation called analytical meditation. While that has provision as a goal in itself, I would call meditation observable release between warm receptions and a sense of my raw soul, sensory metricating and jumping past self-preservation in thoughts endorsing whatever. Reading just whatever then denying the author her or his intuitions because now their idea-force is become your mantram of mere feeling determines an appositive from enduring the multiplying content implied upon an ever deepening misappearance of wholeness. Putting an illuminable foot upon attention only by safekeeping an amorphism in an unbearable likeness of being is cultivating differences and change through a very human game of mnemotechniques, the art of forgetting.*******************Just so I think if language in some subtle primary effect I might presume in the sense of a young mind or one laden by frustration is its sequencial concern and surprise iconography in getting present, this natural relationship that leisurely offers a control on time's more ironic control on us as incremental as dunes evolving around our thirsty dreams. It looks easily magnified in literate thought drawn of the coming single word setting off my need for an extrarational sentence. As this word contoured of nothing else than a material hope plies a certain median magic, one word of instinct that the next in line only modifies the last, One inflates Two details, but can't improve beyond Three and so on. This mind. As a little boy, before literacy, really as wonder of world comes to its details, I walked Laurel Grove where we lived, down to Quail Creek to climb the dirt mounded up from all the new construction of our neighborhood, glad among ant colonies belching through earthen qualities of an importuning all living environment. Among tractors sleeping off-limits, piles of lumber, bricks, refuse and houses unfinished, seeing their flesh exposed invertedly of Pink Panther insulation, all this encouraged conscious parrying among spirit bodies speaking through appearances in their silent garments. I'd play King of the Hill standing amid flagging but sometimes exercised subtle bodies, comparing in wont of islands in the stream the heights of my more formidable conscious success, and I understood, fate is aweful and immediate and it is all other.

******************Here's the "don't give me too many facts" Contrarian's Party (the Right) rarely making it to the table splayed of reality's victuals and not the Oughts to their concretions of Tradition, and not least of all the oh so frightening Scientism occurring to concerned and well-informed brother and sisters of the dundering bereft to honest Faith, where Global Climate Change is ignored. While one ought to by point and discussion recognize this sense of American Exceptionalism which would meet its denouement for change, for whom like apes banging branches at us but now with their (d)evolved gun waged toward an unforgiving opportunity, they accede in threatening their political opponents and in yet another way they've come to specialize in destroying the very institutions meant to help. Drumpf slavers over media feeling fully capable that we would imagine he's a perfectly fashionable product of our cause accompli to that of a flag-waving demagoguery just as one's thinking is lost to classist babble and ironies of a loved Machine racketing in Identity Games is uncarveable to any warm sentience. He watches demonic summoning of those artifacts with the greed of Belief, White Nationalism and nothing so wrong that it has become obvious to you.************* I know an inmost route of mosquitoes measuring thought's burgeoning, grounding me on some rare conscious couch, the questions in my nerves are lit and bleed me, amounting to the solemn repair of body out of Dylan's edenic map - Arya and their Others or Semitic then Arabi marshes - body arrived, the last place of any acquisitive bullshit desolved, one would reify in physical success. In True Democracy convention I take to my porch more usually ...take a call there so to telegraph the day more clearly. The wisest consensus, more better calls, have been these absolute spirits telling me, Drink the Kool Aide, who says the taste of it apprehends or disestablishes the lateral taste among its realistic table set? Imagine this episteme's vehicle of a determined model for a Mind beclothed in the Sky, raw to those figures for a thoroughgoing vitality, visualization, merging with appearances. An abstract world of convenience, those preferences for self-preservation are all on the menu (and conspire or even suggest), so stop conflating appetite, put the menu down and just eat. Feed your mind and give away what it grows. Have a heart improvising on its motherly banks - in the swamp and heat of such prized certainties - to heal where you've thrown yourselves in consummate relationship; beware of this self-consciousness from less grasping but with more passion's tantric hand on expression.************* There is always this mind game I cultivate so to stir up my senses and being able to gainsay memory after the ways of it becoming disadvantaged, I'm amid the world arising in catapultian letters. I lure and learn over words acquiring depth while seeing its empirical shores lay bare certain burning sands of perception that are smoothed back at the realisms of my vaguely antagonized tabula rasa and usual thoughtlessness by too hard of an inmost scrutiny. Like marring embers, humbly, I just play with words. I chase the run-away current in this sensitivity to my reifying model depicting a mind-sore of always late thoughts truant by communication. Just now I'm watching Eugen Weber doing The Western Tradition discovering our civilizational antecedents, where Egypt at her most thoroughgoing metricate for a history anyone is glad to edutain, 3000 years in one leg of her portent African soul vending is stolid and as magical as a tree in human contentment for survival - 3000 years! And Americans have begun this examination of Freedom for merely 300 some years, that at least within our ranks we might Live and Let Live if history could provide reason and juridical truth and insist by improving our public institutions. From Judeo-Egyptian idiosyncratic hagiographia I can dream a voice emergent like this rather wizard-ridden bogied donkey acting-out in its mantram bray contesting the on and off again seer ancient Hebrews prop up as a trickster or prophet in granting blessings and truths of wonderful or dire fates, implores Balaam, only to mean, Go back from this mountain pass! ...this equid's intuitions are superable to the language of your signs and your coming encantations.

***************

Yes, yass

Isn't it exquisite several steps upstream from one's nice Indian rug (my Afgani rug...) a sharp little something once tracked into the house that you're now clung to on the concourse of hardwood floors have met the swathe favorite place you prolly actually dream about, though Mind is active there and actual space and pitch of mind remain palimpsest, your sitting place, would-be asana rescue in temporal moods, clarifies footfall and even advancing this thought.

***************I'm immediately familial to the release of limbs and shrubs and sidewalks along through the approach toward coveted memorial halls and houses. They've portrayed the leisurely saunter into these places, halloo'd barely demonstrating a person thinking the world colludes and jives us into our appointments and galavanting. I believe the air then. The difference between my animate success and the cuff of the world, reporting it all shunted up while she's last seen before I enter a building of bllinking eyes comes from the cathartic evermore of being outside always the concept of changing my mind, always the light of its momentary domino effect of thoughts enjoined to the rest of the day, walls lid open and are readily invisible. Never so clear a model to bridge inmost realms with ambitions in making dream content embower viable temporal settings, one step and the imploring of time's hard reins in as many years passing my door are letters written homeward becoming empty bottles and anywhens once opened in a life's sabbatical, this day too.************Gave up. Fell to the bottom. Relearned to speak. Called memory something. Sung circadian emptiness. Intonations in your easy speak waved under horizons like blades dipped in contentful earth. Sought a lepidopteran and I dreamt away. Listened to Tic Toc Teac see Moses go down, so then called Jeshua an Aramaean yon event to a political Jesus, his usual posture somehow now gratifying the might is right crowd, in my small corner of the world less preponderant of those spiritual paints, all gone down.***************My ole friend Adel and I are coming home, did some dinner something certainly unhealthy ad assignations to that that make sense now ...belly grumbling, shooting down Harrodsburg Rd. and it had been snowing for a good thick hour which felt a-glower freezing up in the air, but an after thought because climactic proscriptions are done with polemics. We're under a glazy eyed bruisycolored dome, lush slush could have been this tacit chariot bound cloud embraced hypostasis, so Neil Young plays rock realization anthems, "Shadow on the things you know. Feathers fall around you...". The whiteouts were fracturing and benetted, dangling heavily with curtains that made our car merge forward like in staccato leaps, lights hit feathers falling casting phenomena like I'm shifting around misdirected and our black night yawns by peeks and unfurlings. A song from Off the Wall once complimented a solitarian neighborhood crossing here ...Michael Jackson's fu manchu face flecting eagerly. I'm driving but immured in my myth plain map of Lexington. A lot of walnut trees stood south west from here, I'd live under them as a native, I realize. Adel soothes himself with his looking glass gospel and Rasta music segues at the next light, some of it where he feels a bit unique with the ascendents' verily happy commonalities had they been explained, he explains ...while pathos and biblical laments are in the report of the whole ocean.***************It seems. The Big Man is this decisor of resource careening toward something essentially as if defending a new belief in that power, an indivisible god, true or defecating, if it could be popularly reconciled, that power can't wield superable to common suffering while demonizing uniquely sympathetic opponents. Ridicule should be in parsimony with a factory other than sneering anecdotes of those resolved with some reason to hate.*********^^^^^^^Susie and I coming out of more traffic thread down Elizabeth St., jagging our route into a shortcut back to Southside, it's early, we just did breakfast and I feel recollected in superlative mornings, Mom's cosmos, the planet of work spaces making my way through dreigh hard-to-endure hours, school days, fool days, my circadian mess how they can be as good as now, now all oriented to sundry leisure and so many dawn thresholds you'd think Earth's intercalations are always meant for us, and maybe they shall. From a change in listening to music the News Constant makes contemplative BBC sounds brace me in outlines of concern and worldviews. Razia Iqbal's lovely name mantrifies in my thinking - her voice appeals to me just as great Oxford's tea and cookies (bisquits) I tasted ready as class is about begin when I attended an Intensive Study in those halls once upon a time. Here we come - ehhhhh, vroom - and past what looked like one of our (Lexington's) University appositioned folks dreamily ascending his silent frontporch mutating freedom, his breath is animated, verily a dialect opens, he suspires, then hesitates handing me a corral of saints till then hidden in the cool of his clutter of bikes, tarp and yard equipment embowered by chipmunk homes, their bushes and more cool. In this natural willingness for encounter, my head paints in mere feeling the waking day's horizon so to populate my distant look of this world introducing its regularity, where her figuring and purveyors seem to thicken in my view at first altogether, characters of conversation or out of the shunt of plastique media, maybe phantom dream players, then only to materialize vapors to vapor, anonymities to an unsung, indefinite chorus.****************I want to make this concept even better because it really is stupendous albeit only advancing into no more a material advantage than to perhaps take-it-in fully compelled by an occasion's grace. The thing of Mind capsulating wist of self-approval all things necessarily an event of a few moments ago are telegraphed when I'm actionable then stammer into the day's medium flow, its usual shadow on the things I know, watching what observer self does comforted into its usual avenue, opening toward it as if I'd been waiting at the target wakened state as opposed to a unilateral emerging with what-is. How far I come off of this couch of consciousness, naming thoughts' movement as any movement in attention, and with content washed ashore a feeling like acquisitive asks and reanswering washed away too ...all was in my trance-like booty edging me into an encounter to what reveals itself as my sense of living at visual beginnings of being free and unable at once cold-up in moments wherein the mask I wear implies new candors. I feel I'm more the spider's web, prone as its second nature object, capable as my interest in things would necessarily move around, found as part of the symmetry, while rather than sentient then wondering to act on the world, the world acts on me.*****************Articulated into some solitarian ritual over mere Thought in soul gradins far-over filtrate of image and present light bubbling up, sensory enabled with an eternity's prone brain run on a body's 100 watts come model of cauterized mind-sore, meriting more and more its plain atmosphere plainer still, thoughts' bounty edging me into an encounter toward what reveals itself as surmountable teloi - appearances - not even conscious of surface and residing somewhere in dreams' inmost rhizome of rational motives, inescapable though plastique, wholly and radically getting there operative as airwave's plank to leap from is perspective, identity's creaturely accompli, self-consciousness for an open nerve redundant internal conversation just to reserve coming to timely inquiries and self-emptying ...then to ask again meaning it to more and more devastating effect with intensity shaped keys applied to some nuclear distant estate of ancestry, humbly calling self alas me, one of mantic trees and symbolic houses, what is this life become.^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^The meditation I thought about operative in Abraham Abulafia's world is what The Golden Age speaks to you and possibly just me from the blessed transcendence emotive the glad discipline, an American Jazz art in vitality. Saeta, by Miles, from the Sketches of Spain album, a lot of folks well-intending listeners know to listen and formally ran into somewhere Dionysian, this one thing hidden amongst for me. The ram's horn used in Jewish ritual, we call a shofar, merits an antiquation of soaring and wandering souls. It seems to weave through margins and extremis, looping of heart ambient courtships, clean orientation to skyward presentiments almost become available from this spiritual saxophone. The whole album to be sure it's true is as good as this song's handful minutes apace a pocket of consciousness coming from Minds of meanwhile changes in our parents' near need to get this beat thing beyond the amatory few examples into this technocracy where we're prone like gongs in hesitant peal of classical social skills, say Listening.****************Yass, Old Bull Hubbard, there are "excisors of telepathic sensitivities." They are. They are sensory intimating prised to our subtle bodies. So. The first mistake the mind makes on the way to the compassionate void is to suffer value statements. True, false or whatever it is if we are getting-down-to-it these logicians on instigating people are appetites to the greedy tongue of carb hunters wont in people addiction for the sweet salience in our wishes for salve attention on these fray and tacit nerves. It's all ego, we're daimonic over anyone impelling hellion hoped for minds in florid complexions to a world view proscribed as News connoiseurs or gospels. Practical thinking gambles on the faith of the known. Pragmatic ways through all that language pointing to Change means to stop lauding Bionic Rats teased for their lust and copulation making the labyrinthine mind a garden living with ease and sallow processes through mood and every excelsior vantage on consensus. Tic Toc Teac toasted, "they're gonna raid you on the television set; don't let 'em." They get you in the valley of (in)decision, Bob Marley knows. Swore off the stupidest of inner-scrutinies though ravens land on our shoulders because they do - your velocity is a feeling of being On with wooden eyes - and their avian success is but a piece from dark Firebird reflections in their star lamp empyrean. Spiritually wandering, the middle man stands up in their eyes, Grandmother's soul reposes on pre-time's couch of consciousness ...with light like a pirate of the airwaves she digs 10,000 coves, calls their ascending way a direction multiplying for dream eliciting lepidopterans free to lend their form to the content of the next animated fact defining mind. Jinns (spirits, Sufi expression) throwing down meteorites toward those needing to be impressed with the language of the mind of a devastating kind of creator have a Blues guitar to thank.*****************Back under an awning extending from the roof of Dad's excellently hand-built country red shed - he calls a barn - an improvement in meditation was on ...his lawn equipment lain where among the backyard environs I would read awhile sometimes responsum in glances to a local spider. I'd Ode in that special mess what Russian culture meant to me so through her expediting in all the meddle of reason painting up the world with imagination, this spider friend purveys with chides and models true to my karma's staged ancestry hinting at my path meriting reprieve, maybe as some patient creature. As thoroughgoing a wanderer of spirit appends made up of conscious maps, a travelogue is always more deluged in mercy admitting to oneself what feels right but liberating while homeward. I feel I'm more the spider's web, prone as its second nature object, capable as my interest in things would necessarily move around, found as part of the symmetry, while rather than sentient and wondering if I'm to act on the world, all I can know is that the world is actionable with nothing between what-is and selves' bridge to the moment - I mean sometimes barely dust for tea, but mostly a willingness to get there, slave to continuity.

***************So at peak observation, that it's possible claiming I'd have a view with ideal acuity, I feel I've perfected this one sense understanding a conventional pattern listening to Mom paint in and out of conversation wakeful and worried. Kind Mom but in the immensity to her cosmogonia, there I am, lens on just one subtle inquiry that she may fancy I'm of that self-same sinuendo dream, mindsore, heart, heaven, night, reason and awakening from it. I remember listening to my beautiful Mother speak: I didn't know how language worked so I thought each word plainly modified the last word in the sentence as intimately a list could follow just by enumeration, so in perfectly assumed qualia that Two leads to Three because Four flexes toward Five and so on, I wondered how in the world the Other would ever be revealed. And I imagine in my thinking a library cluttered with feeling, first concepts gathered in repose at the foot her bookcases, where even in wee hours I'd get up from bed and find my way to them consulting letters, that I believed in magic, actual magic in symbolic universes. I thought if memory would impliment models of my alliterating self then I could use language acting on the world in continuity replacing by numbers this life becoming metrical with its anywhen, boundless upon the ground beneath my feet, open to a natural expression, all proliferate as egoity sorts us out, vapors to vapors.**************If you see an academician in your head and knowledge has become your friend, then as subject to wan fates in self-knowing or not, nature heightens the sense of principle in fealty to you as peak observer. The thing I'm sure about as episteme may confide in just anyone is imagining at one point I've climbed to the top of me, looking at a net thrust into empirical lurings, this same net of flat toned self-same language awash gathering all the usual conceptuality, but now behind each letter and impulse is every other possible word and mantram (utterings) that would agree in metrics and gravity merely elicited from a single symbol at the crest of karma, speech and mind, a wave drawing into its velocity the unbounded matter across an antithetical path. I remember listening to my beautiful Mother speak: I didn't know how language worked so I thought each word plainly modified the last word in the sentence as intimately a list could follow just by enumeration, so in perfectly assumed qualia that Two leads to Three because Four flexes toward Five and so on, I wondered how in the world the Other would ever be revealed. We are uncarved blocks (soulful), an unwhetted self inevitably despite the clamoring attempts at change one might assail, speaking with boundaries' silence, they're the educated walls where our expressions lean.

****************I'm struck seeing such intelligent eyes. An actress in Edgar Allan Poe's gloom emergent fin de siecle insane asylum portrays her concerns which lay with respect upon such a face, "the muse inside of minds of crazy faces," - Dylan once lyricked - I think till now, imagined deep within my nerves, a place I thought rather usual within me if ever there had been one thing driving the splay of passions given that some high functioning self-knowledge is my driver. My morning mind creates this survivor in me satiated from nighttime's well water and its taste of refreshing shadows as either a great logician of instigation, running for the bucket grappling of the splendor roused toward something different in the new turn 'pon this Earth, or a flowery mind and amatory fool of whiling away. Hitherto in the looking glass of self-consciousness, all the eyes of a world answering its subject, our world of dialects between I and Thou, I and Nature or say I and Selves become textures in meditation, an invisive concourse only illustrating the hang of appearances we share re-remembered, bending new corners around meaning on whose caricature of our nearest self is the dearest thing one can give away.*************This sage, lavender and a citrus blend tea, which had been neglected by me Susie recommended, now here midnightish, is finally cooled and nothing need adding ...this patient cup soothes me into long looks gratifying thought's ward on contemplation or its bluer flame theoria (I wish). I light on as perceivable uh world of things contesting approach and vision like inmost currents have accurate swathe in proudland aged but redolent, alive in looking glass bones, this spectral living shore persists to recreate walls within. All of us are conscious as watchtowers in ply moments and thus gone as sand castles of dreamy lasting ruins. Helba colored like the Arabic (sometimes) cardimom seed tea, but the sage in it and lavender makes for a good August light libation, and so here's to Hamza al-Din, oud player, the taste of a feeling for something in a near but plainly deep aside.

Elie Wiesel, Robin Williams, David Bowie, Prince. Please paint my horizon full again.

appreciating this sentence (last night's thread) - here's the sentence and sense philology of it: "There's some singularity, a view on evenness in toward the dawn of waking state that reflecting our footfall deft as Threshold's wonderment whither it seems interesting the pulse of an implicit forest transect becomes noticed, one would look down, the forest sparingly entangles our sight as to just what is before us." **** **** Literally since around 1995 I wanted to write that down out of a dream about more hill and dales I'd breach on the way through then my neighborhood than what-is, where I lived 27 years, back from its local shopping center, Gardenside, was the jumping off point in the dream. But more usually I had walked to and from late in the night anyway, here in the shadowy lure coming to Lansil Creek and the near old stone wall, densely colored brush of grasses and underneath them moulds and my pitch of mind. A Crowley thing from his huge "Confessions" I think got me down to perspective. He persists in his own dissipation describing Mara the Destroyer awaiting Buddha with the project of some temptation, while I read to alight a rather visual sense of moving-into-experience, that while an Other Shore draws one toward reception, "down" among the content to appearance things whelm the observer, folding up, around and over human intensions, furrowing into a completion of the encounter. So, I knew, in coming to the gates in the forest, I see out of my thought's translating mask and move first by instinct looking down, just before me I saw my foot falling ...certain of that at least that the ground beneath my feet is a signature move, a natural move. ***************I sometimes let the torpor in my brain and in the air finish my sentences. The thing is is that I feel full-up aside from the fact that I'm only expressing half-thoughts. An early "contemplation" which is just my young mind sorting out a lost distance between what I'd been up to and watching everyone in the river's flow made a sense of dread but worthy of me to compete with it, this realization, I'm not one to actually speak much. I only knew I may never reach the depth to understand how conversation appends so easily ex nihilo, days and experience erased but for your coming around me imagining it, defining continuities. I once couldn't talk; seemed to me cultivation of stillness became so matriculate it is where my inmost logician was making victory. This condition, though I felt some irony in it, meanwhile, had been my two steps forward, one step back moment to consider what meditation had done for me till then. Meditation is a good goal. I want to look as deeply as it made sense to me then in the place of all my changes.***************I believe in a Living Loam, a loving loam, whose resource to change is psalmodies of loving Rain. The type of loam that won't harsh my mellow, thereso the One and Many loam of threshold inconsequence. A wide open land of plollocking rather deeply impressed cuts and demarcations of some meaning as our not invulnerable lives yielding a narrative parchment underfoot, the lure of being, but only upon these mind-sores to assign an observer's history with grave machines, architecture and excess, every day modern life, real reason to exculpate evitable encounters with Nature. The world goes with tradition and their tradition's apologists - tote that bale, this Job One ethic has come to the storm of wont on licit frontiers - so veers Right, putting business models out of reach from regulation, while I maintain dreamy and full-up, well heeled before vulnerabilities in the wavy habit of trees rooted Left, opened on you, my eyes are turned to plants. Though, this is all too much within me, beyond all reach and control still shown the door falling down in thoughtlessness. The sense that just enough reaches me and adducing plain facts fatten me, there's too much to know, too pendant a world decorates us in ceremonies of weather, sidewalks, fevered News and easyspeaking breath. So I'll breathe, watch it rise up in me and keep this fallen spirit walking the plank of humanity. **************

Once there were closed crowds whose ethos is winsome in that kind of club mentality still in assent with icon's stone-age martialling as connoiseurs of pathos, expressed by sacrificing persons emboldening sought believers by ever blindly effective gods. Now there is Citizens United as an equally empty reason behind giving personhood to a commodities usurer. The henotheism of grand gods wake their sacrifice down escalante passages of fire, the first being an ethereal god's human being, burned, but not before his plastique spirit is taken in by the horse, then burned, while transcendence already turned this musterion ghost into the next greed of wholeness bridged of fire into the next world, the ram to billy goat, then our earth takes all to flourish with rice or barley sacrifices that grow to one day please the absolute spirit appending its navigation in hierarchies of physical success and ultimately before whom or what it is that sought us. ****************

In around 1979 I would've been 13 years old, a junior high school student, living with my three brothers - all pharaonic to my spirit body apace the shadows of fettering time - Mom and Dad raising us and I'm the youngest. I roomed with Eric and already he had distraction for me, only later evincing his computer service and forensics company giving up that lauded technology - O technocrats of classic social realism - seemingly then its roots were interpretive, where I lie down by that antennae'd TV wondering at the freedom I could review in this thought field, MASH playing late at night and I see what I'd rather do than the clearance of school and its langor. The TV stupidly plays-on ...couches my heart in a hurry to evolve out of the sieve of silent coolish shadows and realizeable or voidant but not complaining, something on the floor, something simply as part of this thought disorder I mitigate made observing the actors almost ghostly as to say a very real subtlety in their lines emplace me within the night's orb, behind my thoughts in character through some histories' shtick and responsum to mood or light or the dialogue availing with a sense that it's...it's now and on-board...this mothership, touching the earth...it won't even be you (me) looking from this side, I'll be graced by Loretta Swit in my world's gone-feeling, though I'm eternal - Right? Concede that to me, sitting prone to implore the black and white forever for awhile, yet doused of palimpsest moments, I think, "Where am I?"*************There is nothing surprising that a Jew would anoint a creative world, if you follow me, as the observable reality of an impersonel god, as Jews refer to the not fully written name for a greater reality, G*d, upon media that is itself impermanent. By a way of enjoining a respect and feeling of continiuity, making sense to a very usual consensus of cultural Jews, an idea of an endless god or the god of All or Nothing, called Ayn sof, is taking away the god that comes to court, rather like Job's occasion enduring his strickened world without a receptive demiurge, the artisan deity. So Wasserman Schultz as comfitted to Jewish ideas as I assume she is could have recognized Bernie as the Jew he imagines himself to be, and on the ease or complexity the liturgy permisses which is a studied sense of Meaning one can only anticipate but is traduced merely from Faith assuming a mission behind it, a mission making implicit suggestions about reality that are superable by Faith and mean nothing through Reason. Shelomo Gabirol is distinguished as having developed this idea (Ayn sof) around 900 years ago. He lived in Golden Age Spain under Muslim rule. Toward Jewish Mysticism, he had lived during the socially cosmogonic era in the first solid inroads discovering Kabbalah's essential meditations. ****************The One who was seated like your maven observer, poised like a bulbul, nightingale, in an orchard but of this world - where an angel in a lifetime's intercalating watch-tower holds the light sparing us over till another year - now runs apace me and you. The Down to You verses some world too distorting and not you that it must be captured or endured, consummate as the Cold I Up complexion of you, beyond all reach and control of self and still shown the door of chaos and thoughtlessness, peak resolve only to wait it out then to seek escape in perfect illustration, apathy and revulsion's counter, It's All Fine, there's less demanded of me than my suspicions ought to carry ...that sorrows You vending your soul's insight ...is me too, man.************** Breathe everyone, you have the volition of what's been cool, not the ardor of a decisor on fate and creation you thought you were. Listening to some modern philosophers wanting to see a model to the perceptual vantage over reduction of uncertainty, that staying in relationship with nature, semblance of truth and appearances is inclining self having become at least answerable through plain endurance. You are an answer to me, you speak, I feel. Which is sweet and my world but capsulating all the fray of Absolutes like Love or Mercy and awaiting reins on Time pendant upon our developing moral landscape, soon the thrum of what-is becomes our idea-force and voice.***************Talks a good populist game even curiously open-armed (if not open carrying). Eschewing science and feeling left behind there, blames all eventual mishaps on the battlefield as some principle of their purge through the ranks gone awry in their true Banana Republican colors. Oil and coal over Green Industry is the black and white of it. In all of their dehumanizing of the Other, which shoulda been a shoe to the head to Wake Up, and demonizing of politicos ever as low brow in his and her own reflection, here's an image of their single most monarchical principal, Ronald Reagan, visiting a Nazi cemetery giving memorial like sins of the past need just a little more shade. Kenyan, huh? Know your neighbor, for G*d sake, instead of inept ways of revering your leaders clearly making wrong moves in respect to our common valor operative in a Living History!**************Memory is the mathematics of our genes, a model for human instinct, our brains and second nature reality, culture et cetera. Metaphorically, belief as fate can memorialize input called mystery thereso identifiable while transitory as the thing evoked from earth's empyrean in her immensity, she laughs hideously and beautifully at once pealing like a gong upon a living planet's original desert, the void of oceanic star anonymities which may exaggerate and proffer reduction of uncertainty, how we feel to imagine meaning, so real information if alluding to expression through perspective calling for personhood and humane-ness to be an answer for people**************Only to win in the thwart of power, some people tread like dragonflies getting high on newly paved blacktop never realizing that its sun-glazed expanse has as much nutrients as bags of wind animating what gets brought home for supper. Flowers are pomp in lush scrutinies, landing on two feet, Homo ludens, the player, becoming a free agent is apace the mile of night - power undone in its climate - iterating an unfettering, looks to the vomitoriums' waxing lure where actors of power hide within political stages in chimeric veils sundering days of coolness and requiring light through America's night long vistas, realizing, the observer has his and her own role, retrieved like ground footfallen parchment impressed by leafy symbols, stone grammar and loamy redolent wandering. None of the eschatons undo reason or time, a mind can react but in a plain solitarian sport, and so finds out what belongs to self florid or dreigh is behind one's own eyes. It's not so much a sluice of all the savory meats coming to their brand of homogeneity in the least comfitting design on funkiness as it races at breakneck speed to a world of pathetic killing floors - while we imagine what happens in these mounting lifetimes unpacking each generation - but it has become a revolting problem of a kind of conversational pressure.*****************Wearing my Jaws shirt having seen it I guess the Summer before, allowed to sit on the floor at the front under the screen at Turfland's cinemas because of the crowds. Ah, and here we are in Technocracy. I know at least it seems healthy to imagine I am projecting the thing I am, as if in peak concern the becoming of this thing implicitly amorphous, that a conscious prop is transitory like the habit of a tree is an architecture to this changing mind. The science of it all works well into one midnight visage of plain media's vintage; a National Geographic-like documentary (TBS commercial?) is playing stupid-comely on the TVs above the bar at Wrocklage. Music. Kerouac once and forever diagrams the deposit memorializing all eyes of sad repletion and ironies arrayed before him while winds blew snow off the asana welcome niche, that he undoes time's chain and unreason, climbing in his Cons and wrong gear just to sit there and believe mercy, her and in that solitarian or florid court, taking tea. I walk from the back alley behind the bar. Think "sharks" and their murmurrations, Jennifer nods. Spirit waters are tapped and the wine dark sea fills the screen of only blue. Sharks inspire and shift into visual currents, giving directions to my focus through murk, clashing and rosy colors, seem to be underneath the moment and sprite seas, expediting with feelings and sentience. Evocative and aquatic, Noatic fish give way.***************I have a strong and I guess mandatory usual apprehension that I can communicate with any kind of ease at all. The sense, emotionally cycling, if methodical to relate listening inmost while falling to a schedule of encounters always hearing similar if not same feedback, just knowing how that might dunder new ways of living these same lives is what merits an entreaty with change, the difficulty we all might face. I like to imagine saying something always for the first time. The thing I learn from most is an imminence front, the surprise and sometimes rapine sieve we navigate to lift off through the colors or sensations in our statements of presence, getting there, being in the moment. Only to be present which would herald a breath in the gathering loom in sum of a natural rhythm to a day - this makes up our plain ambition, our corporeal study of the ledger in whiling away.*****************Running with plenty o'iconic shunts at once something out of biblacy's consolation, but then like comparing fires blading designs one night differently than the next, something absolute in the model gains inroads, circulates through tissues that are thus-gone and sometimes executed in the melody given evolved reception shared from the new yet old. A kingdom as applied space to a sovereign seems to be the drag about what is more demonstrative as a meaningful resource on proudland - cosmogonic of Sisyphean report - the face of ever amorphic creatures perceiving their fugue of sympathies in appearances, have plastique ways through it so much this natural counsel of our more humble more usually obscurred selves evinced as its surrogate. Visible reality is over 90 % of lights warmly interred that senses make redound, what our minds chime to as the content for the wonder of what-is.**************Wondering when the stream's capricious clot or to beck you with less acid as to say, the rigor of the patient cut around the proverbial bump in the road assailing and impeding a current toward a more complete statement of presence makes itself denied as something as negotiable that having done well among the tethers of our more candid tasks ...eschewed the thing about our plain inquiries in what this life has become, a "developing" thing (but among the dross every other thing) and with intuitive impressions like models on halcyon answers by way of assuming an approach to absolutisms, so as creative as we wanna be in this world - the surf of the more esteemable mind - may level continuity only doing that in the next - these things we laud to discover in our attention.***************Imagine receiving intensions from a sum of moral landscapes now possibilities in usual privations still the mean earth up to her decisor fate elaborated in us and distractions conflated within our 21rst century's more baseless literalisms that it can be anything like the plain wisdom available in cathartic pop psychologies giving way to raw if subtle appositives in the change we seek. Give me the box of antiquation, but on these local streets where I plan to walk forever.