The Way into Feeling, Feelableness Measured in a Creative sense-all things Touching.

The earth would pivot in front of me in hugely gratifying leaps, steps that old cloud assemblages of Native ghosts ponder and pace through. Somewhere in Canyon de Shelly, so alluring to one's sight, I played on the vexing land sure of its imminence by the leisure spirit bodies exude out of its cleft contours amounting to merely weather's palette in footfall, preachments and vanishings. If vanishing was a sign toward proud earth lush and relished in sight, right around Lafayette High School, riding past one evening of literati and ideas, I had to re-animate, come to the threshold of being present with the heat of feeling in my eyes and liquid language awash on my tongue. To do so the only thing coming to mind was an auspicious thing, a thing that occurs in the shadow of sound, becoming by participating in dreamtime from the bombast of waking state. The slow fidelity withwhom I'm sure is the one who has recorded all thoughtlesss primacy in fragmentation, generated in expression, martyred as meaning, I relate my Mom saying, soul tired and in banging throes competing to maintain openness in the face of the closing gates of a lifespan, "So, have you your Susie Q., ...huh?" I look over to her surprised in realizing that Mom doesn't know my Susie whose intensions like mine at that point were not fully thought out or mindfully revealed even to us then over a year away from taking up together, I say, "Yes, Mom, I know her."************ So, I've learned and dropped its preachment if indivisible with the stuff of culture that our prophets don't live today - we can dream them, become plenty guarded toward their glories and absolutes of emulation, but his and her encounter is erased beneath us. Here, diffuse of spirit, alienated to the proximate techne drowning of answers, blowin' into a neighborhood, maybe yours, it's New yet Old. Answers. Who's asking? Why desperate to venerate what is been said so clawingly laid upon your lap after several thousands of years in complimentary re-engineering to its reception? The Good Poetry still intoxicates but from inspirations not to enslave one another ...this is more than a pin-prick of light penetrating, it's called Modernity. And yet doctrine is contrarian, beyond this human idea-force, henotheistically, apprehending the god of Enlightenment, the sense of Truth, otherwise darkens with a perceptual creation called anything like divine, a thinking individual only knows as change: Nature is what I want to react to - it merits discovery, but I am thankful of life assonant to enough nurturing, only to aver life is an answer. The deep aside denies our mainstay, the meta-physical is promised at the invisive shore, but there is no getting-in. A recent more relevant sociology will operate to snuff out our dispossession. Imagine.*************A sadhu, renouncer, I spy in a fresh documentary, content as he even here sensing slight natural surroundings where in time and within modal expression I feel well aware that he touches the earth, replete as formaldehyde in furniture and paint on walls standing in my eyes, his naturalism is feelable. There in self's brackish counting of breaths, self-conscious but not -- that all the animating space and places of his meditation is recorded, so now to know breathing plain as a wilderness tabernacle may be visualized in sum of the specter of the unexpected. I do what I do anywhere supposed - my distractions are good enough - it's true, but having executed a travelogue, I would do what I do here realizing just the occasions to be plaino me there too. Fabling an encounter is portent in realizing this apparent philosophy that Not Much is Going On. A Brazilian sorta hippy, wanderer and stolid intuitor, dreamer of lent dreams looked on toward Israel's Negev desert, scanning it as to make it back the days and weeks before, where the scale of mountain friend in far off home was the opposite shoulder than the dreigh historical mountain range displayed beyond these Red Sea parts. I sat next to him waiting for work for several afternoons with 10s of other hobo types at the Freedom Cafe (me and Robbie Loco), southern-most Israel, and guaranteed inspiration with this dude's hopeful, rather watchtower poise, "someday" he seemed to illustrate, "...redemption," withal he came across in point blank zero caricature out of Religion, though an ecstatic is revealed.******************* Man, I can't help it, though as thoughts escape me, and then only to catch the flare off a self of molten rock, things I imagine a part of me, is becoming entranced with things for a kind of convenience, these existential conditions, imminently cultural, biased, but to explain, maybe you, the thinker, would see nothing complacent waking up and getting to personalities in the past, out of time, and rekindled, alive as somehow cosmic. Among the corral of writers I've tended toward, had they been Jewish, well, confessionally, culturally immersed as I please, my grasp on content impresses me more deeply than usually, but not always, otherwise: Be sure, I feel lucky thereso believing in plurality, the opening is yours. And still. I'm pretty confident a lateral move to suss out voices that ration a contemporary philosophy drive us into subjects well afar even the plain commerce of ideas Moms and Dads, family and nigh community toasts and boasts to our cups running over, our laments needing discovery, the coolest of wine or water for the sate of an enumerating commonality. I read these other historians, closely reserved for the instruction of histories not having me leave off our more intimated commonalities -- everclearly, they vibe a world beyond, and meanwhile their chimeric pen compels me down around the corner, the corner as to say where there are easy assumptions how I feel reached, identifying with them would be any reason to get in the door right off.

****************I just pick strawberries and read and get craggy from some internal fire for silence. I watch Susie narimee in bird-call mentioned - from Amoz Oz's "The Same Sea", narimee her love song. Rattle-up the mower, and mower says, Wha' wha', wafts blahs of stupid smoke - I'm getting on with its motor-battle. Vruum, turf is good doing it like that, that it's done and the illustrative time for me to count breaths in my lungs slowing back down. Just breathe in the elements--sworn to be guided by Nature electing its dweller in the forest of life, night's jangalled cosmopolitan--an expectation you've acted as galactic as imagining that the atoms of selves-being haunt their appending recent assemblage, denied but verily a sense of loss only to shed them one day truly becoming cosmic, here and now, motes for infinity, not merely in the give and play of catching up. *******************

***************Sweet Susie seems to read me well and her gospel plan to reimagine any one moment, probably equally as loose and libertine as I, are her ways of vibrating-on for the sake of anything needing a flourish coming from our reasons of contentment. And I love that. She says to me a couple of days ago, "Well, you have had a high sense of self-preservation." And though I've run around the mulberry bush as intent as all that, I knew what made me deprecare in the behavior ward, I mean, of course, I thought about it and under threat of many moons of distraction. At a young age, five or six rallies in figures I realized then that there were no small hints to an encounter with the world and my equality in it. However usual in its instruction the facts of my well-being still drew me to conclusions that I was self-conscious just as remonstratable as my walk down toward Quail Creek to my "ant tree" talking about "forever" to its canopy and "mutual emergence" with the near slurring creek, me and otherness, the sun in a sheltering sky but mostly anticipation of me there as goal oriented to awe over a mind full and good-enough till my middle aged-ness. Then with totemic eyes, I'm a conscious creature, I'm seeing that chronometric design on my thinking, knowing in images what I say to myself now when there lies the plank I jump from in a concept of self-reflection and skillful conduct, truths negotiated on sorrow's concourse, Doesn't everyone agree in sorrow?**********I feel I cross most 'flecting lines holding onto contemporary noise where any thought put to my diffidence withdrawn from echoing it is toward the rallying effect however sublime things become calling my provincial spiritualism the water, an ocean, anyone can get into. Kerouac faces a creek in the wee hours in Big Sur, so visually, down its gouge the Pacific plocks and flaps into the brink of morning - so to give up her vastness, soothed over a heavy tongue, he drinks from earth's belly while a Tathagatan god swears the ocean womb relays to me a catholic Truth, and his irreal fate. **************

*************Feeling like the shit gimme content from moment to moment is having become so allured in hope as to approach the dreamchair of 10,000 lives that I awaken to its auspice before I'd even gather myself there.*****************If only for a key to carbon fates gugged as emanation then sculpted from a compassionate void - we're made in dun colors like the mouldering daunt of heavens and canopy over Escher's Puddle hint of appearance, an invisive self, replete as sound matches muscular pick up trucks with its wonk of Big Country, maybe quadrad and lanky elephantine stole back from Victorian Age women beclothed in shields of high-esteem, dainty but elegantly operative to trod cleanly reporting roads, Zzzz Ggggrrrrrrr, sluicing toward a horizon before I feel stuffed into immediate goals, then emptied back into our dust animator glazy sun watchtower, meshed with all and cloudy inner-communication's swear, moment to moment sense redolent from moves pouring out one's crowded intuitions - I am spoiled, an' so egoitic to spread the meaning of I into the mile of Other, plaintiff of Dressed in This Lifespan v. Forever.***********

***********Thoughts on "Sapiens" Yuval Noah Harari's book on human origins, thatwhich one would write-down over human achievement and pain is called history. I attached a rather cartoony image from ancient Sumer for good effect as to keep in mind first Civilization's wonder of I & Nature, like in the relatable Gilgamesh lore, while our journey through techne and second nature objects change that reception to People verses Language, mutating our consent to Nature. Where the assent to origins take us are also ways of knowing how we know what we know. Homo rudolfensis in East Africa, Homo erectus in East Asia both would have been around when Homo neanderthalensis comported in their chain of lives toward and around mine, of whose DNA I carry close to 2% of these early Europeans (Neanderthal) due to the co-mingling with Sapiens, us. Down the street, through a perceptual past, away from home, what is homeward? I think-out this early re-occurring space of memory and first dreams, sensing peak resolve through all of my 5-6 years old grasp on fates--the age when most of us first develop and react to physical maps. I likely thought-over fundamental egoity, an animal with variable socialization, change and development, I'm only seeing the world demonstrate me and other. We humans apt to promote techne more usually underdeveloped at birth than other mammals, good through propiate relationship is the key in self-awareness, starts by being understanding and responsive. Big brained and represented by device or symbol to animate the present, one consumes what appertains as resource, incorporates it by dressing in its existential garment, mummers in condominium with its vitality and is hopefully realistic in detachment from it.*********

Like I'm saying this seven times born to this lifetime, marauding as someday's pillow armies, I approach the field where my "ant tree" grows usually negotiated with its weeds and sticker plants, grassy tufts, up-turned construction rapine on the dundering loam and curious sinking earth around ant piles. I'm in the tear of the morning to the translucence of all my life and as if warded off by prayer under sorrow's lights that our only keys are broken keys managing one into whose breach through the valley of tongues comes the stillness of observable reality's will over me, its subject. Our transitory world is evitable to expression and licit by the shadows of torpidity. The wonder having liquid language awash in the deluge of anything possible vulnerable to dialect, I could have eaten a burnt ember and been blessed at once by the Pharoah's minister, the prophet Balaam of Job's infamy. Wind sluices around me and it's a perfect day of Texas getting respected by the sun. I'll go to the far edge of the lot. The creek pours through the feral corner of the neighborhood and I wonder at the sky as some ocean. I thought about my tiny expediter ants in charge of what enumerable pieces of the world to which my mind cleaves that it would invariably be buried or just blown away, like dust begetting clouds, begetting precipitation in biologic thought and metaphor, air to fecund self-reflection.*************

I'm no maven of focus and intuitor in some great way of my emotional schedule, intellectual or otherwise. But thinking mainly and plainly on meditation, I see that it should be done for a sense agreeable to one's organs of consciousness working with one and against themselves and recognizing the inquiry in ameliorating somehow the grasping of our senses that would have one divine values had not something as salient as nothing asked of us become the contemplative within and been our driver. Primary to me if I could point to a place where I'm mindful and in assent to feeling unalienated from some inward inclination to become realized in the school of life manifold to this one world was and is only sitting back to view a mischievous mind moreso lauding centers from without like wet hillocks across a feral park on a wing breezing care-free loose to the reins in the plateau of time.*************In my thinking now I click better, more a content subject, than a couple of years ago with a similar reading schedule, when my middle-school aged niece and I would go to Central Christian Church that held classes for her and older students it seems to improve their reading discipline. They were a book discussion group. Well, I was on-track in the cult of self-reliance too, however remote from an out-going better philosophy that should rival this exoteric model when taking on the whole day at the end of the day in some weak pretense of completion. Reading is such a privilege to set free the fetters of our usual world and I would sit there even as I rally in analytical meditation and read like a sunflower bowed to these reliable thought worlds evoking readers who were wading deeper into good meditation than my ill focus otherwise appended. I can only say the alighting reason for continuity out of measured steps under plain-warm lamps, would-be answerable in patience, washed up and whelmed into the day's corners, created in me a glad founded shore of perseverance.******************There is a name of a once Big Man in Sumer that gives-up another phantom rite to ponder as more spooky transcendence avers a man who dines at the table of that lifetime's incarnation, that he was one who reserved an emigre's temporal habituation, with a mind superable as to live and dream, but could do well to survive all lifetimes, so myth portends a world-to-come, and he was called He Who Watches Life. Look back at the story coming from the Palaeolithic bard and into our biblacy, a deluge, the processions of water that she is humankind's mercy, and the cathartic earth is our parturience out of it. All we have is communication's fracturing lights, then we are merely Stone Age ...and all we have is steel chariots and the report of their wheels on man-made tarmacs 'pon earth, then rocks and trees become our shore of experience.***************Sweet Susie seems to read me well and her gospel plan to reimagine any one moment, probably equally as loose and libertine as I, are her ways of vibrating-on for the sake of anything needing a flourish coming from our reasons of contentment. And I love that. She says to me a couple of days ago, "Well, you have had a high sense of self-preservation." And though I've run around the mulberry bush as intent as all that, I knew what made me deprecare in the behavior ward, I mean, of course, I thought about it and under threat of many moons of distraction. At a young age, five or six rallies in figures I realized then that there were no small hints to an encounter with the world and my equality in it. However usual in its instruction the facts of my well-being still drew me to conclusions that I was self-conscious just as remonstratable as my walk down toward Quail Creek to my "ant tree" talking about "forever" to its canopy and "mutual emergence" with the near slurring creek, me and otherness, the sun in a sheltering sky but mostly anticipation of me there as goal oriented to awe over a mind full and good-enough till my middle aged-ness. Then with totemic eyes, I'm a conscious creature, I'm seeing that chronometric design on my thinking, knowing in images what I say to myself now when there lies the plank I jump from in a concept of self-reflection and skillful conduct, truths negotiated on sorrow's concourse, Doesn't everyone agree in sorrow?***************Of the several authors I read whose writing is elevating the discussion the arc first civilizations take, Palaeoliths till Technocrats, cultural impulses leaving behind or insistent upon macrobiotic accretions worn by apes of recent flourishing, Paul Kriwaczek and Wendy Doniger, from Babylon to India, respectively, and all the word permutations ready as the West is to affirm, so they tell, our cultures are implicitly living in a space of those worlds' continuum of facts. And to imagine borrowing from Sam Harris, these facts are reduced to our well-being--laudable moral landscapes or ones needing an amending breath of this late fin de siecle--perceptive of the change made in casus belli of biases, different facts appertaining the sliding scale as to what remains important in these environs of conscious creatures have a high bar of imagination that could be circumvented with one educated and deft axe of patience and understanding.*****************There must be a lush science to an escape, some moment to moment lucidity finding the rest of the day opened-up though I'd be hauling and moving around the horse farm where I worked briefly gainsaying the part of the day I am leaving. Once I imagined I was under the spell of a capable meditation watching sorrowful sleepwalking bovine drawing my eyes into the trace of their green dreams, temporal fetters, sunny loitering, their avidya (unknowing) unconsciousness. And whose grand dormancy could this have been but mine I submit myself into thinking? With a sunny heat on my face I look-on at the spaces of their wandering, and as it begins at my feet I sit and pull on a cigarette pained or educated at once at the vanity of an indulgent smoke imperative to the nowhere wafting of imagination. I'm a real nowhere man - I stood there and felt accused. Then, I had goals of skillful attention, right thinking, but meanwhile thinking my way out of a solitarian foreboding had matriculated in my head as a mask of teloi to a dried-up fountain. I was turning myself inside-out, changing with only this to survive as having encountered a light at the end of that tunnel. I'm glad to sit here and remember that day's sun as my friend, because it alliterates as solemn candles and this room arrayed in light from an insistent and lovely April.**************This thing occurring as some feeling of beginning the week notional reccess to time well spent, possibly hating work but more than that, amounted to some resolute couch where I lie prone to music and document, sensing things a long way off with walls around me almost giving up to the daylight and world pressing me back into some dear anthem of contentment. Walls falling, and in some thin vision of a guardian to this world's surprise of an intermedian mind, an angel evinces what I am only realistically going to imagine as a shadow. The detective of self has arrived, my silent appraisal of sensory torpidity is as plain as its neither dormant nor turned-on persona replacing my guffaw articulating room where I peal like alliterating chimeras. What would I give up if I could sacrifice this my usual physical teloi of transitory mazes out of this colorfield's temporal chance of self-reflection? Like Dostoevskii, prone upon a thoroughgoing epistemologic plank, maybe blissed into starlight, candle glare, yielding lamp, I think upon these moments, had I only the right tantra to move this leaden thought (world) around I would then see what it felt like to have all the answers, all things would be known.****************The smallness of our worlds are actually worlds colliding. That this weirdness of some empirical telling of our conscience, which works with one and against itself, is only natural that the world furls in on itself, the nigh resolution of egoity's finessing fire, white within black within physical reality may only yield no other place conceived and consumed by its temporal denizens, even moment to moment hardly objective as thinkers under the only light superable to perspective. One feels it shouldn't indict us in these riven or mounting flavors to the existential given, but it does by tethering us to Meaning - sometimes in context - easily indicating almost anything else with the graft of our attention, but as to content and values, that preachment so damn dear ...has merely ascendents running around elipsing with all things asunder saying over and over in their grasping ethos Good Bad Right Wrong True False. Hurray for my side, I watch flags catch fire like wind-horses. Egalitarian days of memorial's apex move 'pon the moral landscape can't still the human (long distance) race while democracy is in the hands of the monied and the penniless are decried as victims by their own hands. A mind of that see-saw stunt at the ready, and only awed to give way, assent like the yeahing of ever good resource, or one which plies her weary caprice against plain unknowing, done with it, oughta slam that jammy and make sure that it was broke.*************So, you had something to say? Oh, and I interupted, and you imagined you were suppose to have the floor, be listened to, fully explanate with all the emotional circuitry where you were going? Not that I don't care specifically about you. I do. This is caring. You are fine, really. Fine to shut your face like any body, and like me during most my life and learning to become a good listener as the primary sensitivity toward getting my point across or perhaps inspite of my true reach into a relative gospel. Because to wonder at any persuasive this-is-how-it's-gonna-be content to your myth of the minute is for me to interject. I'm gonna say what you just said, so you can hear it, and tell me how it sounds seeing your haughty bullshit a little more ironical. But that's to anyone - it really is knowing the words you use matter, and we're all gonna find out why.***********