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.***********