Common Era Values, Isaac Babel

Power by good antiquities' watchtower supposes two interchangable angelic figures - one out of the strangeness of the circularity of life, the cherub accretes wonderment fully exiled from immanent knowing, as it were, the kind of knowledge one magnifies in the shores elucidating the world behind shadowy chronos. Prone as an observer onto a solid state of things albeit mutating of the elements that would be you and I before our penetrating this awakening or covetous dream, this destiny at once is a beginning's journey, is a journey of musterion which reifies critical essence and its demiurge, a cherub's ellipses in Power with the chthonian bull, hero endurer of black depths and red voluble powers, only sundering them, then surfacing, is consistent with birth and even more assignational for new bodies of experience, burdened but intense like Ganesh, every little action ...imaginable as an underlying order Sapiens' sentience accords, says what we want to believe of the ratiocination of stardust making-up our bodies, that new bodies are donned like old garments. A babe is emergent and the bull other times - upon wheels inside of wheels - so somehow the ancients wanted to transect Higher Ground, these cosmic directions strode by a chariot or throne, mapped through first civilizations, this is a kind of hagiographia contest in the telling of Ezekiel's vision.*************There is a story Karen Armstrong relates about a Chinese peasant doing his exemplar hunting and gathering even thousands of years ago out in a tall field with a sticky stone-tipped string tethered to a wand which he whips thereso catching grasshoppers to roast as she regards his skill in wont. He can't miss. It becomes automatic; he is "part" of that field with the tall foliage and steady legged grasshoppers. Skillful means benevolent and moral, not just physically adept or an artisan or technician's finesse. I'm visually placed within the well of this peasant's abyss, mise en abyme, from a novel In the Beginning, appreciating how the author Chaim Potok develops this looking-glass literary mechanism by introducing The Book of Dream Interpretation (Solomon Almoli, 1516) within his contemporary novel. Of core-culture, from greater reality going within to an elucidation woven through in disparate taste for kabbalah which his hero, a persevering student living amid a world with World War II arriving, worms into its mouldering yet burgeoning experience of other if plain-spoken temporal worlds. Letters and their permutations, language is an executioner of the watchman at the gates of escape. Ascendent mediums, just an ordinary radio on his father's shelf, newspapers in glass-fronted vending boxes bannering war and rumors of war, a window auditioning the night of reason in the alley below - these portals fulminate an implicit world, take us into those imminent corners only to have the observer reinvented by an awakened feeling in the wiles of this rarefying transformation, mercy would soon be evoked.*****************Turning my watch back, doing that from an eye in the sky as folk-wisdom alights with instinct and stays bouyant perceptually availing as you and I are - victors or victrices come complementary to renew those perceptions - we are lassooed from our antecedents to the tune of about 100,000 years and thusly like a fiduciary with fecund spirit and eternalities abiding lazily in consent I looked hard into an erstwhile integer, pointed toward it into this corporeally persistent mind, mine, Mom's preponderant raison d'etre to the fertility of origins in whatever way I would run with it. She called me her Wildman from Borneo. So right from my earliest conscious map, as Wildman from Borneo, the near green ants who dream the lives of all the world's chil'run, Aboriginal peoples believe, is curious enough defining antiquation entwined to a farmer's life in Australia in predecessions to a telling of seasons passing anterior to our modern intercalations. This is a story I uncarved pretending to be an author to intimate origins. Hailing land, I knew I had legs with this feeling contoured of some historical powerspot beneath my feet in re-ideation to actually a timeless void. Something loosened me at the shores of a confident order, wherein the libertine quay holding these seas' beckoning, my Mothership rested and giving up this information to Mom, the star of my awe, the middle of my presence while following my mind in natural inquiry, waiting for an appreciation of this episteme, I watched what I saw, an intoxication with wondering, ".......Weren't you all there?"****************A lovely arousal of teacherly condolences, there is a kind of inter-subjectivity that an author can't be further back than space and time perused for imminent content - and yet the new yet old feeling of some long ago Jesus - so within ascendency, like all belief, is anaemic of evidence manufacturing motive as thoroughgoing students of life. I'm meek, some Roman, Mediterranean ...no, I'm Turk, only distilled of more confidence, more and more unique but with a fist full of magisteria having read CE, Common Era in a book away from the rest of the school of fish day, so uncarved then I could only imagine myself vulnerable to exoteric scrutinies. Another distance fromwhich emerges soterian philosophies, trees sway like "kaltida" wood ready for Moshe's basket/ark, this same wood of the Cross, said to be Noatic appositive boat-making construction too. Theoria had to be sought out and there were gaps from a life of study that may let in something more inspiring, definitely progressive. It convinced me of the intercession of a ferrel past, not plain and dissolved but catalyzing what we think is gone only as it first soughs to adjure breath, time.******************************Birth is exile and still it appreciates with model arbiters for mind begotten of light in conscious victories realized sometimes in the plastique of our physical success. One magnifies the world behind shadowy chronos, prone as an observer onto a solid state of things albeit mutating of the elements that would be you and I before our penetrating this awakening or covetous dream, this destiny at once a beginning's journey which is consistent (with birth) and even more assignational for all the new bodies of experience this sentient life accords; new bodies are donned like old garments. The world is presentable from its countermand with eternity more astride meaning than we who become mad if not feverishly relative as one incarnates through her Motherlove. The industry of our amniotic survival fetched from the table of her experience makes the world the focus of her second nature devices, hardly palimpsest, we develop with and of it. Lo, she will testify, and man will prepare and make secure, this environment feels right, "I anticipate it," she's begins the complexities modelling versions of this same hope to trace paths down to the rivers of water which bringth forth fruit, ...every life finds its purpose.****************Yay, figurative time, in at least a few lessons in commonalities planed by the same blanket of continuity easily creative in thus and such associations recognizing Common Era, books appear most interesting to me looking through my Mother's stacks availing within them descriptions of yet more in distractions but much more than that in vast new reaches of relative time. I read CE in a book away from the rest of the school day, so uncarved then I could only imagine myself vulnerable to immanent scrutinies. I broke the spell, there were gaps that may let in something more inspiring, definitely progressive. It convinced me of the study of humans being. We think it is gone only as it first soughs to adjure breath, time. It's made conspicuous in the light of the night running with a message from all the otherness come down out of Earth's sometimes blue dome or glassy black pleroma comfitting with mythic soteria. Some think even compelling others that therein lies what is trialing us as its analogues of fate.******************Isaac Babel's dovecot messengers in avian circumambience cleave clouds in their gymnastic report around blinking past dawns (looking back a hundred years) with these doves murmurrating and then coming down skittering pebbles for wont of food fulfilling a will to some greater climate, these life-giving atmospheres, say, voids swallowed by aural skin stocked in sign-posts of vastness handing away content confident indications of mind is what we suspect while it looks sustained in the behemoth of a sky's guffaw. This author plying in his books Russian tales of love and darkness, the beautiful News of long-buried throats-clearing, his sky star-paper fill their pacing ole brown shoes out of an early 20th century with intimations of culture, justifying one's journey by decisor advantage of wisting mind's then-tentpole suspension. And under the roof in the places of his making, a shadow reputes in generations of kitchen patterings upon a Mother's lardier apposite utility cupboards. A fulsome shadow leans musically from the star torn sky, it is her interstitial escape like a window beckoning end of days in school agonisms making capable purveyors and knowers of new reasoning, and her son a recognized scholar. He did cool slumbers of dawdling stars in good Rimbaud form like in an emergent night, their intimate paints from a spiritual moon adduces the volubly dreaming bride of Winter's leafless boughs. Chthonic roads of time's descending traffic wist away and haunt by footfall's diluvian experience, way over, veiled in the velocity of our antecedent's good-bye, someday forever if the ground is felt beneath your feet, you know you have legs.*******************I refuse to be mollified breaching the event of getting older. Trance egoity replete at the crest of presence, a half century ...so what. My opinions I will determine aren't just able in taking me to the same watering hole and resource values and then assume the ante-evanescence of them so that by our same conventions these values become re-emplaced as Source. I'm damn well less the gradins' selves devourer of air and light dancing through greater reality any more equal to it than a comfortable model for mind arriving in half-thoughts. Humility perhaps as juggled an exercise in the difference between seeing in explanate psychologic depths imagining oneself comfortably and freely-associating in one on one dialect only then to be released but for light-color and sound, I've become its cypher of conversational reality first without my saying anything.**************If there is a thought, then there is the principal, maybe essence, to thought, the simple beginnings. If there is intelligence in the world, then there is its beginning, the intellect. For every condition there is its potential. This simplicity is known as G-d according to the rationalists lost to redemptive scholarship in Islamic Thought a thousand years ago, whose believer's Creator in his philosophy of well-being always defers to Reason, the Mu'tazilas from Iraq. If we dream thereby we must exist. To exist then whence that energy promoted reflection upon the necessary condition, there is a principal to existence. Though it may be beyond a dualistic approach as our minds accord, still one may necessarily expect a Principal behind that value. Out of this model of origins it is easy to reimagine Source in our on-goings and change from that of the self-referenced Buddha eponymizing his release by the name of Tathagata, meaning beyond all that is transitory, come or gone. So hopefully it may be asked, wouldn't the most objective volition into presence sort out impermanence, that the makings of you whether whetted from any poignant evidence still has complicit and sublime soul stuff enumerating, some kind of continuity preceding birth's shadowy door and this one moment radiating toward the next replete with the unknowable? And aren't these years past our door plainly loitering in an eternity, thus come and only barely revealed materializing its analogues who dream and realize what is thus gone?********************Appreciating my own sense, in The Closing of the Western Mind, Charles Freeman's Socrates stains with some kind of rank for inquiry like a centering Shiva character reposed in a mandala placating maze spanning an otherwise empty sometimes idea-forced curtain-pulled mind cloud improving the penumbral crisis only to experience her and his reach (Shiva is both) something making me headstrong and even prone. Imagine 399 bce, Socrates is killed over what one now and forever can casually be known. I see the news/antagonism about the gods in limby fenced-off minds, enlisted like choice daemons in human development which can't have anticipated this technocracy's feast to their sense of tradition merely from tradition. Evoking this most accreting fin de siecle, this century, has energy in continua not only barely steps away so near in feeling with positive vibrations but immediate sensitivities from spiritualizing in the best of rational interstitial currents, hope maybe undeniable, weathering ourselves here amid streams of thought alluvial ready in this night I call an unfurling dispensation of its reason. The vanishing space through a good deal of the 20th century is now. We're anecdotal with an open crowd to voices then knowing ironies less fathomed come Americana detained by lack of culture in cheapening rules as to what systems, transportation, isms and machines get to consume. Whoever tends the fire of an enduring human condition assuaged in comforts long enough freed from conspicuous lardiers are the analogues and ascendents to a realistic social architecture or intuitive change which could bring back the greener Earth.***************Evoking this most accreting fin de siecle has energy in continua not only mere steps away so near in feeling with positive vibrations but immediate sensitivities from spiritualizing in the best of rational interstitial currents, hope maybe undeniable, weathering ourselves here amid streams of thought alluvial ready in this night (dispensation) of its reason. The vanishing space through a good deal of the 20th century is now. I'm anecdotal with an open crowd to voices then knowing ironies less fathomed come Americana detained by lack of culture in cheapening rules as to what systems, transportation, isms and machines get to consume. I gave content living then all the while spiritualizing getting-away with such reflections in a golden eye, that what I defied was everyone else fettered in its closed doors ever received, namely becoming old and dying. Or today's watchmen and women. What is this life become? Sisyphus has piled the winsome sea with all declaim trucking nature as this sufferer's model with its efficacious gravity, what he or she realize, change. Woe death, spare me the incredulity of my escapism and reach forward to me with the keys at my penetration to this waking state. In the wilderness, the void redounds as earthen gates ad accompli the wound of impermanence.**************In that I lived through a good deal of the 20th century, I gave content living then all the while spiritualizing getting-away with such reflections in a golden eye, that what I defied was everyone else fettered in its closed doors ever received, namely becoming old and dying. Woe death, spare me the incredulity of my escapism and reach forward to me with the keys at my penetration to this waking state. In the wilderness, the void redounds as earthen gates ad accompli the wound of impermanence.***********

**********I see folks rile in their concerns over even more worried minds to reimagine so plightful then nominate themselves having issuant neuroses and worse. Krishnamurti wondered not so strangely, everyone is "neurotic." I'd assert an appositive to his Thought is Fear ...is self-preservation, even bouyant lessons wanting to get to the otherside of sentient greed, is to see one complexion to our subject minds as fundamentally in apprehension, not wanting trance egoity reproven, and inquiry as mischievous as an abstract enthusiasm for order in the world however presumptive an existence to its primacy might satisfy, satiety. Mind. Most are pained thinking in fray half-thought worlds, not feeling this scrutinized space inmost unless we've hidden inner-unrelatedness, the absurdities eclipsing who we define empirically - this view of thee for thus and such intensions - so more human than animal, but more animal than agent of its land, more land than buildings presuming memory of home than home where the heart lives, this moment traced more in distance and feeling than however described or accused an I and I lured into enduring. I have to wonder, how do we get through such times while the imperative g'warns for consensuses? Feeling proscriptive mostly self-aware portending counsel is flatly ironic still gives and plays in the field of ameliorating personalities whilst they, our first reflections, sort it out as precentors of context. So it won't matter what flavor of wood appreciates in the pyre, what content of feeling sought in repute or ill-repute to puzzle us into social living. That one is near salience, near is all and good enough knowing the high bar of conceptual freedom is light and pulmonary ventilation, within reach of peak moments operating through better and better emotional and physical success - it's good recollecting we hadn't far to go.***************Love this thought-lyric from Dylan giving me room to move on the second word which here decidely is not his that I just ran with otherwise dynamic poesis maybe slightly unclarified by his distinct oratory, unknowable and fecund, like a lucid mask of sunlight in translation Heys you. An expression in alluvial modalities that could make me hopeful of mind query of embrace, now the adjurer, "There's muse inside the minds of crazy faces." (He says, "There's mills..." in Billy 4.) I'm my Mother's made-up mind. While her spirit mentated as source and resource evocateur, kitchen purveyor of dispensation 'pon waves of its disambiguation, I'm just a cauldron of her dust and star tincture, umbrella wielder gone inmost toward weathering and prone nerves. Torporous then hellion rainfall threatened with her impermanent record, undone by the climate of a greater will, iterating an antiquity of golden soteria, her good guy with strong smile vending ambient reactions, a kind of solution to light unbroken as soughing distance, appearances speaking my mind lent to feeling evitably homeward then emergent, 3/4ths of this hot iceberg rationcinating in brackish floes, I'm bleeding from long-wrested rivers bi-secting all the earth, running to the sea that is never full.***********

*********At 15 I remember defining the moments studying kabbalah in a way that took my young age out of any ambiguity. It didn't matter that in the standard of Eastern European Jewry tradition held that mysticism is unreasonable until the ascendent reached 40 years old and may deny soteriologies in the main. Seferdic and other near Afro-Asian Jews met the more austere doxologic focus, kavvanah, with a closer primacy in ululatory Hebrew. Calling myself Jewish, as a boy then, some thing of exoteric plodding may otherwise draw me into surviving while seeing social structure that ominous, Religion in her entreaty as if away-from-that (plodding culture? licit instincts?) made me feel crowd conscious, about something and preponderant of slack if luckily other in peak moments with this world, my mirror. In the libraries, the few years before then enduring secondary education, first civilizations rightly entranced me, seeing our historical human exponent sorted out, a wild spirituality ad accompli is proof enough watching better elucidations report continua in techne, language, computation and theoria hardly different from what this 21st century avers with even current symbols' martialing as we have always been. Ask yourself, Isn't Power still as late in principle? And aren't origins just as capricious becoming thems that brungs us, yet mission alluring as those new minds who would have completed the circle?****************Not particularly advocating smoking cigs - never - however, to elucidate 'pon this sort of habit as follows is through its terrible provocation in particular deference arguing for the ever deeper waters siphonic of my pillow-army attention - a place to land or consciously map where one is proven rooted in continua? The aural egg, say, our very open nerve to this onslaught of pollution is one's space and center of awareness, as clean and hopeful as threshold encounters on a horizon's walk, as all mornings, promises arising minds its indefinite analogue merits a certain self-same awakening. Smoking awhile regretfully I can remember "yesterday's" cold half-smoked dregs sitting in the winter exuding backyard garage - a grail, lucid as crummy fingers answerable to my gaping if doxologic guffaw - in a Las Vegas plaster ashtray, eyes glazed in nirvana, it was cold-cool that morning when lighting it. In the gulag narratives of Varlam Shalamov (1930s-50s Siberia), his sufferer makes illusory the morning surmise, thought's freedom of night chimera with the survivalist plying his renown of rolling his few bits of tobacco one-handed. If compassion seems committed in the guise of compelling votive ethos, license to ritualize in thoughtful spellbound day's long-ends that they begin ever sworn to even more reprieve, makes "religious" the awe moment of one's decisor mood, a relishing exile. But home is where the heart lives - home only matters now, now that I've been edutained.************

**********Thought then rethought, tread into more assuming a positive trend, now realizing this conceptual grammar swathed in more words should be emplaced with stupendous effect into that belly-button window of my thing only earlier today grapnel with hypnoses to see it formulated just so meritable as penumbral lips to dreamtime's sip of her wisdom wine served-up by this mind-hand confidence I call concept: Thusly observing over what we ought to contend with an iconofist of realism perturbable to some of us some terribly vast goings-away - something Yes, mysterious, Yes, greater than thee, culpable if only by its stranger hand - powers in that identity's fugue which alight as this earthen pulse dire and present upon our paths toward their precincts libertine and hauntings spoken on proudland media, pugmarks and their vanishing, hoped against hope that at their margins Source would promise a plenitude superable to sorrow's dusty weight, is writ to the monarchical survivor enthroned upon her yet prospering new day, the feast of mercies that a mind and body plea in their circadian hours, within nature's stubborn image prised even deep into our invisive bones, eyes layered upon layers, throughout all our animal beings in distant throes modal, usual and lighted by all our definitions of the Good. Yep, like over concretized letters, standards plot my aloof reason into a thoughtless bliss of light and actual feeling, I cry looking glass mercury down, damn down, to my deprecare atoms. Oooooo. These still waters stir in sedimentary blooms deeply torpidity adjudged just to imagine one more cast of her memory candle raptured and invigilating my wandering path's plap denied of her vitality but actual in roading that open country in my feeling as her subtle reach for an imperative homewardness.