Doing the Right On

That we are all made of the same stuff as almost everything round these temporal haunts and just as the invented homiletics from celestial primacies to the enumerators partial to an eternal or apeiron factory sometimes or not in my Greek Ionian Anaximander best I wonder about Fire purgating with Good within us and Water awash our empirical depths in dreigh interstices of one's pain and loss applied with Mercy. Fire and Water. Solemn rite in pre-history's proto-Australoid world would establish epistemologies come later to a vedic vehicle with liquefaction in hypnotic ceremony while consuming a mushroom tea called soma - red fly agaric, this mushroom interprets flames eternal and plollocks perdurably with phantom prayer's expediter as the cosmic seas. Transcendence, and why not with a fiery brew? Literally, fire-water. Both appositives at play, the world is on fire with the reversable project of mundanity, and human perception is equal to its endlessness, no longer one drop of the ocean of incremental lurping reports over what-is, but the distance strung in parsimony to nothing at cardinal variance, everything is swallowed whole.*************Fragmentation is the first state of mind. Then whetted from the affect of distraction, this condition falls away becoming buffered from the provisional weather in generalities to any day, relishing the factory of sight and sensation while variously unrecordable as an encounter its intercalation of forever has an improving sense. Our minds are capable of elucidating nothing rhetorical. While all rivers run to the sea, their continuum is ever in a solarity's aerobatic retrograde, their destiny is impossibly full and then taking more. That we just fractalize in moderating moods or thoughts' economy, language lives through the only few words expediting such anticipation ever so deeply contented in reflection, while it really is the anchor presuming the safety in less going-on. At the ground of our beings we're called on again and again to propose our measured memories, an idea competing against sense-content definitely instructed by the heavier hand of our monarchical subconsciousness. So through minds so elliptical to presume continua with objective reality, seeing a hunter-gatherer wanting to confide meaning, that resource becomes also the story of resource, capsulating this world mostly mean of resource or agonisms in learning how to divine that one doesn't get the big picture, there is no big picture or piece of universal meaning in the carriage of our spirits, it is just how well oriented to it and open to change we become.************We're promised the story of belief system as a purity rite and circumstance inflamed by and conceived through ill conventions contending new information as merely unwillingness to change. A game of identity nodding to imply the gaps in one's intelligence. And certitudes in purgation of an off-putting contention to know better, the direction is multiplied through kenosis, this great and sublime self-emptying by elucidation living as we do in such helplessness in temporal heights granted within an Eastern context is appending a better meditation than just the last, meditation as an abra-cadabra of specters warming chill fields all away - all the world of sense inveigling slightly erased beneath - and if Abrahamic doxologies bring about a celestial plan the-way-they've-always-been adjuring an answer, making the subtle claim G*d is not only Higher Ground, but radically Other just as the case for this mean experience of our provisional imaginations, we are exiles till then. Then is an eschaton, the creative goal to esteem a would-be creative underlying order. Only that it saunters away from a rational spirit at the impoverishing of only one world's consent to an otherwise provisional sense-change in nature meriting this shadow of realization: we are all One to One beneath the same sky-vault of Nature, whelm of one awakening, these years mucking paths, mapping footfall that are like stelae remembering an acquisitive season just past our doors in weather with trees trying-on sun garments in right comfiture through their 10,000 coves, and beneath her canopies home and hearth of gray gnashings and hallooing candles. The Closing of the Western Mind, a great record on Church history, divines her congregation truly catholic ( = universal) and more plastique than the kaltida wood woven-basket in parturient drifting through Nile currents bringing the near-Hamitic coming philosopher Moses, Moshe, Musa into focus and record from our usual wisdom-traditions, or the same wood of the Cross and as a Noatic choice in building his arc, 'we're' more 'tranformative' and followers of reason - it is only history; spirituality is monist in that a believer sits at the feet of many gods - because now all grails aside from the few laudable primitives brandishing their own iconoclasm among us are technocracy's stupidly donned consensuses. I believe in the conversation. The Law, its Glory - the Word drives the ideation of logoi, the Logos not toward "reasoned account," but to a beginning time where ex nihilo Creation is summoned, sounding a lot like a story, one that should be an underpinning of myth, muthoi, which may achieve continua apposite psychological states of eudaimonia, complexions of social passporte and above all all the content-imperative to gainsaying evil-doers in a broad circumstance to the facts, like assigning elite values to plain knowledge or that certain knowledge should be feared. A story.************So to record I'm lucky enough to take direction, see how to think things through, lucky to be around folks cultivating self-reliance, believing in change, that even here they watch and even forget conscientiousness as to indict what I'm telling you I see while through their social mission these words are designed to encourage one's self-worth: "Separate behavior from personhood." So that she or he must be oriented with emotional honesty for a reason, going forward, vapors to vanity. This dialect is appealing for conventions sake without our rank grasp of identity realizing it is not who one lures into an absolute of social laudation but what this life is becoming. One must adduce what box is checked only ready to discern his and her own reactions in situ stealing the horses of love, worry and change, examining it till we don't. You are the first out of the door moving into self-reflection - one certainly acclaims to begin the beginning at the replenishing waters feeding the more sublime and privileged Cervinae, yet she and her herd don't owe us their liquefaction, they drink but not for us.*****************In one story from her book "The Great Transformation - The Beginning to Our Religious Traditions" Karen Armstrong relates about a Chinese peasant out in a grown-up field with a sticky tipped stone tied to a string he'd whip and retract to catch grasshoppers and without fail ...to roast. It becomes automatic, and he is "part" of that field with the tall foliage, he's welcome in assignations to those seasons with prayers to his steady-legged grasshoppers. He's skillful, meaning benevolent and moral, not just physically adept or with energy to wield in a technician's finesse. Because someone could kill in an exacting way and yet that wouldn't be skillful because it goes against a would-be compassionate edifice that a world in her glided eternal repose purports, that she lies before us while 3/4ths of what-is is buried beneath appearances. An evenflow with observable reality elucidates sleep or dreams. So, perhaps true to folk conscientiousness, the author's One to One dialect in the guise of an old peasant's rational wont comes as his fabled practice, dreams evoked whose mind-hand grasps love with this subtle inquiry to Nature certainly not far-flung to Hillel's perennial wisdom or for us an imaginative narrative that respects this One-World in convalescence in a way and not greedily surrendered in another.******************I have to go into whatever can be said about category of mind, TOM, while defying impermanence, allegorized by naming one's spiritual money-in-a-pocket living in this world so evanescent in its arrears, just getting here, so to imagine, our abilities to record a life becoming is at best several becomings. Maybe knowledge is spirituality and they are equal only by radical enumerations. Over the last few years as computer factotum, spectral hours were spent, media abounded and I felt really at the seat of my own empowerment, absorbed, contemplative in some barely arising conscious prop looking onto rarefied frames within many a documentary's concept and affect, one called, Tibetan Book of the Dead. As it were, down from those observational peaks, such auspicious mountains have the plenitude of a plain world arriving, and its crystalline memorial performing in my attention as desire for survival is maybe receipt to my own sense-movement thus soughen in long-sleeping elements to a second-nature world. Projecting into centers from without, moving into consciousness, into buildings and down from mountains, are all plastique, all the makings of this mind-sore.************In the late slackdom of the 1990s I made a retreat into the Catskill Mountains to my Aunt's bungalow colony, an upkeep of several cottages. These places here are full-on Borsht Belt communities, the best part of Mom's spirit-suzerainty map, they're remote and beautiful, forested and vital with lakes and streams all around. Ascending from the Hudson Valley region in New York, I'm compelled those long days introducing some trance ethic, a listening convention, namely the Bang soundtrack (long buried, stolen, today unpublished?), the Little Odessa soundtrack, Ernest Ranglin, Ravi Shankar, Lee "Scratch" Perry, spare of Dostoevskii's inner-conversation, iconoclast with early morning radio. Nothing in the way of internets and like back home media documentary and literature had me track an encroaching "desert" of everywhen drawn from the content of culture and religion, their nihilistic plain space in the calculus of this mind developing expression from an impetus espying my subconscious voodun, realizing all I can ever know is truth of an inner-rhythm ...to take-on a rational spirituality. I felt refreshed when Gershom Scholem triumvirated the Torah, the Gospels and the Quran at the Pentecost, called Shavuoth in Hebrew. There were several terms for levels of focus, ideation on theoria, called kavvanah in Hebrew, which made me humble and awed. I liked finding-out Judeo-Arabic in their convivencian dialect near in time and place to Kabbalah's first seeds. And Islamdom spiritually in their holy if standard convulsions toward an immense G*d, a lesson, in ways apparent while without condominium in Jeremiah of the Hebrew Testament as convincingly impelled in agonism, a truth, as dusty as once collonaded temples gone like its sufferer indicating an even more distant contending prophet - yass, this - and not denied the Jeshua of Christianity dressed as a Roman Warrior, all so poetically impervious till inverted by an agreeable theoria, News more recently deprecare to biblacy other than the organism's Historical key-holes to doors erected around an architectural caprice and continua of proudland, dreamable as between varied enticements correct for contemplation, and for me only improving a meditation through a gate Eastways.************Before acting all homiletic in self-knowing, I'm poised useless as this wise ape's two dawning ends of a moody rope. My creativity binds this transitional mask of things into lighted plateaux and trace hallways. The ambience of dispensations, two moods of peak then token redoubling, two ants upon a mobius strip merge like Santana's Caravanserai blue-orange of the 1970s and the neon fascinans of Remain in Light, Talking Heads of the 1980s.************In what world do we get to know the direction multiplied, rooted down to the funk of wanderings over long-meditated proudlands and upon whose shoulders chil'run grasped their forever-ness, awed at the red Sun that they were set loose to challenge intervallic and exilic paths, while they danced homeward, thereso to achieve destiny back through a Mother's underlying order, her intercourse of energies, this parturience of one whelm in awakening certainly retrieved from the DNA of a sentient greed, the great shadowy well of one's anticipation. A memory lives and a dreamy magnification of it is an ocean of outside light and a circular angel in the room when Dad handed me a dark pink Mattel dinosaur as I lie wakeful in my crib, and Mom gives me repair of my dreamtime's first duel with the rarity of a disambiguation of other. My greenstick bones aspire then out of her soul reliquary what reimagines me of her mercy and hope, this life in beginnings************The otherness to the other side of an absence of completion becomes the conscious edifice whose impulse through me compares more fully as its toppled effect. Two and a kind of Two equals more than Four. I like the allegory of a talmudic student - a talmid is one who studies the Jewish books of ethics well - who may be able to unpack and become proficient in some place in those tomes merely a couple of pages at a time. One drop of the ocean sometimes promises the unique report of its whole and my feet are through with paths, leaving all my wandering paces at her shores. And meanwhile if the quality of all I may introduce through luminarian doors is to sound like thus and such author, only that I've become principled to imagine my alliterating push at the crest of some rare consensus really "evitably" taking-on visualization in pure convenience establishing whatever merits my getting present for a library of books, they emerge in yet this give and play to mere titles convulsing from furrows of time barely amenable in the swoon of their deep-aside.************Xenophanes told Greeks of those looking glass gods - a horse had he been some kind of believer would see devotion only confidently ecumenic through a horselike deity. The Egyptians rationalized wealth and creativity from bovine resource, thereso a Bull god implies fate and reflection of the higher ground to just what they knew. These rural or metropolitan averse White men apprehend guns, their G*d and money, inventing little in the way of interesting culture, approachable only by their martial wist of paranoia given some ridiculous voice at the table better set with the lessons of an actual history rather than one of a consumer's appending wastefulness, denial of science, denial of a low common denominator that would give institutions and industry environmentally responsible mandate and regulation.*************That one is decisor and opportunist for change, while "Endorsing commodities is hardly the same as promoting revolutionary convictions or radical antipathies..." (William Solomon) its conflation is devastating and should drive social institution - Governance - with providence and discernment rather than toward these Earth Crises of near conflict hardly divorced from the actionably resourced consumer, believer, practicable executive in our lives becoming, vampire's materialist ...behind ethical certitudes, its amplification, that appreciate in psychological insight - knowing that facts tell stories too - may only be this perfectly invisive world in humanity's Mothernight apropos the cold lamp of historical endurance, more usually no different and as capable to declaim hatred, mischief or jealousy, just that her continua generally is gratified in better social realism, his in cultivation of securities' mechanic unto violence and rebellion, as we watch the watchman in his own woeful ways, educating his body also with convalescence, whatever stirs, it just seems obvious her self-same whiling-away would at least guarantee her more usual sense of whether the terminuses of safe environs merit her ways of more intimate pressures, an immediacy to be principled about the nature of resource.**************

Dance with Thems that Brung Ya'

Media, media! So what, people got to turn-off, tune-out before volleys of laggery only to record this apparently for most denied One World damn-well infinities jesting in fundamental stoic repose, inventive and heartful, and yet within us only "a ditch of blood," Kazantzakis relates. I don't get deprived from sensing what nature adjures like. In sojourns, precisely because 90 some percent in what confers any and most tacit knowledge of what-is is visual, it presumes a kind of caprice over this second nature world sweltering in likenesses. And all symbols of eternity are in this life. Whence our egoity makes kenosis of vanities to vapors, then this supposedly piece of some absolute is only the little trouble perturbable then implied as thoroughgoing eponymy. I watched what I'd always soughed through my own appearance seeing my own cadence in an old wizened native, First Peoples redeemed through image, this encounter, an expression materialized and superable to mine. His more seditious, crapulent from hardship and lessoned there. Certainly meaner, times of spare resource can make an acerb survivalist, and here I'm wielded Eudaimonian. Life exudates as a "...forest of life underfoot," (I think, Patti Smith?). I'm donned of this garment of existence, full-up, animated, so alive and amazingly all the rivers run to the sea and the sea is never as rent from my solitarian impulse as only mnemotechniques can do.**************So to record I'm lucky enough to take direction, see how to think things through, lucky to be around folks cultivating self-reliance, believing in change, that even here they watch and even forget conscientiousness as to indict what I'm telling you I see while through their social mission these words are designed to encourage one's self-worth: "Separate behavior from personhood." So that she or he must be oriented with emotional honesty for a reason, going forward, vapors to vanity. This dialect is appealing for conventions sake without our rank grasp of identity realizing it is not who one lures into an absolute of social laudation but what this life is becoming. One must adduce what box is checked only ready to discern his and her own reactions in situ stealing the horses of love, worry and change, examining it till we don't. You are the first out of the door moving into self-reflection - one certainly acclaims to begin the beginning at the replenishing waters feeding the more sublime and privileged Cervinae, yet she and her herd don't owe us their liquefaction, they drink but not for us.***********With the aphorism Take two steps forward, one step back, really there is more of an august stayed contemplation, giving it feeling, while being lured as temporal-vivants in pale anticipation - in this groused world, we're suffragettes for it to reimagine what we're becoming - broken past anything declaiming wont as privilege only hoping to deny it, we're concretized here, "...just "me" one thinks," patient for sup, while becoming mavens at all the rearrangement of model swayed into models appending mindsore or agonic shocks to plainmind and blessings to this certain physical success.***********I wander under tree canopies, homes now in better ingathering climes to archetypal birds originating human lure for flight alighting through semblance in their libertine need dreamt alive. I live and dream by developing encounters with aerobatic language as perceptual realms free to this lush fragmentation, murmurrating as travelogues in aesthetic cloudy goals. In whatever integer swelling the skies birds design to enumerate such instincts amid their heat-sensing swirling and flapping, had those same heavens persisted within us as pellucid light, image and its permutations then to become our conceptual grammar, it could be anything making flight imperative, imperative as myth tracking the reality in hopeful expression out of the same blue sea of space. Believable as anyone's first rational yon look "In the climate of the greater will" James Michener grasps an appositive by defining where mind redounds by ironic margins, the extenuating circumstance of its category and impulse.************Cigarettes in that poor plight for intensity is terrible it's true - I remember promoting hindsight in these moments described here in summery Egypt, December 1987: "I won't always smoke," I thought and would rightly quit, evenso the best smoke I would have imagined is one then with vision in my first long bow, raison d'etre to a civilization in their hours of the red-bulb, across Cairo - a long breath in a kind of stasis - was having walked out of my Hotel Americana around the corner into this roadside pedestrian perch of dirt, gravel, everywhere the bombast of a formerly metropolitan would-be infrastructure now sorta unfinished and here to a view a few miles into the Cairene masses particularly actionable by a green neon done-up mosque just as my brother described, inspired in numbers as frequently as churches arise in our towns. Al-Salam restaurant, where our first Egyptian friend is made, just to the otherside opposite the Americana, is this place where my funk's bestower partner and I were served beef heart and hibiscus tea called Karkadae, sweet and red. I didn't partake of the meat but Anthony Bourdain, particularly by example, refines eating with a less than intra-mantra enslaved slaver narrative ...bite-bite-bite, has turned more than the success of an anecdotal Jewish (even developing) preachment into taste fulfillment to that of swine, for me, while Adel's offering of roasted beef heart could have been as interesting. Feta tasted in Luxor justifies turned-on to the macrobiotic sense in situ, otherwise. The arguilah, hookah pipe, Nabirl offers us at Adel's restaurant made white plumes of smoke that make me feel small. Adel (Ah-dul) told us to just call it a hubbly-bubbly. A high of voidance, borrowed as it were in conscious escape drops the thick insane air of weird muselmanner modalities, reminding you the bar is set low even out of the West, Like a night veiled city, more anxious than an easier American lardier and yet amid an agreeable imminent respite but more darkened than lighted, in natural reprieve though I am some sleeping geist innocent by the trove of its redolence, plodding strange inner-city alleys when all senses taste of unmet brotherhoods, fantasia through unrequited sisters. My (auspiciously orange) Let's Go travel-guide sunders the prospects of irrelevance, halloos in bohemian gut instinct if I had to imagine and was good for giving me legs gesturing this student of life whose good attention I sit here reaping, and maybe yours by the fruits of hearing. And then my The Brothers Karamazov book written by Fydor Dostoevskii was merely a prop staving sensitivity in my recent academician efforts ...Oxford, and reified this-journey's quick but meditative visit to a yeshiva in Israel were I to study again, a feeling not lost on me. Having read on Muslim-Jewish convivencia, growing-up - the Golden Age - philographian in light of spiritual writings praefectus renowned in Gershom Scholem - specifically his acceding to hagiographia whether from the Gospels or the Quran, the Torah more directly - has made an adjured observer of me to dignify analytical meditation, elevate it.************My creativity seemingly is come to the more preponderant confidence that now I'm finally freed-up amid the wiles in what rather conveniently meshed into the crapulence of my last nerve. The smell of rosemary I read had something to do with some feeling of renewal, I thought, lightening my mind of dreigh finalities, long awes in thought-jazz only so much for the tote in my wheelbarrow. I use some tea tree oil and frankincense now in moments reprised generally of certain time embracing en familia. In the forest they're redolent to my senses in realistic Tao adduced waterways where I could sense a beat America, an America frightened and insular around my Aunt's bungalow colony up in the Catskills, up in the country, we'd say. At a stream's rocky margins, the sauntering ripples looked fecund, maybe, so free and alive then, but time ticked aum as I touched bottom once and everything that mattered to me in that hellion season was whether a key to cellular memory was anything I could pretend, laud to endure ...waiting till now.**************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.****************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?************That Believers may typify an intelligent universe, use Creator beings in somewhat fathomable sense of just human reflective information, jumping from resource behind it toward an Absolute complementing its continuity, is an edutaining game of henotheism. This kind of ellipses fully realized in Christianity with a threefold feature at one inspirational schedule that the G*d over all is to make ways from generally His blue skies, the Deep and the language of light and shadows (I'm saying) to that of distinction remediate to a Merciful god, and handfuls more under many other Names, gods incomplete only to look at the god of the Other in our midst is easy to suspect in identity contests within and without, juggling the ardor of Absolutes swayed into the doxography of enumerable Absolutes. That Believers do the mischief of a general god and then anything of flourish to assign yet a principle of leisure to any and all emergent historicity is henotheistic. How flowing and importuning could a silken thatch of red ribbon, so roseate as the Central Asian sun ever to evoke beauty withal completing the first baptism and charm of prosperity, Mother in cloudy soughing translator mask of affections, bliss like the god of bliss catalyzing her toddler's taste and feeling of metrical continua now the ascendent to Things Will Be Better, later the requiem administrator of what dreams come of an instinct to covet similar - if only - though likely stark raison d'etres into some hardwon paradise?*************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 with good 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.************Unfailingly if I had to imagine being inspired to cultural identifications, I'd come to a grail with all manner of loose teas, little old boxes refilled of teas not originally packaged there ...a couple left-over, stuff I'll only ever mix with another complement whose qualities I'd register through ever-anticipated tea seances. Healthful, it's the thing of my whiling-away erasing beneath the ashtray reliquary of time withdrawn and spent risibly and stupidly pulling-on cigarettes. Thank the gods of predictive and lush voids, here where I reorient into consenting space and contemplation, this trough of Jasmine Green moves me around liquefaction like 10,000 cups before emptied into my personae mutable to the sea that is never full. Chai in Arabic or Yiddishkeit is black tea. I would have it mornings at a Yeshivah out of their samovar or chainik prodigiously consumed with baked eggs plainly baked over chunks of green bell pepper in Jerusalem as my first fortunes to solitarian travel and fatelessness ameliorating. Had it gooed like honey alas saturated in white sugar, a good sprig of mint leaves down in it given to me from Reza Khan on the outskirts of Jerusalem, at his yard, a sprawling dirt compound here emplaced stalwart and portent looking like a gift from subdued badivat fires and an enumerating shanty town. And to prepare an academic model in my thinking, a project to libertine shores within and toward an expression I would never resolve but here otherwise denied an expanding accreditation, mornings were ritualized in one of the serene and stoic buildings I studied in while at Oxford once very briefly, over a Month of intensive study at the mid-limit to my University career, August, 1987. If there could be a diminution to soma but spectral and imaginable in evenflow with a spiritual motivation, tea seems shared from hands across the waters of its perfunctory ritual.************I find that I've become bound to focus on sometimes authorial personae - the fury of my sinuendo mental economy, agonic to reflection - contracting my inner-dialogue back into tried and abused moral avenues maybe through a more passive dialect before News for instance but just as adduced to an equinox where only thoughts unfurl in social report, good enough and still the last disparate sentences practicable toward my evocation to it. Alas I am no slave, feeling it pull back, 'think in images' I think, words are cheap. Meanwhile only directing my eyes into the light glazing from outside through the window at my bedroom haunts, its silent intrusion likens with effectively adjured new kinda sounds proscriptive but permutated of actual language only to coach me back through an imperative to unpack sense-dulling acquisitive moods and see attention ultimately reach the interstices of pain and loss, my mood interior hot and concentrated. I can only say, life redounds as an inflated, overwhelming tear and still feigns generality of peace and grace lurped into the cautery of this ubiquitous ocean.*************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.***************Intonations in her easy-speak waved away under horizons like blades dipped and lashed around this contentful earth. I'm refreshed as if I'm noticed too when I sought a lepidopteran and so dreamt away as convulsed to sunlight as earth becomes designed by climate in the power of some escalating mind. Listening to Tic Toc Teac, I see Moses go down with a dream of the moon over near park hills, where upon a sense of original self's ground of awareness are knolls of my sung circadian 100 watted nervous system left to blooms and taking in the whole world with one breath. There are no indivisible appending needs to recognize what good inner-scrutiny can do feeling like the few selves left in that reckoning lights-out cosmogonic room where One reflects in the lure of speechless worlds arraying dreamscape possibilities within existential garments donned of quietude in one's dusty tea mentating eyes till sleep spares us anymore an acquisitive sweetness drawn from daylight and her surrogate nirvana sensitive candle (=almost out).*************Juggling absolutes, Absolute realities that ooze consolation's impulse of what-is in certain gratuity in seeing one's proud theoria as concept really actually knowingly divined of merit mavens we are in subtleties of mental progress and physical constitution - after all we have lost we have already paid the cost - because intensity is key and has persuaded midnight's children or anywhen's escapee of False-Positives of their illusions to one's self while informing our energies to a center from without, moving into awareness, beyond into the intellect of dreams, its concentration.***************I'm so solicitous to visualize repair in the dreamy certain skies threading my old neighborhood pursuant near-country compelling late hours, graced in ways through my youth and the wrought animal of my mind. Doing things. On foot usually, drawn across contents that ply en fascinans, thus-gone, barely whetted to the metrics of coarse transcendent gates, the two thieves at identity's rescue and crucifixion are some black and white dialect of rooms eventual to whatever my interior world says of values all from an agonic observable reality now fully doctrinal wanderings, that would make sense one day, 'must be,' thinking through utter spiritual possession, grasping the reins down, down toward my soul of souls. Like anything nature affects in me over that suburb's looking-glass pavement, the Thought parchment of self-awareness in a rather alive atmosphere, purple as floral-night shores then in relief of light and energy, watery mercies, lairs of shadowy niches, to be equal to it is only to cultivate category of mind, circadian floe, head in the wind.*************