True Democracy, Nikos Kazantzakis thought over & round Nicholasville Road

Belief takes air to be consistent. Everything held to it & nothing thru ways in parsimony off other models of experience will do.*************** So to develop what Kazantzakis would say about his Father is of a place memorial like the True Democracy true to years and years of porch-sitting decompressions as I imagine home shores sensate accompli pretending no differently than the mountains his Father turned toward, chibouk pipe lofting its thought clouds and in these environs, sunrays rapturing from Mediterranean waters, anything lassoing the two threads of the horizon with what I could throw at it. Once a gray curtain halved at a pellucid ceiling above me of all the impulse and aerobatic wag to reimagine exhaust from the near highway skirting backyards of houses arrayed only a few houses away, and whose highway sounds of belching and squalling and wailing would report coming moments of inner-narrative all along in trace assignations with furrows inverting of senses cultivating 'call and response' and may well be a standard okaying stillness from a moment to moment radio on torpidity. But through language too, the finality 'good-byes' of leonine airplanes from Bluegrass Airport, their machines hunt for distances. While more immediately, avians solitarian and choral relate of their precious spaces, move and bob like with geometric visors for wont in their occupations of scrap and peckable mysteries, saying, 'Here ...just here,' that their song reputes a conscious satellite and some perch of any one graduation to Season's feeling in the climate of its power.************It's all about the dub, beats so meritably wizened, symbioses in Peace ...tadow, it's for the Beat and always to dance.***********Thus TV irreality, junk culture et al eases contemporaries into elect continuity while time is what we need even scant underfoot.***********G*d = Good while alacrity is invented, unconvincing when the theodicized can't own up to his pathlessness novel amid the mundane.**********Reflections delay the better of us till we're jumping from anyone more realized in lucky rapport, memory & its purveyors.*********Believers cherry pick biblacy's repute because open criteria is from accepted reasons as to reject slavery, alight fear et cetera*********That I'd invent renewal of the stuff I'm made, the mundane is all I am but hopefully moreso the guide libertine at the point of observation, far over, way over, come to this place again and again.**********Drumpf's charade attack on CNN is not only toward his detractors, but anyone at variance to his elite and hardly populist wag, a threat in toto at the free press and the scrutiny which will have brought his more interior acerbism into more developed conversation. The 4th Estate confers core-culture, which the likes of Drumpf and his minions think to carve into their corporate personhood and likeness. The fealty agonisms to our political animals must be ameliorated with a lens out of our technocracy's highly alluring sarcastic realism sometimes in the same play-acting moves biblacy's Holofernes and Judith evocation is implied by humorist and critic Kathy Griffin while it slashes at this Big Man ethos whose pass-go on violence serving their own ends is ruinous to the certain skies which would've belonged to our youth. Drumpf should be denied any patriarchy.**********

****My circulation was a concern, smoking when I could, my heart ran on the danger of being transformed solitarian and broken from feeling rather lost once. Like 10,000 sips from that faithful tea cup, but now lifetimes away, one only knows love poured from it for Tathagata to sort out now what is thus-gone, knowing love, but nothing more spills out of this second nature thang that had honey for my strength. I hate the morass of pain tobacco caused all the economies of my being, while it's equally reckless imagining having followed Mom then when she passed with the promise pulling on cigarettes wouldn't keep me down for long while bound minimally conversant (she and your story-teller, both), she's more in my eyes now than when I stood in her room for the last time, January 2012. Elie Wiesel from his auto-biography quoted the author of The Last Temptation of Christ, Nikos Kazantzakis, his friend, something describable as the human heart becoming prone as a ditch of blood, the skies having opened up like a precipitating sad love and to consummate that love, when relationship becomes that sweet and fateful encounter, you throw yourself upon its banks. Turning this way and that, animating, my heart sometimes would feel all in a weird ajar position like lightnesses slight in the sense of miscontrol and egoitic in responsum to some general entreaty toward healing the healer within the lurch of me definitely unknowable and terrible by exile - like I'm carrying blood adduced plashing through my palms - dreigh interred sweep of bone utilitarian banging around thoughts' dwindling pen. My heart was buried and Susie has made me emerge from the slur of my emotional seat, confiding rhythms, living up. Now, she is Mother-sister, self-consciousness and every impulse guiding my heart.***************Bob Marley remarks, "Music a godly thing," a bop tremendum, thrum, swag of the ekstatic or alluring mourn of commonality, yass, me too. Jazz is as absolutism confides in Creative Reality with a nod and wink over the plenteous thralls found in human paces, eyes turning to plants, breath sweetened from the taste of "liquid language awash ..." (Wallace Stevens). So funny how coming to moments of inner-narrative which is all along giving trace nuances with furrows inverting of senses cultivating audition may well be standard and from moment to moment a radio on torpidity. But through language too. I'll 'hear' that-does-that or way up one evocation of the spirit behind his or her myth of sound becomes proprioceptive in some appreciating figure of saxophone impulse carved into sound's evanescent hillocks. Plateaux, corridor, light, dark, our likenesses recorded in fresh shadows, and all the lush repute of difference and mystery in light rays of Jazz sways with blue neon and slow embrace. Jazz within, I do.********

*****Well, by the way, I've never had a dalliance with hard drugs, not really beside a few intensified episodes years and years ago. And while 'getting away with it' not by some great mastery of impulses, only that I just easily call too many things so this included as imposture and distraction ...well, tadow. That being said, its allegory, variable resource, culture, stimulation and our likenesses bring a world round in seasons and mostly out of being, goal or palimpsest to rather interesting lessons of the human plank fromwhich experiments in consciousness have its players moralize of all the exacting distance and cost to the half of someone they've become. Full-up, guffaw plollocking of the considerate, fiery ambrosia of existence, dreaming of her vessel of such obeisance filtrating the cause of immanent adulterations flowing through her equid's heart, we're mapped in traces of feeling more and more fossilized in riverine furtive provenance starry and homeward to this mindsore, its content plashes and splurbs then topples the last effect of its weathery metabolisms. And don't I?************The Hasidim, whose impute to musterion are in examples rendered through Marc Chagall's hand, have come-correct improving the conversation allowing that "animals" have superable identities. They rally what cultural contrivance likely succeeds in exposing a more considerate and laterally responsible, in my view, evolving relationship with Nature, self, the animal round us alighting survival. Animals, namely chattel, are poised of ancestral spirits, they believed, ancestor worship denying the West's vacuity in such administration, while here an animism is nodded over albeit through a Jewish Creator pon the Chariot or Throne in hermeneutics, Merkabah Kabbalah, gets developed with sense of the physical soul, incarnational animals, the chayot as objects of meditation, define such soul ascendency as do ophanim, circular angels in the message guaranteed to every room and galgalim, transmigration's angels and other angelic figures of Ezekiel's near-Aryan or Bavli vision, Babylonian. And to just define this in as broad a comfiture to humanity now so laudatory within the clutch of Belief but having chance rationales otherwise coming with such ascendency, being the last ripple in the stone's perturbulent design on a pondering world, if ceremony arights with humility, it is rather intriguing toward Islam's view that animals have already 'submitted.' = Living with exception to the world fated of their natural migrations, encouraged there, perhaps.**************Okay so this is what I do - I like a persistent image when barely had the Moon peeked down on me, no sky-blanket having mouthfuls of fire are committed to its belch into my sight or its nuclear lairs are aerobatic and emulsed in blue-black dome covers, eternalized by encounters more immanent. Nothing, I'm lying on a garage floor, burning cigs off of the electric heater, this night sky is framed out of the backdoor window while only our Moon bleets impossible macrocosmia and yet I'm so small like one eye gathering its expositor in blind will. I'm fearing dumbness deigned I'm as blind in portrayal like early Soviet-Jewish writer Isaac Babel's reference to the old ways convened by an old man, Gedali, getting revolutionized but good; a sympathetic figure, undeservedly in the wail of political men, where the image is revived of eyes cut open, a discursively wept path of the human pack will inevitably exact sight. Then I go sit, out of patience claiming more sensate goals, mind allured to repair amid matchless intercalary strength, long on the back garage steps, feeling my backyard and saintly purveyors of a green world - they're upful in the dust - who taste all the symbols of Nature accreting under Maple canopies like I imagine I do lightswitches, doorknobs, these environs, night-painted thoughts!! The reading lamp is on in the house, our dream, now the chromatic blossom whose lepid essence is the Sun, a galactic mind speaks in movement so that I can feel.**************I recall a conversation just a handful of years ago then with my confidant in the whelm of strong currents on self-actualization efforts where I tease it all out of proportion so to grind on, back away from more normative statements, expect deference to change and listen even harder. What would your ground of being look like? I asked Jake, Jacob Watson. That had you not been this drawn to a world through ecstaticism and while some plastic rethinking is possible in this our 100 watts of consciousness, then what is this stuff of intellect and the only door to presence coming on as manikin to our more grave spirits merely good enough? What is visualization now in situ to plain discovery of one's life becoming hardly velocitious or outlanding to a transient record? Truth, as Kerouac redresses with Blake's words or a paraphrase of words on William Blake, maybe a few of them only out-done seeing a lush picture one could evoke upon the couch of consciousness: "Rough rocks groaning vegetate" is in Jake's consolation how he suggests to me once acting on some primacy in feeling that he had to see as plain a-synapse in his hunter and gatherer hands nerves woven adducing of baskets conflated with intramantram dreamscape, like resource coming to light, the food from the feast of incarnations, handed up from at least the hope in the depth of beginnings. His words were "wet rocks" - "It looked like wet rocks." - an evinced solitarian space that trial an observable reality as to say its content distills down to moulds and cool shadows, inanimate and would-be invigilating. Oh brother, the world had a foundation, and where art thou? But I already know, in the gates of the forest round the feet of beautiful mountains.**********

*********Many times drawing that new breath when reflecting then becoming 'dialogue open' to survey the myriad confetti of concerns always reimagined by several usual thread thoughtful technocrats, I rarely completely feel saturated in the report of the whole of thus and such ocean and take-in only a few of its drops velocitious toward this ocean which is never full. It isn't really a choice as it is the leisure withwhich the weight of these ideations filter through my aloof exudating conscious floor finally open to its audition. The dross frustrations enveloping our communication's bridge have all the traffic and consensuses with their ambitious horizons met in cyber-agonisms, language awash in language, that it keeps my head in the clouds, blue empyrean given away to a neverminding pitch of space.*************All that movement and sound has a second long cast at people imparting a feeling of transformation, while acting behind a sublime babylon veil motoring to unknown horizons met. Cavalcading traffic in lopped-off dialects underneath blearing metal, their power is in threatening earthen wretched paths, upon bloodless vascular tarmac. Or bloody. A suburban denizen in lone ant execution wearing his sky blue walking shoes slipped on for utility shores around his house, carries folded clothes to the back of an SUV, really alliterates through metallic thrum of my refrain between his wading anonymous patter and the margins of his nevermind neighborhood. I'm on foot too. I sip water at the waterhose-tasting-water-fountain at the edge of Southland Park; swimming and baseball draws summery faithful nigh. And passing me into the park a boy in atrophied expressions then making me imagine his cultivating meanness conveniently adduced of his ole Dad and/or pained Momma, he's winding-by, buried in daliance loams, humidity thermals... Kerouac would've been a saint watching at a stand of conifers, divining sinuendo reports with my apposite plash at those shores. 'Spend your time doing strange things with weird people is good advice,' brings me to this: I felt a stranger to any heady confidants I'd ever encouraged thus-interiorized. Only wanting those days of heavier meditation? ...I didn't know; I'm mine own best-friend, said Zadie, my Grandfather. So okay, foot forward, yes. But, is 'weird' a state of mind? Is mind out-of-the-way of mind weird, or is statement of presence letting-go, so mindful and exilic at once, and soooo weird the dynamic is Ouroboros, a day consumed into lifetimes?***********"A verbal blur - what the whole thing means - he offered the honouring of the faith as an achievement that overrode everything else" = VS Naipaul's words.**********I look forward to the regularity of athleticism I demand of myself in push-mowing my less than half acre backyard. Susie and I walk our neighborhood roads or one of a few parks frequently as well. And so if I haven't gotten out much, I'll do leg lifts during the week, or do "hitbodedut" (stillness, meditation) in the leisure of my handful of hours until I go to get Susie from her job ...but we dance to the funks bringing in the new week listening to JT doing Old-school Hiphop every week too. I move fast, basically run half-way through, walking the mower backwards and forwards over peninsulas of clover meshed up to a couple areas of brown grass left to regeneration. Feels painfully good and I imagine rather exhibiting a need for paces in a kind of slow-fidelity before all my heavy panting and rounds of slight chaos settles down. The devil that would be my senses imaginable more unconfident seems to be lashed and sworn to avail my physical success staving off the telois of certain change. Music is playing when I come back inside, and recollects within me as solitarian breath, no conversation or distraction, just stillness and sips of water. And how lucky am I to extend what seemes like mere moments fettering me into the challenge of jumping from such diminution of reflections - once upon a time complicated by a warded-off and foul well-being - into overstanding a beautiful Summer's day, a day in this life, threshold to the bliss of some crossed ocean!!***************But down by the still waters I've given up that maybe my center from without awed to alight as from something greater sought here in turbillion rooms hoping and cultivating its animation, calling it an Absolute having all the virtue of a deep-aside, is hopefully as ambitious as to couple expression in mind's eye approaching some control of the big picture. Hope is good.***************Why does Truth expiate whither one steps away from a hidden world, exceeds anywhere at first unknowable? Hidden Worlds, one reflects, somehow barely had we known to look, and toward the confidence the charge of vast powers around us stave off even as appreciable threats, astounded by its evasion, it seems totally guaranteed one imagines his or her own complexity and endurance as having become seated in worlds of such refined and incremental provision. Meanwhile we range in plenteous reconciliations, a thing of many, only observing the blanket origins of our day in and out of trance egoities.**************