The Milky Way, satin as our unrecent look upon starlight

Nothing is tracked in yon looks of ways to bend thus-gone & immensities rank going-on like its possibility cannot be turned-off.********In the Catskill Mountains of New York one late Summer morningtime I'm taking my regular walk on down the country road adjacent to my Aunt's bungalow colony on my way to a near blueberry patch. Below a barn just past, below its Amish hex sign, is a tall tree stump shoulder high with a strident blackberry plant having made its way from near cleft high ground onto the top of it. And with only one blackberry, I see a beetle which I spied the day before still embracing it in full-on courtship, though not eating the ripe berry. Too cold or wet the night before? I couldn't know, but I imagined the rather fecund undergrowth and essence emitting flora thinking how it must have been, that our little bug is recently so fueled and somehow living from these same environs, so patient having avoided the fruit now going on a second day that it must only conceive of redolence, air and coming Sun in the whiling-away Summer imbued to its sweet berry. I feel a sense of this beetle's temporal plight and I see the content of Natural things informing my meditation. With places so spare that its human denizens are drastic as to how they are appeased by foodstuffs, in their temporal utility, I imagine plants thousands of years old in the Namib desert. And patiently near it somehow graced I've covered the anonymity of vast distances, while something of an earthen essence awaits no judgment, and superable to any perceptual eternity, the swath of time in its almost dormant continuance is meaningful like a blessing. I can think of no greater purpose than to define the spare lives of these temporal daimons, our becoming less alienated ciphers pon their renunciating record, calling our observation of forever ago as an encounter with the Welwitschias' tenuous success compounded of the conditions round them as a reality to respect.************Waved my freak flag, doing it apropos a few bank employees bleary with schedule intensions, ledger accuracies, so no non-sense oriented and needing a spotlight shown at their perdurably elevated repose per that coming election, yet while mired in FOX repellent News one afternoon. I walk in and get to my guy, transact and with receipt in hand, ask the managerial loitering bunch if they can guess '...what my shirt really means?' I'm introducing 'difference' mind you, the shirt says Shalom undecipherable to them, and on the front some (slightly) wrongly written Masoretic Hebrew, a bit of an Arabic flare to it only meaning 'born, then given a name'= "to yield" over what-I'm-named, would presume a sense of active lesson withwhom I have common views on that name. So, koo-nee-yuh, kuniyah, has the root word Yes in some reach toward wisdom-tradition. Well, they prise from an obvious concretion to bullshit the knowing impulse we weren't believably on the same page, almost sure so thoroughgoing in xenophobia they'll merely be humored, and I say, "...it means Kill Whitey." *****************Akbar I, the Great, an Indian mughal, lettered and spiritualized, living 400 years ago, makes such an agreeable context for words ascribed to Jesus, Quranic, this aphorism creates an East to West stream of present circumstances and plumbs soughing depths by its ascetic floe and thrall, in my view and with a bit of my elastic semantics, these words stay true to the intended sense, Aiwa, yass, in English: "The world is a bridge. Pass over but build no houses upon it. The world lasts the beat of an hour. She or he who hopes for an hour may hope for an eternity. Spend it in meditation - the rest is unseen." Mendicant figures, I'd reimagine, improve the imperative I 'believe' in, which is to keep defining meditation, though it's all exordium, I'm just getting here, it seems. But I'm telling you, rare reader, I'm confident about making an epistemological pattern from otherwise dregs left of ample reading, now sharpened by intrigue, I'm sculptor with the anecdote to the stirring present as statuary, name your pan-Hindu effulgence, in their reliquaries as facade courting self thus appertained to an on-being, magnified, light cued expressions into splendor, these are thoughts written down in my mind's tantric usual.***********Susie and I will dig Nature documentaries and their Humanities' extension into our living economy, say, the manufacturing of motive to contour right thinking and meditation. And it's not lost on me overstanding in the forward thinking wanderers of our Earth suspiring in cultivable Religion as it regards the first science, rational thought & philosophies, that self-actualization is a better goal than a fealties' contest. With the pageantry of an identity thing most leave-off resigned to the immediate satisfaction you'd be known by thus and such megatransection into antiquity's better perceptual world, and then for-all-to-conceive a Right to the hereafter. The hope I see Sysiphian-relented, meeting me, is the hope coming down from up-above, those exiled figures whose instinct it is to kill the pernicious lure to consensuses, lovers of restoration, victory for everything that is known and nothing outside the known, her author's lesson on letting-it-be.**********I delve into the charade of a moment, and silence as its empyrean garment gets hardly undressed. Sure of an unmatched concept, and florid on the lurping banks of an everywhen, my plollocking thoughts are off then on. Memory cheats the present of the poesis of encounter, and then its observer gets his or her iron to steal it back. I'm sensate to the 20th Century whence this giant leap begins: Wallace Stevens records nature like southern India's sthapathis, with a written statuary of reverence, readily renewed with sensitivity to new information, his upful letters have all the caprice through the sublime porte and meddle of street alleys. Less an exile of reason, perdurable appearances metricate over plateaux of no worries, relentless distances provide the innervation of deep wells and an aside, lucid and foreign altogether ...here and otherness, now but underneath. Only to make the evitable mind a bloom and conscious pocket more certain as time's temperature to the cool vertices of one's refutation on fate.**********My feet sit still more solitarian than me, they've done more. My eyes laugh like they reach through my hands; under banana tree canopies they see polygon flappy shadows obfuscating the depth of footfall in Sun caricatures not-letting-go of their light, dark, orange and white ground arabesques. My ears meddle with perspective on night star-shine, in the wilderness of pitch and silence, tether to the mention of a thousand years in each breath. My lungs occasion verbs of change, burn like embers scattered across the field of experience.*********Sense perception averring air ungouged with a rein on acquisitive impulses, is common sense and rational thought, yes, these truths before sorrow and what decides on any relevant, perfectly rapt moments, how the transcendent is revealed in the austerity and merit to your nature's anonymity, one's "organs of consciousness working with one and against itself," Nietzsche proscribes. A feeling I imagine is realized as an adorning of impermanence what one can plainly see as strata of knowing through space memorialized with more seasons' impression laden proudland than quietude of mind at ocean's bottom, still-waters, letting-go, no mental appearance whereby quantum indifference, = our heavens are an existential rank as neverlands iterated, a haunting renewal through immediate sabbatical, dormancy in her dreamscape, nothing demanded, just innervation to shadows, nowhere to be, breath and blood, heat, potency, the mind unknowing what it has known to ask, openly so prone that the shell of the individual one once donned in common experience is now a feeling and answer, time's caprice and the annihilation of voluntas as pretenders nearer to the flame of egoity's more invisive beginnings.*********Once I thought "knowledge" would solve all my ills; determined goals of study and meditation becoming fecund with no linear appetite, as to say, I jump from Point A, a sense of knowing, to Point B, . realizing that monadist dive into the sea of temporary bouyancy is salient with and without the motive of content. Because there is something about Unknowing, the Musterion, that symbols helping me evolve and relate this rarefied dreamy being donned in the threads of a shrouded traveller are in fact important as well. Musterion. No better words could've emerged from the crease of my mind, a conscious map of 'predictive confidence' opening to a book by Ram Das makes, maybe a couple of things in view of his Eastern Thought schtick, said one thing I remember just flipping through it at Walden Books in Fayette Mall maybe 14 years ago. That once one realizes he or she is comfortable in saying, "I don't know ...." And I don't read-on where the aphorism might go. But, Yes, then what? Homeward - I wasn't going to wait. I wondered, and uhm, going back out into the heave of shuffling feet, think to finish what the author could have implied next. That this helps to unrail the enumeration to abyssal walls of blind certainty really observed for what they were: intensity and spectacle or the translating masks our instincts make us presume and emote from clouds behind the minds of those crazy faces.********I walked into the mirror the millionth time contesting appearances of these dominoes collapsing in selves, enumeration unrailed.*******The apophatic sense of subjective reality if creative is to imagine truth unloosened in a pathless improvement to our ambitions.***********No better words coulda emerged from the crease of my mind, already in a malaise as I lie down to doze: predictive confidence.*************Your dust fares as motes alighted through these years sparing you over into more light and shadow play, as life exquisite dust.********Arabesque creator M. C. Escher, notionally ...? Because nice allegoric language I intend as 'one who reads history like any spiritual book,' these words: screed, plain surface and centroidal wish hopefully improve a point with higher thinking on the realm of Absolutes. Yeah, I'm just glad I can be certain of a spiritual ad academic sensitivity, and verily, seeing those more prone of its whole-cloth would-be restorative wordage, egoitic hands on the rather corralled acquisitive hope that one is indicated even served by it, is viewable from great heights. No sense of abiding my actions would be an inquiry on a creator being inasmuch as any vehicle of an Absolute is meanwhile what attends personifying greater reality, its legacy meriting decision-making however inelegantly reflecting a martial god, any god, and any mischief conferring that greater reality as receptive to our identity of some presumption to non-exilic fate. Mystery is not an escape - instead by doctrine their mere banner ethics are the faithful outpaced from a feel-good factory while undedicated in lure and ignorance because a thing psychologic by screeded missions imply human suffering yet down as to one plain surface of resolve. Read: Consciousness is plenteous to belief as it is natural to reconcile the change to self-awareness in the climate of an only wishful centroidal greater will.*****************I think of bones, Kaskerbeh's dragged across the valleys of Pte environs only there anthropomorphed as seed gone to leaf tobacco, that she jumped from her high butte encampment to settle continuance of this musterion nightshade weed. I wonder at my blood, this wine-dark sea. And I think of blood and the rivers of dreamtime staining nerves lightened to her ingredients. If my body had been composed of Herculean hair or a Ganges Bhakshatanamurti's dread, a Shaivite, or the payot of a mekkavanim, of Jewish mystics, then vapors to vapors, vanity draws past as the wind, tremory to the habit of our trees and just as ready to sculpt them as cove reeling mind portraiture. This is my renunciation to mania. The image here is Chagall's "Samson Kills a Young Lion," and from Samson's riddle, "Out of the eater, something to eat; out of the strong, something sweet," is verse not different than in Maitreya Buddhism discovering a dialect of something constructively as 'repulsive.' A cave dwelling Monk comes along, 20 years of solitarian resolve adjuring meaning and compassion then encounters a wounded dog lateralized in view of hagiographian magisteria to the Biblical lion, who lies in a ditch prey to malefactory and maggot-filled there in temporal throes. Samson scoops a mouthful of honey out of his revisited victim, out of its rotting carcass. Honey or bliss, the mendicant monk bows low. Over the dog and facing its laceration, puts his tongue across the yuck and larval parasites, removing them all.*******Yesterday on KET Susie and I watched some of a movie first out in 1934. The actors lurking in those early 20th Century paces reach me as I seek back into time for a hint and nod of self-consciousness. It really tethers me round these, more and less relatable, beat identities that I'm lured toward modeling their concern for the present as if such quickening of relationship is actually an imperative to-my-own-vitality. Memory is weirdly fed of realism's sensational conduit and by telegraphic appearances, like ambrosia is to the celebrated essence enlisted at the feast of life, in our nerves contemporary sight comes way-over, rarefied and inventive as impulse on a more essential cosmogony ...complement of origins. Conscious goals in truth are some record of our agonist nature, even portending an encounter that suggests only hope on waking-up. And whatever blooms esteemable are from moments ago anyway, rooted in forever ago in laudation of a thousand years, and more, yet in patterns of their give and play emitting of symbolic doors with slack reins and anschluss wanderings.********I think of bones, Kaskerbeh's dragged across the valleys of Pte environs only there anthropomorphed as seed gone to leaf tobacco, that she jumped from her high butte encampment to settle continuance of this musterion nightshade weed. I wonder at my blood, this wine-dark sea. And I think of blood and the rivers of dreamtime staining nerves lightened to her ingredients. If my body had been composed of Herculean hair or a Ganges Bhakshatanamurti's dread, a Shaivite, or the payot of a mekkavanim, of Jewish mystics, then vapors to vapors, vanity draws past as the wind, tremory to the habit of our trees and just as ready to sculpt them as cove reeling mind portraiture. This is my renunciation to mania. There is a paper etching by Chagall called, "Samson Kills a Young Lion," and from Samson's riddle, "Out of the eater, something to eat; out of the strong, something sweet," is verse not different than in Maitreya Buddhism discovering a dialect of something constructively as 'repulsive.' A cave dwelling Monk comes along, 20 years of his solitarian ways define the extremity to his senses adjuring meaning and compassion, acerb time meriting its iron in conscious pockets. Then invertedly enjoined and eunomian committed this ascendent becomes healer to a wounded dog lateralized in view of hagiographian magisteria to the Biblical lion, and this Himalayan canine lies in a ditch prey to an unspoken malefactory and suspires maggot-filled there in temporal throes. But Samson scoops a mouthful of honey out of his revisited victim, out of its rotting carcass, deferent if only through abstraction to realize a completely antinomian ethos. Honey or bliss, the mendicant monk bows low. Over the dog and facing its pus exudation, puts his tongue across the yuck and larval parasites, removing them all.****************