Blam ! Bamot are Rocks, Belch of Tabernacle to this Outside Wanderer's Undonning of Masks

Like being drawn and tolled pon a crossing through nerves within the project of an image, more refined in iteration as formulaic as this dialectical analysis, Self = Sense of back pages, interior's beginning, Zed inverted to Alpha + the Light of presence. Neil Young drops his kind phrase in Pocahontas and makes me realize what may be "In my little box at the top of the stairs..." also. His 'waters'' reference of the model for Mind is dreamy and surface to places emblematic as teacherly compassion; given the blush on mused faces to students-of-life bound with right answers, salience is orange night fire, light blissed and near to an invisive tear of waterways. So it's true for me, an image, consisting of thought in a detailed and culminate expression as a repair to any distraction and ultima thule to almost all other mentation, drew me toward its interstices just till I'm warned I'd disappear within it and perhaps become rent of its alluring rather dreidel (a Jewish four-sided spinning top's) inmost play or come away dispirited. So throughout this wonder and move inward I just record my advance at the (Meccan-like) 'haram' of these embowering, rather fractured interiors round approbations, rank and oh so blue in sum orisons amid its evocative waters. ********** There came an impression, Hawkeye from MASH always laid-out and tired, doubly worked, that he looked sleepy and stoic but with a circus understanding, that he could readily define effort, even excellence, enduring arrears in pathos terminal to a compassionate void. Dudes withwhom I ran in kitchen-work spaces, like Columbia's, Pizza Hut, Springs Inn or Holiday Inn, as work-a-day fools, were subjects raised so that I could imagine a developing porte after these folks get home, "wha' you gonna do, gettin' outa here tonight, man?" I said. And so many times someone answered, "... goin' tuh behhd." My mind was On as 10,000 TVs, says my first psychiatrist, and what appertains time arriving by the reins of a typically assailant circadian reason looked to me as great leaden vexations which demanded life renewed in increments, diminutive, but starting in first steps toward their millionth realized. Vis-a-vis the honey-groused call from Leonard Cohen in his last published album, You Want It Darker, his song, Treaty, alights similarly, thereso with pure laudations in humaneness. And leaves us all supposing if not the noose of his dreams or its quickening, but its sublime yield and terrible metric on shadows of a deep well to vitality: "And I wish there was a treaty we could sign I do not care who takes this bloody hill I’m angry and I’m tired all the time I wish there was a treaty I wish there was a treaty Between your love and mine." ************

In some foundational way Jiddu Krishnamurti keeps me noticing impulses to negotiate my plodding caprice, that to pull myself through the myriad open doors of self-suggestion, generally if to maintain looking-off just past the content of things exercising me, thinking like I can't put the menu down, would deny relationship: So I and Thou is come to the gouge of rote biblacy or even I and Nature, where she's presumed effulgent and yet rather unstirred in the mundane where I'm fooled with expectation of answers befitting a material puzzle is already a looking-glass seven years adjourned. Thought is fear, he says, is self-preservation. So any trace to movement, like breathing or the study of sounds-arriving, glancing perdurable an experience giving me legs inmost, whatever it may be---that I may alliterate---are the signposts of thrall and will, and so sometimes the sorrow of an egoitic muse allows its one lesson to drive me back into attention knowing actively 'why bother!' *********** Just how far from making value statements will you go? Wisdom-traditions make sense adducing their best interpretation that good and evil is only the cultivable immunity in thinking it so. That dialect in self-reliance would be a promising collaboration ---one that I value---in conversation appending Self and Nature, the most elusive without keys from a pass-go in appearances, till our emotional control shows the reins on one's own prise of contention too moralistic so true to right conduct only monarchical in defense. So it seems, intellectual habit could actually be like an addictive self-realization 'cause' only any purgative suggests the cleft adherence in relativity wanting happiness to follow so to presume sorrow in mounting palimpsest confidence only suspicious of completion and validation.************** No, it's not about George Washington or Thomas Jefferson not denying biblacy's ethos by accepting denigrating principles about slavery and the slough of other contentions disputing humanity as 21st Century folks would finally accept. It's about The Daughters of the Confederacy appreciating statuary and world-view typically more recent than that and spelled-out in Blood and Soil nativism without a care in historical veracity. And it's about acting on a pattern or hopefully not making a move. If one perseveres one to one onto emergent changes inventable as from more elect concepts, political come religious, appended to self-repute, then he or she denies imminent human nature that continua as portending knowledge of escape or reprieve, whatever the latitude on a hope for the world-to-come, is our material time at stake.**************** I swear by Rushdie -- his visitation on light clouds -- his shtick finally sweet or devilish, weak of flesh or celestially enlisted unions, familial and reverse of usual intensions, prowess for vanities and not souvenir as that pop play emergent as sport to realism. Yet pop imitates the East West career with impulse upon sometimes an egalitarian mobius strip, more archaeological in Kerouac's witnessing ways, he retrieves core-culture in reliquary postures to pine awareness of antiquity's traces to the subtle bodies meant as our alliterative restorers. ************** There's concept, the play behind appearances, but the rhythm to its movement as a thing imminent or that realism's-exudate-will-have-done-something sworn to minds apt only to serve our physical success, then seekers of concrete evocations decry everything unworthy of some One that somehow eludes reason for such discernment coming in blooms, but now all inky, a mystery to renown, invent by rote and grudge, and live with bye the by like next to a great river whose ironic momentum makes explanate feeling ever on the road as a long- distance runner whose race assigns finishlines as conceptual as any, fleeting or come back, so to negotiate the impermanence to self-awareness prompting plainly rapt victories across eschatons conflated to lately hoped for patterns in world-views where someone else is always rarefying resource in what should be already amenable in our cultural addictions and the agonic norm of Belief. *************** Methinks, memory is like our doormat at the gates to our habitue of reception, as it portrays landing and solvency, sometimes leaves and all manner of yard drag obscures our breach into well-meaning. And sometimes it's just blown away from the thrall of weather's better voluntas. Funny and usual at once, I can remember content to what I imagine plugged-in with the pattern of this or that conversation, our easy-speak, and wishing not to be spare and utilitarian, but no longer feeling normative as to why thus and such empirical thoughts became emergent, it's like knowing a character to a book or movie, now come so alive, I erase beneath my steps in time with their assession. ************** Consciousness is the abracadabra of a creative mind only reformed by the august truth that its nature redounds no plain inventor; after all you may blame me for something atheistic and yet it's because you argue your Hope only distracted by sense-ready prose. It fascinates me that someone, maybe actually a couple of clairvoyant and then reasonably intuitive folks, have told me my lifeline was split in half. A Book of Life, half opened, then through another auspicious awakening, I raise my head from its white fire warmed from the burning sands out of a foundation of dreamtimes. And that now down to an imperative looking seam to stave me from undress, this mortal coil is my sublime pathos, my spirit rejoined to motes in these temporal midways ************ Closing my eyes still I see a little phantom visage look over as if atop a bluff of shadows. As synchronized to immediate meaning with it, I can assume that I too am looking and peaking with some objectivity into the present. And surprised of any information that I had encountered presence, surrounded by all manner of settled models for thinking, selves from without now felt emergent offering awareness out of my pitch mind. Once upon a time in regular dalliance life, part of the work-a-day world for my brother's business, as memory serves computers made then still had Windows 98, and so I imagined similar phenomena from a 'screen-saver' design I would view pon ever entering Eric's office while his desktop computer whirled inactive. What appeared on screen were faces allured in cartoonish poking-up salutations; the computer looking back at you in just so much apparati anthropos implied a metrication in not only customer scheduled persona, but an idealism on world-view was sculpted, self-promoted masks or the weight of things traducing open nerves. Faces to study. *************** I found myself just at the door and facade front of my house, trying to get in but as a charade in dreamtime implicative of freedom while locked out. In a butterfly blink, starting toward the back porch, I realize I'm compelled to break into waking-state's summery screened window somewhere, and through its thought-world, the one perhaps adjuring spaces less striven or obsolete. Then as the creator to its ephemeral game, I see the escapism of this mindroom chimera from the leisure to nod awake lying again across my material-embrasure, my bed, within. Awake. Leonard Cohen's iteration of some chohan kinda verse might have had the wonderment yet grounding me surrounded by a world indicted of my character like second person. I am 'you' and with the key mantra propping up consciousness, an actionable sense, say, what appreciates imminently by prescription, readily apparent egoity is detained in our eyes thusly espousing Subject, "AND NOW YOU LOOK AROUND YOU." ************ My meditation seems pendular of moments opened-up to dubby effects, layered cants and toasting deepens me in replies to a black and white, give and take, dreamstate. I'm evenementiel in getting to a place beside or escalante as observer-self, watchman ad the-space-for-thoughts, their leafy boughs only accidentally comfitting to a late season. In clear redolence as to boomerang any of these monadist arisings, a circus understanding of their colorfield portrays reception: the muse behind the minds of cauterist magicians put flowers in place of fires, disciplines reenacted within half-parted veils buffer declamations under the wayward-come tentpoles of consciousness. ***************