Feeling with mindhand the agonic redolence of going-away, hopefully way over, far away

So, I feel a need to record a few moments of shape-shifting while my cautious momentum proved allowance enough, maintained till now this reply over finish-lines of being present donned me anew and hardwon. As I settled into those days, not in relationship, seemingly all versions, not yet untied to the least of understood self wedded as I and Nature, none would hardly alliterate, alerted to my body-consciousness I'd become only half of something. Lying on my back I could only record the slope of my legs grapnel, supine and mounting some plain high-ground and the rest of my body, thus recordable from the haunts of a mind few in thoughts, I'd cull the project of interiorization in readiness for encounter. I was quickly becoming forgotten to appearances. A kind of blessing might illustrate the terms underwhich my physical success in such discord educated me: whatever it may have been feeling denied of meaning and love while I had most-assuredly been oh so ready to go away, the ever-loving shore of experience as consensus even in my diminution, this very of skin attention, promised me No Escape, and only sacrifice. ************** "...G*d has consigned all people to disobedience, that he may have mercy upon all." Romans 11:32 Whew! it's been the operator of destiny to all that is known--well, minus 198,000 years of human development--and wow, I thought it was just me that was up to ignorance and desire. Because in that moment when I watch my neighbor stroll as soft-machine and pulsing in blood like mine, there to Southland and the main artery of traffic, certainly I'm recused to imagine her or him interesting and Other, then deserving as any the sense of our perennial philosophy and conditionally, there but underneath, with only egoities interred? Though hopeful, we're favorably lux appending as practicable as the forgiveness just being human 'divines' as self-consciousness, and not other worldly at all. And certainly most of all not someone dispossessed in our declaimed authoring of spirit that may fate us into being, even as this formidable surface of cultural plastique ameliorates wishes for foundation, our rhythm with nature should be our spiritual assent more wholly. ************** All kinds of freedom lends itself to expression apposite in no different a reality than home, elsewhere on vacation--this retreat in assay--with shadowy lens as door one-of-awakening and one of identity's exile is that of a syncretic memory which amounted to circumstances 'then' with a dervish profundity of time on my hands. I had room in skillful thought to dance its context toward my fecund margins--anything could mean an otherwise re-purposing of the empirical given--those memories were taking root while I'm reasonably experiencing a perfect detachment. If there had been a simple fable's preachment perdurable everything looking like there's a need and sense of decisor as one reflects in that dire soft-machine of nerve reefs, then manufacturing motives behind relationship--so staying in relationship--takes us out of the business of merely believing it. Root down even while we develop amid our slouching into hopefully a less reducible dialect with our nature! Lo, love to love. ************** New definitions of people in motion make me endure--I'm sewn into the horizon like most where the seasons feel unfailing. The leg-up, sound gesture from The Closing of the Western Mind is an ember of contemplation lately, an eagle-splay book--interior once-visited architecture--makes an encounterable author in stillness all but jettisoned in its severe crease. Egypt in this theoria accretion, memory of small wanderings, incline irreducibly blue nights of a Jewish minor holiday inflated to sanctifying moods near in otherness, spectral moments all, burn mindfully in geist shoes of this season's heightened timely emplacement, our remote solar disc (of December) seems alive to admire the relative farther distance anointed to her other sky furniture. ************** Each moment, eased from furrows despite my confidences in supposing my walking back so to append rootedness, has a parody of reflection as the beck of more self, selfhood from an immeasureable lardier to the deep-aside. ************** Ah, the anointing of a five minute break taken by deserving kitchen staffs, servers with 'em usually, skating on the slurry escape of restaurant firmaments down by the dumpsters. Cigarettes are imbibed or doobies and all manner of pestilence and libertine flies detail the soaked crags of work-a-day trails to and from duties of their food service. My car sets here in its cat nap as my powerspot to reveal some reading and meditation's lesson. Lately sipping the tea of thoughts on "Radio Ethiopia" which paint my youthful days howling over no worries, there where I had first really, really listened, lounging on my single bed under a rather mysterious red glass, vine-embossed, hanging round-lamp ...that now it seems ghostly in cool advisements, Patti Smith's "M Train" means that same chronic being. Sitting here I dream of letters breathed-in heavy of mean American air and a thick sky to sweep it free. Out of the wilderness granting our lux minds any sort of tale to relay emotions somehow declaimed excelsior, I imagine Beastie Boys are all so Jubu-ist and exemplar that identity's long lonesome highway and journey to that of an "American Artist ...seeking marks in your skin" (P. Smith) and the thinking of speech, food, breath and heat are yet complexities I yearn for inspite of this cuss simplicity to the TOM getting me to the feast of experience. *********** The few times I'd been to Israel, once then gone over to Egypt, in as much as I felt my world-view under the hot sun of examination, music and the project of its ethereal visualization keeps me grounded, that I would entertain a prone steward in this life becoming, Bob Marley's proscription "Music is a godly thing" seemed apropos. In Cairo we played my jam box tuned into probably Salafist prayers with their currencies no doubt rapt in eschaton, while their ululations evoked fealty reproached spirituality, still askesic, a way the mind is captured by far-away energies of a pellucid heat in the near Sinai, musterion became dreamable. We were there in December 1987 perchance meeting Al-Salaam restaurant owner and our first Egyptian friend Adel in Arabist Iffrikiyya as those lands were to be uniformly named over a thousand years ago. Here in temporate, desert soughing weather like 80 degrees farenheit, turning him and other taxi drivers onto our Santana Abraxas cassette even while he was then just "finding religion" is making me wonder how winsome such doxology might occur inmost to his resonance through meaning and purgation, that his change had come from pressures of homogeny if not resource (like everywhere). Coming from a couple of years studying at the University of Kentucky, the oblivion symptom of normalcy that would have been my look forward into a life of more study or professionalism simply drifted out to these desert seas because of the serenity and the remoteness that one could feel in Egypt, so far from the trappings of convenience and abundance here. Finding myself proven to a lure of whiling away, learning who it is behind my eyes in view of things, my life till then poured over turbid ambitions, satiated a concern that new avenues would have come in an imperative to look at myself differently. So through the doors of intensity a chronometricating grace with the consumate tons of bricks lifted off from my shoulders, I loved realizing this philosophy to a shrouded traveler everyone rational becomes and would have me enlist what I do there-and-away as simply the same as this life worth living here amid a rigueur to fuse dust to light and everyday people into esteemable teachers, their music elapsing by in corrals of mood with more hope than usual. *********** If you've never actually taken a backseat willingly, even challenging who the cap fits, you as subject, among exemplar soul-vendors belching history and undressing the stridulent, making you humble and one's expression so spare, then I bet clarion results of our self-promotion under this certain Socratic microscope hardly compels any one of us to examine that hole in our psyche--the possibility of change from all the parody when thoughts contest linking more and more imminently to gravities-sociare or pretending truth from plain uncolorable mantram. **************** As proudland to the phantoms declaiming eunomian interstices, in your contemplative best, a velvet underground poised with hushed senses, all that Consciousness putting you on the ground permeable as reasons to defer common boundaries is hardly revelation of its very nature. No real creatress or creator is found auspicious of honest meditations only that we'd regard an empirical leisure to conclude intensions, 'divine' identity no differently than catalysts artful or dubious. **************** Wrote this just around the time of Cohen's passing--cut-up differently now: This chill morning while cued into the drive-thru at the bank Susie and I listen to seven lovely minutes of Leonard Cohen singing Amen. Darkness, "I caught the darkness baby and I've got it worse than you," from the same album telepathizes my thoughts into an early first bliss of sun and break of light, through some tree limbs and near bushes to the silent side of the building my eyes want me to walk there. A pleasant day is looking like far-away energy speaking abra-cadabras in places where no one stands; the day is gulping gas and money for gas, transportation ruckus, coffee and stuff that stimulates. Leornard, man, how Beat explanate and truth adduced is his News, his psalmodies, that I'd say enough of his lines in my head, just a few words leaning on an equinox fence, encanting them, what I can't help but feel and as if they emerge from my own valley of tongues. Like I'm acting on the world through habit ready with feet lugging down and away through mellowy exhaust and tremors swaying in his ole Yiddish enticed Eastern shores then seeing those moves, confiding in the usual because I've become more alien than that. Well, as nearly convincing in heart and mind, and moreso as purview to a revolutionary Christianity, moving from Cohen's Jubuism, I sighed almost welling-up listening to Dylan today too. For no other reason than Thanks & Praises, we're lucky for their zeitgeist relevance, A dank (Yiddish), namaste. ************** Tobacco road hurt my intensity and this is not so old an explanation to rake the fallow field of cultural lapse, now reaching sensitivities not anymore ebbing in wild developments. I'd be lying down and in no real embrace which if at all the only observer to my mountain coldness is a rationalist mote of monadic sate that I could stand barely just outside of myself and know so vaguely why I was there. I would linger on the thoughts of merely a handful of minutes that met my criterion to see the force of my whole life in yet that one upside-down hourglass of self-scrutiny. I think bravely now, '...it was all worth it,' but no, no, I hated lonely street enough to fear those long years somehow pointing to my heart now buffered from the razor's edge. From the book We, O-90 courts the self-consciousness of D-503 with her revolutionary Socratic lure: "Doest thou love the fog?" He responds, "I fear it." And then she proscribes, "If you fear it, you hate it. And if you hate it, you love it." At the fore of psychologic wanderings the meditation to be reconciled is in this dear, dear moment--one drop in the equalizing ocean of what-is--rather unchained and unloosened from such haughty imperatives like suffering and the denial of this reflection, so all I know is that I've come to claim it again. A joy in repetition. ************* This is meant to illustrate how darkness couldn't be made for me. A reserve of spaces with legs on the ground come out of dreamscapes maybe easily, though amid cautionary and evanescent meditations. While even being able to steer my way through them in those moments now looking back hardly makes me patient of possible renewal--like a stowaway to freight rooms usually unknowable within my mind--these new physical maps would have realized enumerable ways of body consciousness. Seemingly I'm behind my eyes a walker in cartoon and conveyed down rather black and wet city alleys having a concourse of vertical demands, still I could presume an advantage by arguing a safer passage with only half-thoughts. As if explaining the emergent bleak appearances to myself would allow the shitty city to invent better say less exilic avenues that I'd borrow and maybe then a horizon would promise respite. The absurd reigned: I inquired of shadows and flocked on weird shoes, my stunted paces, asked, 'How can I?' and, 'What if this is it?' As a dialectician turned-in to myself, I had no answers; just a puzzle of time and place indifferent to names or convenient remonstrations whence the content of dreams might flow with everyday life again. *************** Susie and I play a mnemonic game, make associations of spare wilderness habitue with leisure in its blanketing just within reach earthen concept. Harmonies are explanate to indulge open space afforded in the moment and shallows somehow lesser in quality only that an island's purview had been teloi of that spectral shore maker of hope within us. ****************** Kraftwerk's techne symmetry could all collect in my thinking, watching it architecturalize, just like a waterspout and escape to my psyche, I still felt tight margins in repair to my conscious theatre. So even from a stable mind's pile of gems, the flashlight minutiae as its conscious map, only beamed distantly to step in those rhythms' chandelier shoes. ************* I'm reaching out of fire which supposes exile instead of centeredness thinking about the the Other Shore, the Uncomplicated, the Unbounded, the Unmade, the Unborn. If the flame of this life lights the wick of the next, then we've wrought the duty to self and other in ceaseless cycling. The wheel of transmigration trains round thirst emptied and ignorance observed! There is no creator till answers celebrate an indifferent nature. And a world of no meaning spares our subtle bodies of any shallow reflection rather we're up against our imminent poise with gratuitous alliteration. While we genuflect hearts open and thrown to their banks, light models our minds only that its penetration improves a world ceaseless to our variegated psyche. ************ I went to school with a Rishi. We were in eighth grade English together, where I for one declaimed an orb around studious values probably less exclusive amid his certainties, I guessed, tho' meanwhile we began conscious maps with too few allusions as if to imagine history's deep-aside as class begins. Well, had it not adduced a full-up concept to imagine cultural development laudable in a lot of ways handed to me, then I only needed to look at primacies accorded Native Americans or Aboriginies in Australia finding spirtualization with sensitive equations, the humaneness I'd cultivate. And yet, this dude tells me, a Rishi is a seer. Ah, only to feel a near metricate, so I imagine plenitudes of wandering teachers, beggars all, but starry as their emanate visor to enlist the fruits of their G*d's sublimity. It worked for me, and for better minds it's been exemplar. Leonard Cohen draws from a need to wail hallelujah, another oceanic wake of a Jew in the lotus, the East comes with its pulse taken by likely intercessors, maybe in deference even to Abraham once upon Civilization's Bavli beginnings flung into Nimrod's fiery cauldron, then as its flames lick his body Gabriel illuminates him impervious, the fire becomes lotus flowers in one telling. ...well, we're a priestly nation appended neatly, 'that could apply,' I thought. In good rationalization, sussing wholeness while seeing his Nation on the margins of State players, here Cohen shoulders the spaces of mama-loshen (Mother-tongue) gurus: "My father says I'm chosen My mother says I'm not I listened to their story Of the Gypsies and the Jews It was good, it wasn't boring It was Almost Like the Blues." **************

Eno-inspired Thoughtlessness

If your Tradition doesn't apply universally I can only imagine a conspiratorial mind at work. Not universally like It Is For Everyone to Accept ...the mission statement, the stupid commerce of said religions, rather that YOU accept others unconditionally while choosing that visor on social reason. Namely, the hate for some perceived alternative than the sexuality you've accomodated is as clarion as human instinct to even an acceptible cannibalism, flesh transubstantiated... Maybe Progressives get on-board to that, well, inspired by differences, we're liberated from the proscriptions of cut and dried social roles. And when I hear, "The Jews will not replace us," I also see Whitey decrying an accusation that Jewish doctors introduced circumcision into neonatalogy, and therefore ...what, I can't answer? 'The rape of a child,' is also part of this ignorant equation, unfortunately. Though, this is not cynical. One of the few ways Jews got into the climate of social power had been due to a culture of healthful acumen. This had merely been one of our principles. Anecdotally, Jews tended to do better during human epidemics. Meanwhile, ask of the histories to not only Jews, but many Africans and obviously Muslim covenants. So that includes whether some communities and individuals practicing circumcision are too easily opposed as elite verging on alien than to realize the uniformity 'evitable' to medical reasons borrowed as intensions tied to Tradition, albeit, it is a physiognomic mutilation.*************Meditating on The Closing of the Western Mind, by Charles Freeman, in no way is a treatment of my few verbs here, only that something proscriptive if relenting before a church history's incapable heights has come to a realistic and really good contemplation last night as I turned those pages, sort of figuring something out. 'The crowds dispersed' describes an interesting anonymity to folks not so loosened from self-reliance when faced with the choice of salvation appending exclusivity out of institution--looking no further than corporations granted their inveighing personhood--is subject and feeling to vision. Legs and body metrics were standing in my eyes so I'm leaning there diminutive of physical success while mind-hand scrutinizes an inward survivor to the content of the moment restored to my inmost navigation of its refinement, so to speak, I slouch right up to 'reminders' of presence, all warm inside myself. And these 'crowds were to disappear,' mounting with predilections homeward. Like chaff content of evenementiel wheat swept away from the wind of thought, assurances of thoroughgoing idea-forces are more likely shelved as personae magnifying selfhood as one of few, and one of few things suggesting a deductive beginning only that the choseisme of indifferent light or shadows' blanketing rescue hang us by identity's limb enough to struggle with it like no other fate than to break free or die no longer pretending.***************My whole life capsulated is merely apparitional to the oasis I suppose at some point as more rare a source to this wandering event of my plain sense. I really seem to have become a thing of things, not even more strong a thing than a pattern to identity like the sea splurbing blue in the mirror's cusp to a forever horizon come as its encounter as another apposite blue perfect in its wholeness all ousting subjectivity of great predominate energies. Always someone to family and friends even when I do not realize, still I drift until the rhythm of presences rejoin the art of my forgetting.************Exclusive in my poise to get inmost through rocky run-on pictures that have otherwise insinuated an ocean-front, climbing way up, catapultian to its opposite terra-force, mountains above water, no plateaux, no plains, tho' an ocean which performs as a desert, into at least a handful of dreams till now, sounds ancient with its windy verses, a psalmody, so a mantra good to alight amid organs of consciousness as one and against itself with traces of mindrooms to drown in the river bi-secting the earth that swallows the dream ...! Thoughts lurch like a caprid's head to the deep-aside where my feet precipitously try to find the same exclusive point of revered higher ground, just so I climb into my mind.*************I looked beneath my surface shadow's broadcast being. I dance distances in my eyes keeping all the places I once jumped from determining the present or not only realizing the flect remitted beneath my conscious map exposing the indistinct ink and now ready to form lines back into their opportunity or fatelessness. Looked right down on it, I'm lying prone, facing the ceiling in a tree house one night in the month I lived there. Hungry and seeing Lexington more immediate than plain air just at the top of my neighborhood, the city began in a microcosm = everywhere of memory is encounterable, a singularity hangs in these material gallows. It was the death of a homeward map, maybe, renamed with a new and plural accessibility: the measure of my body, underneath breath and stillness, beyond anthropos or rather human in faith only, my arms stretch down blocks and swerving roads, then hands glory in tacit proxies, palms splay, fingers willow and mile after mile target memorialized spaces that are all before me with imminence. And then Lexington was one thing. It was electric, or the heat of mentations gathering window high, in this monadic first I imagine Lexington gracefully collecting in front of me as a lighted mantle, an orison of skin donned as fascinans ineluctably come from a palette of precolorings.***************Kerouac directs us back to America the Beautiful, the Dream, always, always, restores a suffering world's loneliness to their vicarious hope. I wonder too around all the incremental ways if to revere about now our expressions have come from one's most formidable soul-vending confidence--the hang in our eyes with the encounter of our numen, Creation of Adam? but the fresco is alive, still wet, and any Adam off the street, put it that way, well, that of our humanity poised and all dressed in the same pollution. Only that one depends quite a bit on some cumulative wish, that cloudy wholeness suggesting one has recourse, full-up from oceanic easy-speak and an indefinite chorus, we've empirically gone through most obstacles to feeling present. These little notices where we're presuming non-partiality in thus and such really meant expression has sometimes our lux muse reinventing in the commerce of absolutes.************

I loved the maternal green coolness at the foot of the Catskill Mts, vacationing here and elsewhere surrounded by New York forests with my Aunt's family and our Zadie, at the best of times. There was an oil painting, my cousin Kelley reminds me it was indeed a 'dancing senorita,' remembering one time deeply impressed with its spirit. I drew lux maps in my physical visor while she presumed hardly a TV eye--no re-glance, no foreground suddenly spanning and widening. I suppose I wanted a window embrasure to that Summer season's ambulating round their settling house, and meanwhile in my Aunt's bedroom in its dim somnolence I start to trace where the thrall of this Latina's expression might land. The information of 'satori' evoked from iconography had come with my Mom's lucid tastes--a lot of paintings, pin & ink, and graphite pencil drawings, were strewn in our house--both Japanese sans any study therein only that my Dad had artique (sic) which came from his being stationed in Okinawa, and Spanish culture, in design, their arabesques, the Cha Cha Cha, whatever it is and food were natural to these sisters' taste, so kept an open world-view in that roseate atmosphere which their children would contour in our own ways too. So I'm lying down but can't sleep. Looking up all I want to do is bite the fig of wisdom: am I under the vanishing point, and so gonna be liberated through this fecund surface of my psyche, moving down, down dressed in the empirical, from this ludic internal reception? Or, while I catch spare points of glazy foci, why don't I imagine say, the story behind this muted encounter, the muse behind the mind amidst our equinox?***************

I'm watching Jim and Andy: The Great Beyond, on Netflix, with Susie. When I was a kid in the late 1970s to early '80s, I loved the irreverence of Kaufman, that it made a difference to me in culturally antecedental ways, but meanwhile I was afraid he'd be dealt his comeuppance. So, I thought, well, he'll end-up getting in trouble, he's living too fast. The fateful sense of his personality meant something else too. Probably whether I could imagine myself in those incommunicative corners he pretended to defy, seeing a certain existential thoroughgoing meant talking out of the top of my head, partly the absurd, had been possible. He, Jerry Lewis and thus Jim Carrey, are and were fully liberating to the stickiness of my mimesis: thinking and acting on a random world, my travelogue through confusion has had a recognizable sense of the place of my making to thank, I'd call, American ironies to an independent ethos.************Culture with superable responsibility ain't about watchtowers from peoples whose first book of passage is gathered in the footfall toward any other well of the blurry doctrinaire than that of our antagonists. Maybe you want power, or you know something about being in the climate of that power... I feel encouraged almost borrowing the psalmody paced shoes out of the relented dispensation to that of my Zadie (Grandpa), his studied approach, how also a good friend sorta restores me to plain models of independent thinking, who sat in on the dialects before Jiddu Krishnamurti, says to me on a good day, "Long-live the counter-culture."**********There were book nooks in my Mother's house towering in their 10,000 voices, some replacing what it is I say to myself. A Yiddish-Hebrew/English phraseology text, one more ironically could claim as magical encantations, blots in parcellated exercises its ideas of spirit-rich arbors, prophets and prophetesses poised on tongues of Zionists behaving in world-view tumults and hopes. Once I mysteriously dreamt of a ruinous fate for this 'occult' book. I woke one morning having fallen asleep upon more usually my couch across from the facing wall in my cool basement. Mom's bookcase and two windows eschew the night with meaning and orange curtain obfuscated light to the rest of the day so there I sit next to our spent hearth as it glows bluey tears onto just ashes. And feeling that I had gotten up over-night in the wee hours those spaces were reencountered in a dream whose sand I remembered as my dispatching this kabbalah trance by tearing that small tome, however significantly from its spine, just not in half. Thus a certain lament has always accompanied me since then like I've been thrown to the banks of my heart--as in some strained reach--almost free of its blood fuel, rank letters would always again be raised, hydrated to mood once out of an already tattered book.************

I have had a visualization goal which keeps my thinking more plastic and forwarding irony than without the stability of this biblacy's objet de meditation. Without likely inferences I've supposed 'shaddai' as a place of observation or rather a kind of powerspot while never leaving my common grounds. I dreamt then remitted a composite self as subtle-body, an image in mind, there opened to the sky and lying down on white-capped bluffs while handed books chaining from other figures of sympathetic selves just below. From a Bruce Feiler book--while memory serves--shaddai is suggested as being the eminent memorialized spaces upon Jebel Haroun near Petra, while actually no one knows. Meanwhile I have never been to Jordan but ever since a few trips to Jerusalem I imagine the stuff of meditation possible from some objective record, pretended by the sleeping dreaming studying comfiture of a visage only hoping to enumerate 'me' here I am easily portrayed in my mind's eye.********You either settle yourself down into the fact that you've been warned, 'hell could never be made for you,' or the hell answering finally bottom-of-the-barrel dregs, everything of every concern now as leaving oneself to apathy and denial is bore with hooks in the ceiling, no shelter at all, nothing plainly indicating that those things once felt germinated and the career of selfhood but now fettered to time out of the cove-complex tree you called you meanwhile you're not so free and developing. Or changing. I told him, "You better pray, maaan. IT is worth it... Down to the wastes of content from one moment untied to the next ...you must love yourself. Reconcile that: every project per those astute moves with only a professional demand for excellence all those many years, do you like that." One World.**********If the looking-glass didn't lie I'd see a Chukchi native mask animating musterion expression. His hair plaits in mud and splayed leaves, wooden slitted ocular ports keep his wizened expression in shadows. But transmogrifying as likely into a man-machine, skin is donned across an impossible motor and pulse, and he's devoid of creaturely marrow, thoughtless, with metal designed stars, protuberant head-limb gawks as my would-be sensorial apparatus.**********Love this tar playing, and Hamza al Din rich with Nubian verse in gouges of rhythm, his oud plankity-planks, while en Arabia (Arrruh-beeyah) chants couple the drums developing the day lifting us from gradient rhythms out of those ancient dune dreams. History while exoteric becomes corporate as long forgotten antiquations feel and sustain what assigned us the memory to an exquisite vashtu resource. Deserts... His sense of deep canals with green/gold last drinks before dusty complements of human sprawl only vaguely self-aware of their neatly erasable ecosystems, though our fields green up, some good people are fed enough. A part of the Nile has her phlebotomies with humanity's fugue as splotching water's ink start at hungry irrigations, a worker's Rorschach breath is teased then let go to the sounds of clacking waterwheels.************

I have a good Kerouac Reader which I cultivated for a minute. So through his pen/typewriter I'm astride his pacing of fractalized philology perused by his give and play of one author ready to share in conception as embraced to yet more immediate voices, his directions splayed of book within book till I'm dreaming of a circus history opened to pages of black balloons scratched in adages and filled with air of muthoi ironies. That his license on anglepoised Newspapers unblinds their exception to letting-it-be, so similarly I approached sometimes my stream of consciousness just as madrassah students read suras, looking after the delineating verses of a spiritual mind from any cardinal direction. Through it I would have me face something essential but replete to chimera that maybe describing close-to-theoria content ripples then revolts over these visual shores from dreamtime where Burroughs is shrugging whatever-it-is less of 'book' that splays open to our eyes than the confluence of energies which would be this motile ledger in conscious space. He, Burroughs, seemed gentle, only glass animated statuary.************What is this fidelity to the surface where I had seen a man anonymous as hagiographian writers let us call their prophets spare of comfiture in dreamtime only that he was raking autumn leaves prone to the horizon's lure of weekday commuters? Colonnaded or proud as the trees around him, I presume it was his house just beyond clothed in red tannins from near pin oaks. More On than any interiorizing check to his Tuning Out, he looked invented by the report on the pavement from trafficking souls, light and audioclastic cars. He was inanely present, almost mired though his pedestrian banner put him in the climate of Babylonian powers. The bustle collected upon him and meanwhile he's not protuberant like a car competing for assent onto a lane, rather he had the greeting of tacit earth. I drive by thinking had I been as vulnerable to an idea-force made of wind, sun, leaves and space the calculus to this disparate encounter, that my small world looking just as monist in contemplation pushes me from the shore of experience into the stream's glurring middle.*****************Meditating on The Closing of the Western Mind, by Charles Freeman, in no way is a treatment of my few verbs here, only that something proscriptive if relenting before a church history's incapable heights has come to a realistic and really good contemplation last night as I turned those pages, sort of figuring something out. 'The crowds dispersed' describes an interesting anonymity to folks not so loosened from self-reliance when faced with the choice of salvation appending exclusivity out of institution--looking no further than corporations granted their inveighing personhood--is subject and feeling to vision. Legs and body metrics were standing in my eyes so I'm leaning there diminutive of physical success while mind-hand scrutinizes an inward survivor to the content of the moment restored to my inmost navigation of its refinement, so to speak, I slouch right up to 'reminders' of presence, all warm inside myself. And these 'crowds were to disappear,' mounting with predilections homeward. Like chaff content of evenementiel wheat swept away from the wind of thought, assurances of thoroughgoing idea-forces are more likely shelved as personae magnifying selfhood as one of few, and one of few things suggesting a deductive beginning only that the choseisme of indifferent light or shadows' blanketing rescue hang us by identity's limb enough to struggle with it like no other fate than to break free or die no longer pretending.***********There are handfuls of moments with no Theory of Mind however obviously partly unsettled thus unacademic and informal 'such models for thinking' were eclipsed while I'm losing my way in being present all riddling as belly-button windows enduring most of my life. Less so now. Driven with wanderlust intrinsic to the survival of my version of an imagined relativity, the abstract present if true to that balance, has those wanderings a reprieve to the heated conditions of forced thought scenarios, so this Thought Disorder withwhich I contend. One early episode down at the 'Ant Tree' is a powerspot where I faced intuitions of my life broken of continua, the sense that I lived by a waning spirit or by its quickening. Right next to Quail Creek, sometimes too looming of phantom malfactories and more usually an embrace of pure nature and wonder, I felt drawn toward an ant pile near the Ant Tree but a different species, more visible on the ground. They were black ants on the tree and these were probably some kind of fire ant. If the template of myth from Australian Aboriginal musterion applies these would have been the green ants whose power typified in our anthropocentric realm is to guide with dreamt lives given over to all the chil'runs of the world. And just then I hoped and seized fantasy, energies, maybe the stammer of already wizened concerns, said to myself somehow, 'I'll live each one of these little lives, one as a bridge to the next.'***********This is a portrait inmost given the same context and half the letters toward my open window on spirituality from one year back. **Knowin' that I've prayed for this momentum in certain hard-won confidences alighting back to the surface even into a world more expansive than ever actually promising its winsome analogue are: -I taught myself to speak 'moreso' the second time. Imagine. -What people call self-consciousness I see as a feat to my objectivity eight miles high thralled as thingism settling somewhere deep in the past this deep-aside had begun shovel ready, then by handfuls, my 'flect' manufacturing of confidence is disinterred, loamy shadows to light. In kabbalah, visualization is cultivated by the mekkavanim I imagine lateralized to pan-Hindu vipassana meditation's purveyors. Had I apprehended theoria, even in few ways, if I were to look at my animicule inner-circuitry, clouds and dreams, transportation and promising books all dance through the fen and pondering of my conscious maps, these pieces determining a rather Max Ernst divined physical success of extenuating limbs, this body's lengthening to digits grapnel but linear in reprise, as source in long yawns into me thence findable pon the intermediate stuff of inner-tableau. My brother asked me, Why "...moreso?" Kind of asking ...giving me latitude to interpret, what happens down by those still waters? Well, I think, a realist is hopefully what I've become, a listener in spite of believer to an absurd rambling rent vainly and impressionable, hardly eased into any functional mimesis, lends itself perhaps just as magically to that kind feeling I wonder about with Bob Marley's phrasing, "Music a godly thing," that one's whole day deserves its canticle, its song of songs.***************