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.***************