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." **************