Poppa Kaduk

Dude is taking his time. Hardly a moth to the flame, slouching to nirvana gives him potent observation, letting-go but in his release or exile amid the metronome's slowest clack. Through the ironies of a slow fidelity, his horizon is stained in black tea, an elixir on recommendation, his body'll feel sublime there, no complaints. And instead of lift-off and penetration into these heavens, sprites above the pylon-like streetlights remonstrate a purple dome but only as wings on silence, encouraging his hulking thoughts of paths to cervidae lairs, dreamy conscious pockets bring his lovely woman closer and well past the gates in the forest.**************** So I've been chosen, thinking on memory, to give a damn. Thusly, like brahmodya, sensing what is common to the three monotheisms, a 'miqra' of decisors = their conversation promising the author of an old yet imminent news, here portrayed Judaic and nearer common absolutes, in situ Jeshua's teacher Hillel could tell enough for the hope of humaneness on one prone leg. And aren't we 'learning' as he suggests inwittedly as suffering the same ephemeral advisement, perchance, students all of life, how worth it she becomes? So at once I imagine the things we'd refuse--tastes, too shadowy shadows, unfulfilled conventions, intercourse with differences, and why we demand nuance tho it's there--yet now as what should be used. It seems Saint Augustine decries any license implied within scripture whose players could be a masquerade of would-be adherents typifing an imperative where good is left wanting. That means it is on You. Martin Luther was right: you are given grace and you can't tip the scales one way or the other - much like the G*d of Job, the Other Shore is hardly evinced no matter the deep aside bridged by one's faith assuaged by his or her crossings. ***************************

In ways rather invisive and rapt I would become empathic in rearranging this sense from Fydor Dostoevskii's condition of epilepsy, specifically what brings on his seizures and as those moments inform his writing. A glimmer from candles can set-off his constriction then illumination-to-be. Similarly his mind blown at other times, reflection or refractions across some window, or a cluck of sparks from a glowing hearth as if his mind characterizes a wild fluttering avian, but maybe down in far-off Mexico in his Faith illuminated way like Patti Smith writes of innocent chickens pecking at the plaster detritus flaking off some little prayer niche with a twice weary statuary of Jesus. So I'd fixate under my spare existential roof, train my engine to enumerate appearances in their corral of nature there surfacing once and kinda forever in my wanderings as its energy. A power-spot even amid the flooded temple of mundanity rescinds its character however easily I'm convinced only later that I'm leaving mnemotechnical tracks. And then sometimes per these conscious satellites I might have reasons emergent being round their contemplative spaces now remarkable seemingly assigned to memory with a glassy ornament 'there in a blink' adjured just imposing a feathery apparition of light into my reality. **********************Enlisting Infinity, creatively speaking, an All or Nothing presumption sharing in similar theorian colors with Hindu's mathein = overstanding & knowing! Brahman, amounts with like definitions presuming that at least this G*d is the god (monist in stripes!) of everything that is known and nothing outside the known as manifold, comes the Jewish Ayn-sof - the Endless, ineffable yet unique to a contemplation maybe vipasana apposite as brush to medium or pen to char & sap in preparation to the tableaux of stillness. Had the mystic some view and metrication of his and her Creator ontologized nigh then appositive in pathein transience, meaning empirical to only trace freedoms, Ayn-sof might take contemplative content otherwise sensate as form, truly Platonic forms = energies called sefirot answers similarly, while still in Kabbalah's garb, is G*d's distance strung described as the shuir komah. "The measure of the body" here in university is purely saccharine at the otiosenesses = freedom or uselessness of an atomic feast or Jah Light, where humanity wails, and maybe lives up.***************I have no value but just my body as some starry night, and no mind but some anxiety that mind is a blanket draping the heavens, but only just above me, dust of dust is filling the faults in my defeatism. Waking state isn't one of entering artifact, a picture, second nature to our sentience, rather one moves toward consciousness, a goal from without. I dream an advantage within forever--appearances are a sluice for my emergence--in a material void and as an idea-force, purpose becomes my calculus of memories older than weariness. Thinking a day within a day, horizons reserve the transection of roads trafficking with libertine energy where I'm on and aum'd with attention and while their splays exteriorize boundaries and habitue diminutive of the bigger mind-sore, I scale their pathein indifference. ****************There's a cool place where the idea of the days of a future past makes sense to me. Meaning, I think through now what I imagined I should know alliterating to intercalaries, rooted to the moment, that I would anticipate a look more deeply ultimately retracing immersion to cardinal directions, above and below, round the neighborhood, sensing a great lummock body from a near creek. And in my five year old's mind, more than certain, any grapple of electric was this thick heart of earth throughwhich the wire of my weird, or sufferation, or bloom of self-knowing, would ever be refined in the garden of such moments rapt in stillness, still moving to me.****************

Tonight one certain cloud looking like a great single brow of an anonymously wondering pleroma had only my paint of thoughts to improve meaning there. The sky is a pharoah's leisurely reflective lake--waters mentioned by Theosophical Society's Madame Blavatsky explanate of Re(e)d Sea-like parturiences only predating the Exodus writing--whose mythological boatswain in this mythos reprised is Moses ready to furrow its mirrory deepness as an escape melding into the temporality of what-is. There's a concept in practicing meditation via Jewish mysticism at first glance reminding me of an exact diffidence to a negative proscription if the adherent had formalized a greater respect on-going to theoria so as not to be 'acquisitive' in our thinking. "Devekut" in this Jewish ideal must be that state of letting-go of our usual boundaries, centering oneself actionably from a jumping-off point deliberately theorian over the cavalcade of impulses and heartbeats aptly alliterative within us, opened to time-place-community, Kabbalists call 'cleaving' almost too easily denied in its conceptual grammar eliding to the divine**************Believe me, I see a handful of people who thread or just comment seeing themselves as subject of self-effacement, true in being their certain worst critic. I fancy where they're alighted and solitarian. The first thing maybe now as part of the truck in 'her' reasoning, I can almost intuit, is some depth of existential plan. I think, she's surprised to be so tied to her dreams; they're all Cloud 9 while bearing what washes away down temporal flows--feeling as a rare observer and wanderer through whetted histories--their winter sun of sleeping protagonists have left behind ghosttowns and burnt earth, and still she's even more definite of time and place upon an avalanche of a great equalizing momentum.***********************Susie and I sit down for dinner at Ramsey's while its loci plume along the Nicholasville Road corridor through memories just there assenting as Racquet Time and that gym's parking lot adjacent to my Aunt's backyard but later my brother's house. A powerspot ...just because, well, I brush up against the moors of once my leave in following the Mothership, 'cause no other reasons stand in conjurations, that faith was there deepening the resolve of my escape. Midafternoon, say, or into the day and moves outside of cultural directions with literature, whatever that part of the day befitting these thoughts in apogee as intensions mount, the hand of mind but only flagging with wonderment, are the words 'read, read!' thus pushing me into conclusions, reacting from a pealing statement of attention sure of it right then wanting to get back and turn pages--determine the lighting of some fire to an august whiling away. This is peak ethos for me, practicably intoning certain results in analytical meditation.****************I thought mountain beclouded as plaintive to 'some of the dharma' as this independent caricature of selfhood likely permits till Kerouac summarily emplaces 'samsara with the void' pronounced in some Beat Reader excerpt of his Desolation Angels, maybe says why impenetrable to my honed examination, but still I've come to its accord. He'll bring us up to the moment from his resolve in getting there imagistically within arm's reach of fundamental memories. O and thus our lesson shows the auspicious more objective plateau of experience closely mapped from loss to the world except for his blest writ. It is handed-off, flect of nodding gatekeeper and winking through category of mind, with his thoughts applied like swashes of mercury, only just so amalgamating the present and victorious even. Memory is manifold as an election of touchstones heaped up as pylons of time bridging our deportation from our places of change.****************One wonders, even reflective in broad strokes, that a microcosm perceptual of Ultimate Reality runs across our hands sifting away lax commitments to the sense the ascendent may then redevelop as fated in those auspices. Making decisions seems to be an upful imperative, 'had to do what I did' thus my G*d has given me a roof, is a Traditional illustration on self-preservation, 'the god of my deliverance' the believer readily authors. But it may be good enough in service to this adjurable sublime higher ground--Jesus, Nirvana, all Fascinans--ready in seeing with attention there's someplace called an approach to wholeness and objectivity, thinking, thinking deeply, knowing peace in contemplation.******************

All since reading into patient handfuls of Kerouac's writing, I thought my own writing would react with more fluidity than in crossword tedium. I know he looked potent to imagine time and place in bloom, just speaking over immediate shores of experience. I feel his nod of an actual logician emerging for assays that I might graduate through their disambiguations in a school of life. And when my teachers would have had lessons on writing they advised 'brainstorming' so that efforts of certain connections to one's natural intensions meet up with a beginning and outline, that a comfort level in self-reflection might make sense. 'Stream of consciousness' is his mode of recording Mind as imminent to his play in observation, though I'd reserve my stream into some tapestry of self-myth less gliding with observations, rather, I haul my bucket of concepts up into rare spaces, emptying them over this gray matter of furtive clay only then so to esteem its momentum of relevance perdurable how long before Earth becomes their great equalizer, absorbing it all, or redirecting where I had hoped it should go.*********************A strange sort of Truman Show dualist occasion intrigued me once. I'm walking home past one in the morning from dishwashing at The Springs Inn while our lexing existential night looked donned in watery curtains just off-stage, just so our recent rains played around me in the last of her low clouds breaking open to a view of an empyrean handful of persevering stars. At the knee of proscriptive anonymity--the author of time--with a conversation in my head of lagging solitarian recourse, and from an immaterial moving boundary off to part of Turfland Mall's parking lot, something like the facade of a mighty train? ...earthmover? some kind of gravity defiant, man-machine, and its shadowy engineer riding it, elasticized the terra round me more immediately, and obfuscates the guffaw mask radiating as the restful rest of the town laying out before me. What could I say about these heights in lucidity with nothing like an identity behind that apparition? A wild couple of minutes, I thought my paces reverberated on a weird tarmac in common, this day is appending, a reason to go home, that this world mercurial in Oz consciousness is an impossibility to adjudge.*****************Kerouac sets it right in his telling of home life middling in his teenage years. And as if I've shunted my attention from turning more and more pages, less restless, hearing things differently, here's Kerouac's Desolation Angels, and I gotta speak to it--lift it up. It's beautiful, of course, and I conjure his mood straight from the salience of his everyman, of everybody, but his sole soul blanketed underneath the streams of Time and his outlier landing of a day's consequence rallied in its recording. And just as him, or anyone, I sat by the kitchen table anointed of its nerve center, Mothership of inmost seas, eating ...dipping-in, well maybe 'Ritz Crackers' as his Mother lardier'd, or in view of my Mom's pantry, matzo and peanutbutter, Campbell's vegetarian-vegetable soups, hot tea with lemon, orange of Summer-ever freedom in greener rhythms. He makes it present for me, and I wake-up way-back in room temperature sunlight where it seems like then was in reach of today--this moment--as merely some lesson in memorialized space and the roots to self-awareness piercingly resolute through an assay long overdue comfitting the loam needing its fibrous security before becoming merely the history of rain.************

********Peradventure no going home, I won't say I abided in rooms-with-hooks-on-the-ceiling but I otherwise knew I might survive availing life only contentful in solipsism till this subject self poignantly tied to condition allows for reason again. In my Thanks and Praises best I imagine being spared-over back a handful of years ago from what worried me then. Not making this about sorrow, truly. But my Mom was passing, and my marriage had no more slack to our emotional commitment, the world was changing and I would transform. So I'm out of relationship and looking at communication with anyone unshaped, more dispondently, I couldn't get on the ground, knowing though and plodding through misfortune, relationship is going to be the answer. I went without someone for too long. I aped the ape, and ran away tremoring like nicotine Jack, thus gone, then slept the dreamer. And things turned around where Velvet Underground lyrics are a fete explanate, mathein lines reminding me, "Ba-ba-ba-ba, ba-ba-ba-ba I found a reason to keep livin' Oh, and the reason dear is you." Just so, Marley's Is This Love or Dylan's 4th Time Around would run my conscience, and love came tumbling in.******************Strange, but I run toward sonic wells for their blue soup of Mother-helpings--culture is on our Mothernight's plate of experience. I think to catch up with fully sublime active listening to good music, thinking all the way round her unheavy shores of those patterns and their ease on me, then demanding its emplacement from curiosity to appetite I sense a taste of water that beckons: I imagine my senses ready and swearing off my dreigh reality only just outside her voice and lush provision.*************Why does independent, philosophical thinking get disputed as a sin of pride? Maybe, thinking for oneself is too dear than to deny submission to the door-confidant of Everything is Everything, even as Paul elucidates to the Corinthians, 'all have died in Adam' - the first prophet - 'so that they [all] be saved in Christos.' All is all, so there's that--meanwhile the finger pointing, well, damnations are as concomitant, contending a fragmented impulse--yes, the creator of self-image. Oh, all would've been well, till original sin thralls his ire: Where all manner of Freudian extremis is to inspire the distinction of weaknesses conveyed as women 'cursed in parturience' and that her husband shall rule over her, and 'men would toil under the fruition bore out of mean land.' It is fully a Western accretion in ecclesia, not dawning in Greek theologies, nor anywhere in Eastern Christianities, that, 'Sex is always a danger', he says, and those transgressors will not inherit the Kingdom ...!*************While 'visions' may be hagiographian, I only knew what I might declaim as a seer kind of move, was not imaginable in the same long apogee of life stages notched in the wood of my changes that I pretend to cultivate more usually. That move was a gravely serious observation, poised at the portrayal of a friend, then in only days he would shed his mortal coil. Like a window hat-high, a pellucid cinder block sized space of air framed the visage of my friend, Jake, moved from a facade of gluey ivory doors as kingly as a chess piece, ivory himself and superable to the tissue of dreams. So I look again roseate and mourning days later, that his loss was just after my Mother's had my all my spiritual vin maybe insightful but definitely heralding peak resolve. And now his once bright appearance is glossy coal, marbling of cadence, frozen and looking-on, just sans the same explication to the garments of his existence, my impressions therein, and a yet to be discovered key of disambiguation?*******************Spare me over, lo, the machinery of man may just as well tear away my burdenbag, but I'm on these strange lands to wander. I've had my life threatened before--up close and across the room from a Cairene man - I'm then 22 yrs old--and perhaps had I guessed, the man might have been a Muslim Brotherhood sorta good ole boy then like six or seven years into his antagonist Hosni Mubarak's reign, thus fraught with my equation, American ...Jew, to his conflating geo-political concerns. Scary, though I was quick to evade where this imminent violence may have led; and I don't actually know how my partner Robbie Loco got in and out of the room, this building somewhere in the ubiquity of Cairo. Now, safe and hoping down, those moments have become layered with all the usual light in my eyes--but I still look. And I think I value pernicious memory events now apropos the (elbow) room given contemplation reckoned in better plurality of the concerns formerly plying my resolve, now looming uninstructive underneath till somewhere in stillnesses I have eluded those complexities, consciousness rooted, shadowy within as from without, perforce having to give-up, and realize I'm converted less from apathy.*******************Eyes all conveying elite conscious baubles, are eyes too imminently dragging mood across the clastic wall-Rorschach of TV. Our fidelity as Pavlovian canines has us leap through the mused faces in competing hoops of apt dramatis and the snark of fealties. I wash-off the blotched silence in the corner of this nerve-exposed TV room, my hands have been dirtied from the redolence of cruel personalities. And yet that silence is reconstructed as colonnade but presumptive of collapse over an inane media of a burgeoning circus of narratives.*****************I was on foot a lot through my 20s, zilch for resource here and there. And I fully recognize the more demonstrative consensus of those having endured far worse than me, evenso prosperity isn't what I pretend to encourage here only imagining those times matriculate with fen visualization none other than this pondering fount of what-I-found-out. Or what I found to be an irreal ground of Egyptian jumping-off places, those North African wanderings once upon a time, I profess now, but Middle-Eastern too, quietly plays assent of what characterized rowing down the White Nile for instance as just spiritually low meaning cool, and a languid sprawl to the content-shores of today's obstacles all exhaling what I'm breathing in. So it is with colors too. Green per the banana farm with its plantation of 'mother trees' a couple years old and that's it; they produce some big 85 lbs of bunches one time, then we communal farmers come along smoking our American cigarettes, drinking turkish coffee, and ducking beautiful rain under broad canopy leaves made umbrellar - we'd hunch like Abraham Abulafian yogins, somehow, well I thought so. Or like fellaheen, whose company we sought. Today I suppose I touch the earth sitting 'Indian-style' on the same map elastic and colloquial just as conclusive as one would evoking antiquity and a direction multiplying into these coming Spring days, becoming a temporal gardener, dreamer of fecund loam, monadic of the Sun belonging above in macrocosmic fires to our spare electrical skein pulsing in her near heat just dawning in these reflections.**************Some poignancy of my nervous energy, if mindhand blooms in the ubiquity of colorfields and sutures this mindsore of egoity as an acquisitive glove replete from tissue depths, like trees in the business of blessed shade, my eyes have turned to plants overstanding an opaque Earth, these blindspots there and underneath ever of 'hands' reaping fruits ripe with the impressivity of being.*****************On our errand to the stale yet red, white & blue blowing munificent bank just before Leonard Cohen was passed, Susie and I looked into the morning, lighted-side of that plain building, while listening to his Amen or Lullaby from his newer efforts then. Our conversation was loomed over how we imagined ourselves lucky to be sitting there absorbing his poetry, that Kentucky morning homogenized in time as so many other days, but brightened in declaiming our own Earth Strong thereness. His stories as culminating anything my brain would introduce anyway coming out of the 20th Century, alliterates those histories and ideas, people and passions still blest in these cavalcades of that world untroubled and rather esteemable from its mentating angels. Today, I'm replacing Prince, Bowie and Cohen back into their watchtower horizons; their art might find me in a place where its humaneness still wanders.*********************The Catskill Mts, New York, so many times was our family's retreat. Visiting Mom's side, they were operators of a bungalow colony 'up in the country' verily as Russians imagine their dashas luring in holiday spirit per just anything Tolstoyan-sensed, those clear meadows, ad modern travelers with a view in cultural alliterations, and you're there. I think I'm around 18 and 'old man Kaduk,' Poppa, my great uncle with his almost 100 years Earth Strong in reach, was working on the shingling a story up from where I stood just having arrived at the main house, forest all around, as now near to plenteous blueberry fields, some Jewish kehilla reality, radiating out, a few small towns provincial and multicultural. I'm familiar by then with Scholom Aleichem's Tevye's Daughters, basis for The Fiddler on the Roof stories, at liberty for a depth in meditation through its narrative of little exegeses, adagy and incisive, their white and black fires adjure from my Zadie's book still in my stacks. In his and his Father's handbuilt breakfront-bookcase no less, which cauterizes with a kinda salve for this mindsore emplaced just across our very home sweet home family room. But just that iconic moment, Poppa up on the roof; my intuitions comfitted thereness, 'reality - I'm imbued with stereotypes - and truth is from living histories, all roseate, a chrysalis of self-mythologizing.'***************