**My moment of release (journey inward) was a feeling I imagined about Gandhiji. And it was clearly a nod in effect into the loam and spread of my backyard. I was sitting in the computer room, with the peripheral window looking out to the summer arbor. The trafficked report of local roads and disparate birds, and heated conditions of forced thought scenarios and Valerie's murmurring chimey voice all colluded into the look of foilage, trees, bees, clement weather and Gandhi revealing (to me) I could ask anything right then--just be patient & have confidence.
Stumbling across campus some Sunday, I could have been studying a few thing then--what stands out is Rimbaud & Pilgrims which is an over-size book of images taken from Mongolia to Tibet of Buddhist appreciable moments in self-actualization. R. Gere's thing and very valuable for my tastes in what it records. The utter remote consternation with which just about anything ebbs & floes from my mind-sore IF I am wont to cease stuttering over presence of mind, usually is in the form of a question. The question and appeal to that one alterior self was finally (and un-cornered ever since) What do you want to do? And the lucid no-mind thoughts fluent in putting square pegs into rorschach excrescence answered back, Anything you want to do.
^^I'm telling this dude, whenever it seems that I rouse language say in mind's office (of said interlocutor)--it is just a big wave outside his constabulatory thought world, & I'm just following it in. So now having to deal with the ruins of babel's library, like Paul K lyricked, those papers were signed under duress--you've got nothing on me, is the tact recommended. Look at the stress, those fissures of its maintenance, therein lies his own imagination's narrative. I see & watch what I saw, but rankle to flip that switch off or on. Corporeal hulking thoughts from heated conditions of forced thought scenarios having more to do with Outward Fact than suffusing this brahmodya discussion in stanzas I alone make clear. If I deny my ego, its excrescence has the same favor stammering the fluent mind-sore back to its empty repose.
^^I call my archeologist friend who has a couple master's degrees, my dictionary punching bag. It isn't quite fair that I am reduced to drawing something fundamental in the confirming of denoted sense of words like voluntas, and the feel of the German word for world. But usually I see a reservois of what transpired as I gathered the concept of some book title-- And quite beyond that, walking in & around bookcases...usually it's Mom's because makes the corporeal hulking mass of thought thru literacy seem unbounded all the same.
Intellectus, memoria, voluntas (will)-- makes scribing oneself into the Book of Life, an actionable way to book a dream.
^^Malamud's* Pop recites a few verbs learned in nightSchool after his immigration here. Lights a cig. Melancholia is the report of his visage. Rosy-colored mourn: his progeny feels a Winter's sun every bit in its deflated ill-capacity; the three oranges of Prokofiev's symphonic delivery roll across his pillow in dull dust ridden brownstone. An ocean above making satellites into these celestial rooms emptied of our respite; noble work the give & take of places you ought to be.... My office is, my office is, a hotch-potch of prevailing motives in ambulations thru work-fields, I transverse as if its geometric pattern gives way to no perimeters. Rather I cut a path like the thrum of yarn.
*Malamud actually means "teacher" and naturally to unwilling students!
^^IF Kabbalah ought to be studied beginning at 40yrs old (the Ashkenazi view), then I aged quickly, because at 15-16 yrs old I felt compelled to make my head the event of the season. THoughtfulness is trepidacious self-preservation, try listening: your compassion causes me violence--to somewhat quote Leo Tolstoy. Self-consciousness is wisdom's impetus. Thought is Fear= because fear means you hate it, if u hate it, then you love it...where to begin?? Jews as victim: the vogue of the appeal from conscious crowd that the "wailer" hasn't the same appreciated fact that inverts *put any nation's name here* or individually on all points of the map. Some Jews market spiritually as give & play enduring tremendum & fascinans in victimhood as any other. Some religion is plastic.
^*^I get it that my friends think I am erasible: I take on forms of folks using language, that make me want to martyr the point of reference. It has to be done--otherwise we sit around watching great imagistic and educational docs -the latest and a very good one is like Enlighten Up and as we assume that their motives for harnessing the senses are made plain, perhaps it is not thru something more actively participating than a pique from an indifferent chorus. But I want my SENSE to be indicated by these passive abysmal whiling-away hrs spent taking in what I easily feel instructed over. Just picking up the language tools of ole yogins ...there (they are) extruded out thru media--astute people no doubt--and why would I ever deny self-simulation from exterior forms to a reductive more humble "becoming" that says world-view is no longer goal, but instead the tact to just know everything I possibly can about only One Thing. I asked the fellows, what about your sense of the day's entirety, what part OF it was a journey inward?
**Consciousness works every bit as propellant toward manufactured motive whether inwardly borne or Without, just THAT when consciousness is composed of the Outward Fact, appearances - materiality et al, what is subtle and substantial is being ignored.
^^Sat around the Cadilac dealer garage...
Read some of Kafka's thing there. I looked around and felt shamed for be sadder than most suspiring past me.
Upavasatha--when the god(s) dwell near. Like on the sabbath of a yr., or a mourning of someone whose lamented loss is thru praise, and self-simulation making sabbatical a "timely" renewal, rather a "turning around" in view of the departed presence-reckoned. Like we consider the prospects of being present. Another way of saying Answer (=restored, Renewed, redemption) is uncollaborated but is enough. Seeing the Buddhist concept (of sabbath) formally adduces the cavernous & mundane proponet of Jewish Lights-off, energy exertion denied, candles then lit, focus prayers called kavanot chanted *yes, like sufis. ...whose community now still has practioners of--the Yemenis, and they are the earliest still living remnant of community's originators. Meditation is feathers falling before vision visioning with a mean to survey what is quite past the present. And then in a world of slightly sublimated moments all conscious satellites becoming becoming as snow or feathers rousing in our scan of the road with head-lights in black as jet night... asserting minimal hindrance, in opaque steps.
^^Our imagination accumulates in the animal's ineffable Principal to his/her instinct. To imagine--it'd be like a conscious prop, say a vessel, or anterior of the instinctual awakening where man's consciousness illustrates the supra-mundane. Little fury things are curious of light and shadow and audition. A cat sometimes hunkers down his shadow traipsing tripping him in a venture toward some adversary. But I want the Absolute to see me, since I know we're not observing it.
Dylan offering that there is nothing really nothing really to turn off (as the country music plays soft and watching what we see Over at the opposite loft), always seemed believable to me. (things go On--he is saying) Still lately something as solid as my trod from shapeless mass to lanky shunted, bleeding stature says to in fact cease IT. And even Love in meditation's behalf means that Love to actually has a place outside, in our exile as some thing sublimated. The bleeding of presence, is the tally of body consciousness--a sense of actionable physicality tethered to every thing as manifest and cloistered. A lot of material void thwarting the ease I'd accede thru homeward environs... But things are necessarily proffered in grandmother consciousness so that they are dispatched: like our repose-meaning in shapeless mass fealty. That too can be turned off just due to its accounting. Consciousness alights to silence, but if silence is delivering w/acuity, the loading can't begin.
Friday, March 04, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
THE Light of Happiness Institution looked over thru SOULeyes
The first time visiting my bro out near-enough to LA--in Newbury then, my self-realization vernacular was huge - I was having overstanding of THIS one life with truck. My brother, as familial and other as time's distances and loss of accord deigns, had kitchen and one room making up his apt--and little contoured paths around art--paintings and such, exercise equipment, sports paraphenalia, clothes.... On the nightstand next to his mattress - no frame, was Ginzberg's Kaddish. The rapprochement of his motive to read Ginzberg may only have been that ancient word used as title, but that he attends to the author's writ, his amaneusis was made clear as mine is to him. I strung ignorance and self-involvement and half-thoughts as across the room like a net as if his mummer and drift --a life of course-- would be made plain, somehow out of lazy queries, but mostly from the geometry milk-laden air and histories lingering and linear, but lost til palms raised and mind-vessels prepare to seize....
^^TEA IS SERVED. Served up for the morning's embellishment of the day's totality. Black tea, in its samovar, in the corner of the ablutional-hand washing part of the restroom, when I was there at the Ohr Somayakh Yeshivah (means Light of Happiness)--getting solid with just what it was these guys would never speak to--certainty overstanding. Eggs baked on a big cookie sheet with slices of green pepper, bland as that in cafeteria settings one December. I felt my attention to be sought-after in the requiem of my attention in mode of seeking. I wanted to imagine what it was the Orthodox expected of me--to do it even--maybe the words Yo Evam Veda, Sanskrit for Who is Knowing This, was good mantra to take on the priorty of empirical studious days of everything past the draw of loyalties. Easy to do that, because I got good at walking away from anything epiphenomenal--that which I'd deign with probity.
UPON my arrival at Ohr Somayach yeshivah in Jerusalem this healthy proximity to learning was something I wanted to witness. Actually, in the room where Torah and Talmudic learning commenced, I walked past, I'm on cold open-to-the-outside foyer floors, looked into the shul where the arc dominates, but only saw individual students davening (=swaying in prayer). My mnemotechnical reckoning was brandished from the thoughts of the only living Hasid I knew (then)--yet wayward and thus more-up-my-alley (he was!), who I could suppose digested these kinds of settings. He was my older brother's Arabic professor & was my Islamic Civilization professor--the same Dr Leon Zolondek at the Univ. of Ky. MEMORY is the internalizing of a procession of thought i.e. time & parallel to experience, living then in my mind--as to say--then, which is a fallacy: you are either NOW or you are in conflict, there isn't any alternative to that. This particular trip to Israel wasn't for study however--rather I was going to meet up with my friend who in a few days would deplane at Ben Gurion airport. The Moshav, communal farm, was to be our longest stay in any one place while traveling for the 2-3 months in Israel and Egypt--and Zolondek was in the survey of my mind at a poignant moment. I was out on the perimeter of the banana fields--there on Moshav Fatsa'il, facing the noon day sun, thinking w/self assertiveness that Zolondek had socialist or Zionist values not alien to what I could absorb for myself there in Israel, a calling for all Jews I'm innocently but emphatically assuming. Zolondek, raised Chasidic turned his critical eye toward Islamic studies, so my yeahs could not be in fact my yeahs, hence the distraction and what came next, which I almost interpreted as my comeuppance, though the minefield around Zolondek's "person-ality" was only a phantom assumption on my part. I'm thinking out there in the hot sun, "Yeah, Zolondek would... " but I don't know what (over & over again in my mind) & then whack, I cut my thumb with my machete, but good--leaving me the rest of the day to do nothing, and imagining the damnable stereotyped sense of a finger pressuring the earth like to your side, as if I was G-d Damning something...something, but didn't know what, .......from the infiltration of agricultural implements and dirt from G-d's green into my permeable body.
^^The world watches and waits, thinks you've done something somewhere, and you haven't Gotten done, been doing, or found your likeness in anything dire that turns to light except for two things ineffable with equal magnetic draw--on par entering thru one door is every bit the one yielding somewhere clement, & the same. Sun by day, moon by night
^^Traipsing on chaparral out near Sedona, Boynton Canyon, red rock looked all buoyant and harvested by meally mouthed adherents, awing in glimpses, but troubling these regions like travelogue disambiguation seasoned from nature's primary alienators. Every chance I got w/the knife self-same as what I had pocketed in Israel & Egypt, I used it to appropriate prickly pear fruit. Folks coming up in these scrabble paths, and once I'd get a good pace and get going I'd scheme to move by someone fluidly, but only not to (scheme), because senses were working with one and against itself--just beyond my appreciating consequence of healthful vistas. So, here's this confined ambulating course into an awaiting fellow-gawker giving way, I find my gait loosing nuance--and like your breath on a mirror, our faces slide off each others in a lurrr & nothing hesitant-- just not physically. And so the commiserate thoughts of just me met by proud land, let me land (lub) just so and again, with orange smelling sunshine as the indefinite choir of hollerin' space.
^^ If trees could speak, these trees next to Zadie's house on Lay St. in Kingston, Ny had laryngitis, or maybe worse, its sentience was sublimated from distance and distance only: the trees in their communities, and people in theirs. They may not collude to repair into dialogues unless animals become the surrogates in allowing the relevent architecture of the skyline seem met with trees' canopy making corridors, lighted and unlit, and gems of polygons at tree throne's feet....
^^1rst attempt journalling, Coltrane portrayed flames of my mind like I broke a fast. Tapas--fire in your gullet w/me made off with renunciation keys to be less abject confessing "I don't know." The kEy! the symbol of certainty - out on a limb pinned--everyone in the season its reason, changing like the tree denying his ever resilience just beneath. Grasping limbs in fray of the turn of the day & I jump from its boughs to thwart the posturing of the rest of the trifoliate pillars unfamiliar with any emanate breath. I watch just wind & spirit suspired in the roused sun eater.
Subject: americana in a kiva
^^Yum in Lakota Myth had the dharma of riding any one of his 4 brother's back as they accede to the 4 directions, making the Direction - perhaps the head cornerstone. Or memorialized space, called bamot--if I can borrow something bedu(ouin) semitic and all the rest, I think rousing a meaning in somewhere Thus. Yum's loading always begins w/Wazi the Witch. She married the comrade of the people Father Tate, and gave the interlopers the charge of her needs to hear what-is to-be found. To be in mind-sores of the warrior, thERE in evasive boundaries propriety musters sanction to brush of trappings of just one propellant of his mission--it is going, and going anywhere. Tate has the brothers back as reasons elapse of people's migrations--each in what ever direction's eponomy, each one enticed by Wazi, and each one wizened enough to demur at one point. Yum is extinguished, GETs to sit anywhere in the tent, as he wishes...
^^TEA IS SERVED. Served up for the morning's embellishment of the day's totality. Black tea, in its samovar, in the corner of the ablutional-hand washing part of the restroom, when I was there at the Ohr Somayakh Yeshivah (means Light of Happiness)--getting solid with just what it was these guys would never speak to--certainty overstanding. Eggs baked on a big cookie sheet with slices of green pepper, bland as that in cafeteria settings one December. I felt my attention to be sought-after in the requiem of my attention in mode of seeking. I wanted to imagine what it was the Orthodox expected of me--to do it even--maybe the words Yo Evam Veda, Sanskrit for Who is Knowing This, was good mantra to take on the priorty of empirical studious days of everything past the draw of loyalties. Easy to do that, because I got good at walking away from anything epiphenomenal--that which I'd deign with probity.
UPON my arrival at Ohr Somayach yeshivah in Jerusalem this healthy proximity to learning was something I wanted to witness. Actually, in the room where Torah and Talmudic learning commenced, I walked past, I'm on cold open-to-the-outside foyer floors, looked into the shul where the arc dominates, but only saw individual students davening (=swaying in prayer). My mnemotechnical reckoning was brandished from the thoughts of the only living Hasid I knew (then)--yet wayward and thus more-up-my-alley (he was!), who I could suppose digested these kinds of settings. He was my older brother's Arabic professor & was my Islamic Civilization professor--the same Dr Leon Zolondek at the Univ. of Ky. MEMORY is the internalizing of a procession of thought i.e. time & parallel to experience, living then in my mind--as to say--then, which is a fallacy: you are either NOW or you are in conflict, there isn't any alternative to that. This particular trip to Israel wasn't for study however--rather I was going to meet up with my friend who in a few days would deplane at Ben Gurion airport. The Moshav, communal farm, was to be our longest stay in any one place while traveling for the 2-3 months in Israel and Egypt--and Zolondek was in the survey of my mind at a poignant moment. I was out on the perimeter of the banana fields--there on Moshav Fatsa'il, facing the noon day sun, thinking w/self assertiveness that Zolondek had socialist or Zionist values not alien to what I could absorb for myself there in Israel, a calling for all Jews I'm innocently but emphatically assuming. Zolondek, raised Chasidic turned his critical eye toward Islamic studies, so my yeahs could not be in fact my yeahs, hence the distraction and what came next, which I almost interpreted as my comeuppance, though the minefield around Zolondek's "person-ality" was only a phantom assumption on my part. I'm thinking out there in the hot sun, "Yeah, Zolondek would... " but I don't know what (over & over again in my mind) & then whack, I cut my thumb with my machete, but good--leaving me the rest of the day to do nothing, and imagining the damnable stereotyped sense of a finger pressuring the earth like to your side, as if I was G-d Damning something...something, but didn't know what, .......from the infiltration of agricultural implements and dirt from G-d's green into my permeable body.
^^The world watches and waits, thinks you've done something somewhere, and you haven't Gotten done, been doing, or found your likeness in anything dire that turns to light except for two things ineffable with equal magnetic draw--on par entering thru one door is every bit the one yielding somewhere clement, & the same. Sun by day, moon by night
^^Traipsing on chaparral out near Sedona, Boynton Canyon, red rock looked all buoyant and harvested by meally mouthed adherents, awing in glimpses, but troubling these regions like travelogue disambiguation seasoned from nature's primary alienators. Every chance I got w/the knife self-same as what I had pocketed in Israel & Egypt, I used it to appropriate prickly pear fruit. Folks coming up in these scrabble paths, and once I'd get a good pace and get going I'd scheme to move by someone fluidly, but only not to (scheme), because senses were working with one and against itself--just beyond my appreciating consequence of healthful vistas. So, here's this confined ambulating course into an awaiting fellow-gawker giving way, I find my gait loosing nuance--and like your breath on a mirror, our faces slide off each others in a lurrr & nothing hesitant-- just not physically. And so the commiserate thoughts of just me met by proud land, let me land (lub) just so and again, with orange smelling sunshine as the indefinite choir of hollerin' space.
^^ If trees could speak, these trees next to Zadie's house on Lay St. in Kingston, Ny had laryngitis, or maybe worse, its sentience was sublimated from distance and distance only: the trees in their communities, and people in theirs. They may not collude to repair into dialogues unless animals become the surrogates in allowing the relevent architecture of the skyline seem met with trees' canopy making corridors, lighted and unlit, and gems of polygons at tree throne's feet....
^^1rst attempt journalling, Coltrane portrayed flames of my mind like I broke a fast. Tapas--fire in your gullet w/me made off with renunciation keys to be less abject confessing "I don't know." The kEy! the symbol of certainty - out on a limb pinned--everyone in the season its reason, changing like the tree denying his ever resilience just beneath. Grasping limbs in fray of the turn of the day & I jump from its boughs to thwart the posturing of the rest of the trifoliate pillars unfamiliar with any emanate breath. I watch just wind & spirit suspired in the roused sun eater.
Subject: americana in a kiva
^^Yum in Lakota Myth had the dharma of riding any one of his 4 brother's back as they accede to the 4 directions, making the Direction - perhaps the head cornerstone. Or memorialized space, called bamot--if I can borrow something bedu(ouin) semitic and all the rest, I think rousing a meaning in somewhere Thus. Yum's loading always begins w/Wazi the Witch. She married the comrade of the people Father Tate, and gave the interlopers the charge of her needs to hear what-is to-be found. To be in mind-sores of the warrior, thERE in evasive boundaries propriety musters sanction to brush of trappings of just one propellant of his mission--it is going, and going anywhere. Tate has the brothers back as reasons elapse of people's migrations--each in what ever direction's eponomy, each one enticed by Wazi, and each one wizened enough to demur at one point. Yum is extinguished, GETs to sit anywhere in the tent, as he wishes...
Friday, February 18, 2011
"My Memory 'flect" --
It is sometimes easy to imagine an Eastern ethos, his perseverance unto mutant numina to perform this or that task. Habits are things of unadventurous patterns, still-apparitions (unmoving) but for the fluctuating mind putting the mild into esteem. Memory 'flect untimely mental apostasy, long ends of days I couldn't meditate away but for swathes of my contagion.
^^Ok, to struggle or "wrestle" with G^d, striving for G^d the definition for Israel, indicates theology, and to toil with one's theoria as it gets aggrandized thru attachments, and competing almost equally w/ a couple of assumed resolutions, is psychology. This is advancing Elie Wiesel's turn of a few words implying just this. I'm sitting here looking at G^d is not One, and when I want the challenge of its denotation to help me "feel" my way thru another day (I stole these last few words from Box of Rain--good line, anyway)--what I did here is imagine the forking path. A high road and a low road, but rather than choose as if either entail a yawn of distances unto some hidden village, I am as upon the high road & moving INTO experience thus yielding to the stretch of road taking me to some valley by the low road. The high road, yes, we move from here into experience as before us, of course, and stupendous liesure is that that relationship is receiving us gratuitously. To be blunt, if you've ever come across folk in their wasted repose -- they certainly look like they've been pondering in a wake of someplace you had otherwise taken leave, yet here you are & their grasp of you isn't unerring and rather his and her composure is relativity-collapsed in upon itself. Avalokiteshvara won't give you something with which we could dispute that people have small natures, and small comportment to frame any man's insignificance.
^^Nihilism is proscribing belief, just not your own. Is it a visage with no terminus when while on stage the artists hear the cinematic dialect as having been understood by something bigger than his/her praise of song's release? Maybe it can't be an observable release because the muse of philosophical smoke--its irony, is that nothing contains it but its furthest reaches are incalcuable.
^^Love that feeling that I am ready. Plans to get poisoned and alliterative designs is what got me intoxicated. Something figuring prominently--beggar at the vertex of blanched room's wall, the sorrow self is waving direction right as I wonder if I coulda appealed to someone somewhere more nigh. But, I am all heady, serenely eluded from the cloister of mounting apathy--just want that author, that dude who trods proud land. (& Karen Armstrong, how she writes about the Other Shore) T E Lawrence has this guy come home to his betrothed. People in the country-side not knowing him, must be gathering what the writ isn't but positing as I see paths' flight-meet-my-step the way it meets his, and anybody's... He bounds the rectitude of country lane next to their plots--and crosses plots, averred from the common pedestrian: he's familiar, the katharsis is that this land empties of inconveniences - it represents the pug marks to his quarry.
^^Some bunch of hippies--on facecrack--think I am of some evangeline about circumcision. My view is a foment from what-ever has been proximal. I SAID WHATEVER--JUST LIKE EVERYONE ELSE WITH THEIR BIASES, w/ as many consequences we can be sure. NO ONE ever took me aside said believe this or that --that I'd better off. Frankly no one can take umbrance that he or she has instructed me from the doctrinaire--it wouldn't have been a cause of some loyalty that makes me listen. And this is not a defense of being in a box. By box I mean sought-after jumping off points with a 2000yr context, an arc East furthering the fade of liminal theodicy...anyone can jump from that loam, OR the Ifrikiyya humanities' beginnings, that has festering environs, like I've seen in Egypt, and as life expectancy attests to with human historicity makes my point, circumcision is cleaner, period (if conditions BE DIRE). They ain't outa their box of something "alternative," nor anymore inspired than the apprehension of something tribal that would otherwise consume the "core-culture" imbalance any fucking way. Do you get that? It is stereotyped attitudes to imagine that it is purely warm & fuzzy religiosity to compel me to say that DOING THIS is an OK thing for a parent to choose. Or NOT--and that is fine, too. It isn't my mission that someone come on board and defend this--it is their blindness that the human condition is this big--I am holding my thumb and finger a 1/2inch apart. Anything that smacks of tradition-traduced in their view--is an evasion... these chics aren't getting Otherness, at all. And anyway, the kid has no freudian pathos he can attest to from it, and appearance means nothing...
**I have restraint by liminal imagination--& resignation ...making me feel things in glimpses, but I don't know what I yoke (the yoga sense-control tho' appreciable is usually going untallied). Fucking vulnerable (just now, dude), seeing myself in profiles guessing at the translator face askew. People that would worry the thing that ultimately is the worst for all asunder takes on religious graffitti, and leaves happier moments, more and less self-aware whispers, sad sad days, everything under the preimminent rest of our lives deigned that way IN the world, from this world, precisely is why the worst of it has no god to seek meaning forthwith, and no demiurge to vanquish.
**Our essense is victory over power in its vocabulary of self-inducement: power says, I'm rife with constancy; I'm beheld when the complacent ceases his diminution & accords with fate. Power's language is its propensity to deny being controlled thru symbols, but rather cheap words consort with eternity, and power is the pique of what forever will be said.
^^Ok, to struggle or "wrestle" with G^d, striving for G^d the definition for Israel, indicates theology, and to toil with one's theoria as it gets aggrandized thru attachments, and competing almost equally w/ a couple of assumed resolutions, is psychology. This is advancing Elie Wiesel's turn of a few words implying just this. I'm sitting here looking at G^d is not One, and when I want the challenge of its denotation to help me "feel" my way thru another day (I stole these last few words from Box of Rain--good line, anyway)--what I did here is imagine the forking path. A high road and a low road, but rather than choose as if either entail a yawn of distances unto some hidden village, I am as upon the high road & moving INTO experience thus yielding to the stretch of road taking me to some valley by the low road. The high road, yes, we move from here into experience as before us, of course, and stupendous liesure is that that relationship is receiving us gratuitously. To be blunt, if you've ever come across folk in their wasted repose -- they certainly look like they've been pondering in a wake of someplace you had otherwise taken leave, yet here you are & their grasp of you isn't unerring and rather his and her composure is relativity-collapsed in upon itself. Avalokiteshvara won't give you something with which we could dispute that people have small natures, and small comportment to frame any man's insignificance.
^^Nihilism is proscribing belief, just not your own. Is it a visage with no terminus when while on stage the artists hear the cinematic dialect as having been understood by something bigger than his/her praise of song's release? Maybe it can't be an observable release because the muse of philosophical smoke--its irony, is that nothing contains it but its furthest reaches are incalcuable.
^^Love that feeling that I am ready. Plans to get poisoned and alliterative designs is what got me intoxicated. Something figuring prominently--beggar at the vertex of blanched room's wall, the sorrow self is waving direction right as I wonder if I coulda appealed to someone somewhere more nigh. But, I am all heady, serenely eluded from the cloister of mounting apathy--just want that author, that dude who trods proud land. (& Karen Armstrong, how she writes about the Other Shore) T E Lawrence has this guy come home to his betrothed. People in the country-side not knowing him, must be gathering what the writ isn't but positing as I see paths' flight-meet-my-step the way it meets his, and anybody's... He bounds the rectitude of country lane next to their plots--and crosses plots, averred from the common pedestrian: he's familiar, the katharsis is that this land empties of inconveniences - it represents the pug marks to his quarry.
^^Some bunch of hippies--on facecrack--think I am of some evangeline about circumcision. My view is a foment from what-ever has been proximal. I SAID WHATEVER--JUST LIKE EVERYONE ELSE WITH THEIR BIASES, w/ as many consequences we can be sure. NO ONE ever took me aside said believe this or that --that I'd better off. Frankly no one can take umbrance that he or she has instructed me from the doctrinaire--it wouldn't have been a cause of some loyalty that makes me listen. And this is not a defense of being in a box. By box I mean sought-after jumping off points with a 2000yr context, an arc East furthering the fade of liminal theodicy...anyone can jump from that loam, OR the Ifrikiyya humanities' beginnings, that has festering environs, like I've seen in Egypt, and as life expectancy attests to with human historicity makes my point, circumcision is cleaner, period (if conditions BE DIRE). They ain't outa their box of something "alternative," nor anymore inspired than the apprehension of something tribal that would otherwise consume the "core-culture" imbalance any fucking way. Do you get that? It is stereotyped attitudes to imagine that it is purely warm & fuzzy religiosity to compel me to say that DOING THIS is an OK thing for a parent to choose. Or NOT--and that is fine, too. It isn't my mission that someone come on board and defend this--it is their blindness that the human condition is this big--I am holding my thumb and finger a 1/2inch apart. Anything that smacks of tradition-traduced in their view--is an evasion... these chics aren't getting Otherness, at all. And anyway, the kid has no freudian pathos he can attest to from it, and appearance means nothing...
**I have restraint by liminal imagination--& resignation ...making me feel things in glimpses, but I don't know what I yoke (the yoga sense-control tho' appreciable is usually going untallied). Fucking vulnerable (just now, dude), seeing myself in profiles guessing at the translator face askew. People that would worry the thing that ultimately is the worst for all asunder takes on religious graffitti, and leaves happier moments, more and less self-aware whispers, sad sad days, everything under the preimminent rest of our lives deigned that way IN the world, from this world, precisely is why the worst of it has no god to seek meaning forthwith, and no demiurge to vanquish.
**Our essense is victory over power in its vocabulary of self-inducement: power says, I'm rife with constancy; I'm beheld when the complacent ceases his diminution & accords with fate. Power's language is its propensity to deny being controlled thru symbols, but rather cheap words consort with eternity, and power is the pique of what forever will be said.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
THE Uber-mensch & old brown as his bed
^^^Let's just say, The thing that supercedes what at once we experience is in all-ways greater. BUT, ultimately the only thing prohibitive is that we (and I & I is soo befitting here) are necessarily first in line. Ego says 1rst in dukkha, 1rst in irreconcilable impermanence - anitya, 1rst in ameobic response to Non-self - anatman. (3) proofs of being deal with Intent too, that we seek sublimation. So, taking the road of the most common denominator would inform someone about individuality, just not in a way where creativity is forwarded in such prone states as he/she who tries to experience things elementally. Dreams give every stable condolence to power spots/ memorialized space: I don't know if I want to dream What-Is, or Awaken from It. Rastas say, was So, As so.
^^^In Dao thought I try to establish a sense that a Path is what I need, will avail, and that it is what defines complexity & interests--things creative, and things where my duty can match mendacity knowing its measure. Marley lyricked, "If you're hoping down from up above help the weak because you are strong." But if yoU are up-above then it's not hope you need. A relationship on whatever higher order has done solutioned the pledge verily change is at hand. And the hierophant, like a Shankarcharya--a bodisattva, who'd come to reconcile a direction, is formerly giving-Way--this path. Hope, then, is a relic--On a path what we meet isn't a hope, rather it replaced anything dithering in the valley of indecision.
I read in Isaac Asimov's Interpretations of the Old Testament that Orion Constellation is known as Kessil-the Fool. Just taking things as a hotch-potch of indications that the iconography of language technology, some repository of words, would keep reflecting as upon my spirit. Impelling my spirit and providing direction without deferring to luck-turning-around for me, is how I would hear the right thing--and manifest change because of the play of echolalia in my mind--a microcosm of symbols reducing the "university" to something I am willing to manage.
I used to read OrIoN back in the 90s--what a fantastic mag. Someone made note of Derrick Jensen mentioned in some article--he sums it up well:
"hope is a longing for a future condition over which you have no agency"
~Derrick Jensen
But, what Path is it that indicates or helps one intuit the lay of the land? In other words--IF TRUTH is a pathless land as Krishnamurti succinctly illumines--or has us learn thru his easy speak, then EVEN a path indicates the futility of our surfacing with hope. Yet, looking at the world--its corridors and "light" plateaux --and saying IF the ground beneath our feet meets us at every step, then the IDEAL path is negligible, since solipsism seems more the statement of presence...that we aren't going anywhere--it's coming to us.
^^^The blindly FELT room, earth tabernacle, was just so before me all conjured by the acuity in the impressions my cuz's X executed there with me, out at the front of her apt - actually opposite of where the Crow's Nest was occupied. At one point I thought I was going to drop my fluid like a chemist with Janna, but she rather called the cops on me--UK cops--and contact with her til this occasion was abridged. Like Ezekiel's Chariot vision--called the merkavah in Kabbalah--is the first esoteric thing in overt circumstances found in biblacy. And she drew me into a web of coloration as if traffic and its pavement report yielded me into auditive chambers. If the chariot/throne would be the symbol of nuanced distances strung, these hugely inane hot & dry contemporary conveyances still impel the courtier to a sense of the meritable for one's desire for "travel." The resounding color-field otherwise of a light (kind of) structure whose entrance was moments before and bound in the eternity of the strewn past starting with the predeceased day's earlier threshold now unaccessed, gave little time for an exit or retreat as something foundering like a denial of plans to carry the day... Looking past our precise captivity, was junky-contrived (not indicating H here) windowed gloss--relicky of urban and concrete jungle self-myth, as in a crystal palace--unredemable and ready to be kicked over, at the fore whose architecture is ungrasped like lightning, but has yet more pleroma in intermediary purple hues, since lightning at night has its preponderance in most observer's Mind.
^^^I'm a terminal case of having confessed to all my faults. Now like the atman, every blueMoon there's just a glimpse of what-all I'd blame for the context of fiery consumed hay days, substance all but yielded up in the eyes of those who had kept coming... It's embarrassing to find myself the accused whilst the mummer of folks travails mention less about me than my peop's passport functionaries sorta suppose. Thhhey don't care--and I don't know enough that the "little trouble" is self-professional, lament, and unreconciled praise...giving a damn, without subtle notice the widely esteemed is availing again.
^^^I thought it was obnoxiously surface of my cousin to write I-sraeli capitalized, and a-rab in lower case. I see the very impulse in a few moments of already-gotten-resolved in my own head. That I was to deal with folks--fucking personally--showered off the poltical animal that is soo useless to build up anyway with all the dirt of graft the integrity of one's people should have delivered to them... IN Jerusalem, I took a couple of buses to get to this Jewish neighborhood, then on foot across a no-man's land and into a tented and cinderblock precinct of Palestinians, to visit Reza Khan...Reza at any rate was part of his name. He sat me down on a two legged chair served me so exceptionally sweet mint tchai and we commenced to misunderstandings whose trappings of time and place were easily jettisoned. I was to give him some linens from Dr French here in Lextown, and honestly who knows if I had the right guy. His fellow denizens just pointed the way to him--I assumed the up & up.
^^^In Dao thought I try to establish a sense that a Path is what I need, will avail, and that it is what defines complexity & interests--things creative, and things where my duty can match mendacity knowing its measure. Marley lyricked, "If you're hoping down from up above help the weak because you are strong." But if yoU are up-above then it's not hope you need. A relationship on whatever higher order has done solutioned the pledge verily change is at hand. And the hierophant, like a Shankarcharya--a bodisattva, who'd come to reconcile a direction, is formerly giving-Way--this path. Hope, then, is a relic--On a path what we meet isn't a hope, rather it replaced anything dithering in the valley of indecision.
I read in Isaac Asimov's Interpretations of the Old Testament that Orion Constellation is known as Kessil-the Fool. Just taking things as a hotch-potch of indications that the iconography of language technology, some repository of words, would keep reflecting as upon my spirit. Impelling my spirit and providing direction without deferring to luck-turning-around for me, is how I would hear the right thing--and manifest change because of the play of echolalia in my mind--a microcosm of symbols reducing the "university" to something I am willing to manage.
I used to read OrIoN back in the 90s--what a fantastic mag. Someone made note of Derrick Jensen mentioned in some article--he sums it up well:
"hope is a longing for a future condition over which you have no agency"
~Derrick Jensen
But, what Path is it that indicates or helps one intuit the lay of the land? In other words--IF TRUTH is a pathless land as Krishnamurti succinctly illumines--or has us learn thru his easy speak, then EVEN a path indicates the futility of our surfacing with hope. Yet, looking at the world--its corridors and "light" plateaux --and saying IF the ground beneath our feet meets us at every step, then the IDEAL path is negligible, since solipsism seems more the statement of presence...that we aren't going anywhere--it's coming to us.
^^^The blindly FELT room, earth tabernacle, was just so before me all conjured by the acuity in the impressions my cuz's X executed there with me, out at the front of her apt - actually opposite of where the Crow's Nest was occupied. At one point I thought I was going to drop my fluid like a chemist with Janna, but she rather called the cops on me--UK cops--and contact with her til this occasion was abridged. Like Ezekiel's Chariot vision--called the merkavah in Kabbalah--is the first esoteric thing in overt circumstances found in biblacy. And she drew me into a web of coloration as if traffic and its pavement report yielded me into auditive chambers. If the chariot/throne would be the symbol of nuanced distances strung, these hugely inane hot & dry contemporary conveyances still impel the courtier to a sense of the meritable for one's desire for "travel." The resounding color-field otherwise of a light (kind of) structure whose entrance was moments before and bound in the eternity of the strewn past starting with the predeceased day's earlier threshold now unaccessed, gave little time for an exit or retreat as something foundering like a denial of plans to carry the day... Looking past our precise captivity, was junky-contrived (not indicating H here) windowed gloss--relicky of urban and concrete jungle self-myth, as in a crystal palace--unredemable and ready to be kicked over, at the fore whose architecture is ungrasped like lightning, but has yet more pleroma in intermediary purple hues, since lightning at night has its preponderance in most observer's Mind.
^^^I'm a terminal case of having confessed to all my faults. Now like the atman, every blueMoon there's just a glimpse of what-all I'd blame for the context of fiery consumed hay days, substance all but yielded up in the eyes of those who had kept coming... It's embarrassing to find myself the accused whilst the mummer of folks travails mention less about me than my peop's passport functionaries sorta suppose. Thhhey don't care--and I don't know enough that the "little trouble" is self-professional, lament, and unreconciled praise...giving a damn, without subtle notice the widely esteemed is availing again.
^^^I thought it was obnoxiously surface of my cousin to write I-sraeli capitalized, and a-rab in lower case. I see the very impulse in a few moments of already-gotten-resolved in my own head. That I was to deal with folks--fucking personally--showered off the poltical animal that is soo useless to build up anyway with all the dirt of graft the integrity of one's people should have delivered to them... IN Jerusalem, I took a couple of buses to get to this Jewish neighborhood, then on foot across a no-man's land and into a tented and cinderblock precinct of Palestinians, to visit Reza Khan...Reza at any rate was part of his name. He sat me down on a two legged chair served me so exceptionally sweet mint tchai and we commenced to misunderstandings whose trappings of time and place were easily jettisoned. I was to give him some linens from Dr French here in Lextown, and honestly who knows if I had the right guy. His fellow denizens just pointed the way to him--I assumed the up & up.
Friday, February 04, 2011
Zadeh: Parkers Mill Rd: Florida during Thanksgiving
~#~Just thinking about meditation was a process toward being in focus-versification, like these astute states of mind would concord w/either some asana thing, or more higher chambers are conjured. Sitting, sitting, many days and I'd become monk-self attuned. I thought sitting here indian style was sitting at the behest of a kingly court--just not at his favor. Then once sitting (sesshun) was finding myself at centeredness, the sitting for myself: I was no longer in the nomenclature of an aspirant directive. In these day in day out moments of retreat, a doctor friend of the family would come over every so often, my studies thus on trial in loquacity. Yet in the pivot of this one cold Autumnal day I headed out Parkers Mill Rd to the water tower to sit under its immensity and read Flavius Josephus. Strangely to answer for myself no threat of credulity, and to suspire in peace, the yawn of yellowed sprattling foliage covering the loam--tho' cold embittered--had body definition, and mind was the blue tower, and deflated ball sun was kundalini release, a color sorely un-noted--and as inward fact out of my grasp. The continuity was my train of no-mind desire--sitting 'pon a power spot, calling it the shuir komah (the measure of the deified body). This measure of g^d's body - one length called parasang - something infinite to contemplate, and as per MY body in repose I imagined much conscious mapping in proximation with say conscious satellites, all these things submerged in an earth vessel, not unlike hot icebergs the emergent proportion a hint of an unvain earth undecided over her presentation an observer parses out....
~#An abundance of evidence seems shared that my consciousness feels chattel-like, any animal--I thought particularly an ibex. But to consult with remonstrations, a sense of integrity that has environs sooo ultimately willful, makes no artifice the orb of inner-sensei motive.
~#Equality is not a state of mind. The last state of numinous tension I thought I was experiencing as equanimity--was sitting in pine needles, Autumnal skies--and for a second I was tasting air with an appetite for a corpse butterfly to leap back into its vital place in the warm convection currents fascinan-woods.
**"You only have yourself to choose." Not sure where I heard that, or if it was imagined from some lyrical stipulate that I took off from--leaping into my personal sojourn. For a long time the variable of edutaining-things, say music TV or books, was something driving to the peak of its threshold, a moment between myself and its portents, where necessarily I'd decide to imagine it gone--make it gone. I mean turn off the best of it, and the mediocrity too. The necessary reflection wasn't just assuaging with its liberating vibe, but as a demarcation of only a few minutes ago--and then I could wonder what piece of it was still in me, as I rode on ahead. The imperturbable thoroughness with which this one album--it was Kaya, its Running Away & Sun is Shining respectively--I think--struck at avenues convened at the sonic homunculus adept I could only imagine as my own trial, was almost at the point of dissolution, driving down Versailles Rd in a buddy's Taurus. I saw what he didn't, that I was tethered to a subtle body and calling it the norm, but getting interrupted since my appreciation had languished--IN these travelogue moments, where ideally pitching the tape out the window was a "silver seed" born in the air to bare fruition til another day... Yet another day would likely be the concurrent evening approaching--just ducking the patter of a dry & heaviness, my trafficked self, an ample destination found when blue slumber had motherNight lend her ventral warmth.
**In Florida just recently (Thanksgiving), and pictures of Mom's family up and around the house there at my aunt's--feel like the cyst once removed left an imminent catharsis, wholly undenied. This one photo of Zadie, exactly the plaino guy I remember from a thousand commiserations, had less of his musk and dithering borne of the image, his personae, than my aunt in her conviction to make her home - a home - a place to regard him, but in pure hopes, perfumed rooms, time-passing extinquished. I watched crapulent TV movies, shows etc...the Bond one w/Brosnan, the last of a cold-war relevance was actually satiate. A breakfront off to the side of the TV had Zadie scanning the room: his mind in bald essense, complex & blah old man, was easily subsumed like my brothers from huge persistance-and-then-petering-out lept from his brow--very believable, quiescence as thus.
**Reading the bio of the author for The Natural. Really boring--and I love this guy. The same exact enthusiasm of hearing the call of the game, like Kerouac out on Desolation Peak, is capturing that 50s times & place. Potok in the simple book The Chosen, deals with this similar espoused bridge of physical opportunity, and competitive lauding. In my Zadie's chair, dimmed orangy feel from the carpet, dark filtrating eve thru our porch's broad windows--I watched a game play, but thru its audition, and not the distraction of visual media.
## Wilderness of Mirrors=documentary about Paul K. There's image & likeness, in man's rappore with what he'd want with the Absolute. Image is good enough, since it'd be impossible to verify we were anything like a creator being. I see people thru their efforts--it makes sense for a minute--but I'm devoured by karmic, that no-decision is recommended, arising but at the impetus of a similar convergence. Still, to be with it, say your "black magic record speaking" (L. Perry) that PK isn't dissauded from the absurd, makes the pallet of my meddle a broader context to achieve. This music, as Patty Smith uses assuaging some other condition, is "a forest of life underfoot." And it's the give & play of it's marketing self-reflecting in strong ether: Dylan's "I have nothing to live up to" is how one administers just what IS outside the known...that Nothing IS, and IS an encounter with a proof of Being--that no-self is contrived... It takes strong art to proove it. Listening to PK's stuff at the backdoor of his old domicile--where CommonGrounds is--some mirror where I am looking at father-brother and not considerately myself, but consciously organic, because I kept projecting his convalescence there--was appreciating... Told a bunch of folks--"hey, this music is dude who lived upstairs there" and the "whiteNoise vibratory properties" (Jack) was the vocal scrape of his presence undenied... panoramic I dare say, and he seemed very patient with our distraction!!
#*In Kabbalah there has been some yet original & perhaps coarse thought given to what ego is. The impulse of good (yetzer haTov), and the impulse of evil (yetzer haRa). Impulse comes from Yetzer--a going forth, like where the word for exodus comes from. With the ego one asks what about some-aspect of self that gets enlisted into the self-cause; with an exodus, one asks what had come along in our exile?
**aggressed certainty, primarily stricken of graft's late return**
#*I'm telling you I had to window shop & live life's currency--that bloodclot--and purchase peace of mind. Literally sit up & meditate at what would reasonably be release. Just like a #2 pencil I pick up from a school commissary, sketching urban profiles with no fence & contiguous quarters--its streets like mind corridors converging on me, intramantra slavery telling me in a seat of resolve there's no place other to be.
Thought about the purpose of a koan tonight. The one I like is--what I thought--What war is the electric spanking of war-babies (perhaps baby boomers) fighting if the slacker's war seem as accessed & intruded upon as in the theatre of man's agressed certainty...the more usual impulse?
!#Or rather just late, but inevitably met, then the wash of thought is the shame that make you high. Objectivity is always in negation, whether we meant to or not. For instance, I practically never make reference to a current event like nation against nation disconsonance. And it just takes one flimmer of the persisting half-thought somehow an Israeli can speak for me--making me see the heights of something perfect (my apathy, & natural disaffection)--an affliction of having become the convergence of something that is entirely supramundane--and it's at my feet.
#!Is Weisel's Williamsburg in that presinct, township? Alfred Kazin gave me a view...Potok definitely does it in In the Beginning--the most complex of the core-culture in a presentiment of diffident impact upon its sublimated communities, kind of narrative. Really subtle chimera from a precise twilight yawn of "sigh glances & whispers" and hints at microcosms thru incantations of Ostyuden (E. European Jewry), self-reproach for ugly irresolute self-Ness til pictures speak and tree canopies consume.
If my little sentient pets with that ancient deftness & acuity in seeking shadows underfoot are to tell me the detritus of well-being gets propitiated, then this katharis (Grk.) is had from ebullience of the vital norm: A "forest-of-life-undefoot" (P. Smith) is just as well as life's exquisite dust. These animals that express a trace of persons in a past awakened, seem to be therapy like the skies shedding messages from the ancient-ones.
~#An abundance of evidence seems shared that my consciousness feels chattel-like, any animal--I thought particularly an ibex. But to consult with remonstrations, a sense of integrity that has environs sooo ultimately willful, makes no artifice the orb of inner-sensei motive.
~#Equality is not a state of mind. The last state of numinous tension I thought I was experiencing as equanimity--was sitting in pine needles, Autumnal skies--and for a second I was tasting air with an appetite for a corpse butterfly to leap back into its vital place in the warm convection currents fascinan-woods.
**"You only have yourself to choose." Not sure where I heard that, or if it was imagined from some lyrical stipulate that I took off from--leaping into my personal sojourn. For a long time the variable of edutaining-things, say music TV or books, was something driving to the peak of its threshold, a moment between myself and its portents, where necessarily I'd decide to imagine it gone--make it gone. I mean turn off the best of it, and the mediocrity too. The necessary reflection wasn't just assuaging with its liberating vibe, but as a demarcation of only a few minutes ago--and then I could wonder what piece of it was still in me, as I rode on ahead. The imperturbable thoroughness with which this one album--it was Kaya, its Running Away & Sun is Shining respectively--I think--struck at avenues convened at the sonic homunculus adept I could only imagine as my own trial, was almost at the point of dissolution, driving down Versailles Rd in a buddy's Taurus. I saw what he didn't, that I was tethered to a subtle body and calling it the norm, but getting interrupted since my appreciation had languished--IN these travelogue moments, where ideally pitching the tape out the window was a "silver seed" born in the air to bare fruition til another day... Yet another day would likely be the concurrent evening approaching--just ducking the patter of a dry & heaviness, my trafficked self, an ample destination found when blue slumber had motherNight lend her ventral warmth.
**In Florida just recently (Thanksgiving), and pictures of Mom's family up and around the house there at my aunt's--feel like the cyst once removed left an imminent catharsis, wholly undenied. This one photo of Zadie, exactly the plaino guy I remember from a thousand commiserations, had less of his musk and dithering borne of the image, his personae, than my aunt in her conviction to make her home - a home - a place to regard him, but in pure hopes, perfumed rooms, time-passing extinquished. I watched crapulent TV movies, shows etc...the Bond one w/Brosnan, the last of a cold-war relevance was actually satiate. A breakfront off to the side of the TV had Zadie scanning the room: his mind in bald essense, complex & blah old man, was easily subsumed like my brothers from huge persistance-and-then-petering-out lept from his brow--very believable, quiescence as thus.
**Reading the bio of the author for The Natural. Really boring--and I love this guy. The same exact enthusiasm of hearing the call of the game, like Kerouac out on Desolation Peak, is capturing that 50s times & place. Potok in the simple book The Chosen, deals with this similar espoused bridge of physical opportunity, and competitive lauding. In my Zadie's chair, dimmed orangy feel from the carpet, dark filtrating eve thru our porch's broad windows--I watched a game play, but thru its audition, and not the distraction of visual media.
## Wilderness of Mirrors=documentary about Paul K. There's image & likeness, in man's rappore with what he'd want with the Absolute. Image is good enough, since it'd be impossible to verify we were anything like a creator being. I see people thru their efforts--it makes sense for a minute--but I'm devoured by karmic, that no-decision is recommended, arising but at the impetus of a similar convergence. Still, to be with it, say your "black magic record speaking" (L. Perry) that PK isn't dissauded from the absurd, makes the pallet of my meddle a broader context to achieve. This music, as Patty Smith uses assuaging some other condition, is "a forest of life underfoot." And it's the give & play of it's marketing self-reflecting in strong ether: Dylan's "I have nothing to live up to" is how one administers just what IS outside the known...that Nothing IS, and IS an encounter with a proof of Being--that no-self is contrived... It takes strong art to proove it. Listening to PK's stuff at the backdoor of his old domicile--where CommonGrounds is--some mirror where I am looking at father-brother and not considerately myself, but consciously organic, because I kept projecting his convalescence there--was appreciating... Told a bunch of folks--"hey, this music is dude who lived upstairs there" and the "whiteNoise vibratory properties" (Jack) was the vocal scrape of his presence undenied... panoramic I dare say, and he seemed very patient with our distraction!!
#*In Kabbalah there has been some yet original & perhaps coarse thought given to what ego is. The impulse of good (yetzer haTov), and the impulse of evil (yetzer haRa). Impulse comes from Yetzer--a going forth, like where the word for exodus comes from. With the ego one asks what about some-aspect of self that gets enlisted into the self-cause; with an exodus, one asks what had come along in our exile?
**aggressed certainty, primarily stricken of graft's late return**
#*I'm telling you I had to window shop & live life's currency--that bloodclot--and purchase peace of mind. Literally sit up & meditate at what would reasonably be release. Just like a #2 pencil I pick up from a school commissary, sketching urban profiles with no fence & contiguous quarters--its streets like mind corridors converging on me, intramantra slavery telling me in a seat of resolve there's no place other to be.
Thought about the purpose of a koan tonight. The one I like is--what I thought--What war is the electric spanking of war-babies (perhaps baby boomers) fighting if the slacker's war seem as accessed & intruded upon as in the theatre of man's agressed certainty...the more usual impulse?
!#Or rather just late, but inevitably met, then the wash of thought is the shame that make you high. Objectivity is always in negation, whether we meant to or not. For instance, I practically never make reference to a current event like nation against nation disconsonance. And it just takes one flimmer of the persisting half-thought somehow an Israeli can speak for me--making me see the heights of something perfect (my apathy, & natural disaffection)--an affliction of having become the convergence of something that is entirely supramundane--and it's at my feet.
#!Is Weisel's Williamsburg in that presinct, township? Alfred Kazin gave me a view...Potok definitely does it in In the Beginning--the most complex of the core-culture in a presentiment of diffident impact upon its sublimated communities, kind of narrative. Really subtle chimera from a precise twilight yawn of "sigh glances & whispers" and hints at microcosms thru incantations of Ostyuden (E. European Jewry), self-reproach for ugly irresolute self-Ness til pictures speak and tree canopies consume.
If my little sentient pets with that ancient deftness & acuity in seeking shadows underfoot are to tell me the detritus of well-being gets propitiated, then this katharis (Grk.) is had from ebullience of the vital norm: A "forest-of-life-undefoot" (P. Smith) is just as well as life's exquisite dust. These animals that express a trace of persons in a past awakened, seem to be therapy like the skies shedding messages from the ancient-ones.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Obediah, Abdullah, Abdu, Mawalli, subjugated self-agency
**The paring of the blackPurple skies humming down I-75 was Cincinati vaudevillian-- had caught a ride with some incarnate of my oldest brother--now the sky as before me droning in my face buried in the antique car's back floorboard. It is like the sky was on stage in my mind's theater and the stars were the courting of figures with meanings of city-states announcing denizens in one stream of color sheen audience-observer, upon the shore-edge of roads' peripheries. I saw punk hair cuts like a dragon whip, and stellar pompous makeUp as if the future-spectacle had been interceded taking people's temporal floor and inverting it. The eyes looking back occasionally into the floorboard were not ocular, but shunts of fluid-bearing soul funk in cosmic luminescence. The driver's back had pretensions to my receding into road report resonance. His back was ocular, as if all these conscious bodies were thrwarted by wards of consciousness sortee's-- the fray of which he and everyone else could have--I was standing still--sitting perfectly still!!
**My cousin's chimey voice somehow gets even-flow in Val's---like really enumerated. I told her (my cuz) as much around Thanksgiving, just because. The vertex that her audition easy speak emotes from me is really I am getting to hear lavender-mood--something really climate. The opposite of talk-embarrass when vox mundi collapses and reckoning of passion ends...the APposite of which would rather have language fragmented and liminal poesis - a white fire taking the whole of our subtle body, glory having been left behind... Her rosy colored mourn (I think I got that from Kerouac) is rapt and uncomplaining. Someone draining in cosmopolitianism (her, kithe & kin)--g^d I can tell ya' I'm happier than most.
**Like a dog carrying a paper, inky chemicals contrive my brain, in as much as I was master and National Geographics were the broadcasted outward fact come to the fore, and under a lamp with milky white light in its pretense that all colors were heralded. I saw the fireplace from this repose in a dream--it is next to the ottoman, a good enough seat of a 1000deaths, without its exterior wall there--and the vista made plain was in the snow wake, out toward the neighbor's RunJoeRun fence -- the one I watched the german shepherd Missy jump over on so many alerted to occasions... Fire with a crystaline visage frozen intermediary conflagrations not obviated--and yet a hot callalou in letters in my upsetter melancholy that if only it wasn't in proportion of just that one corner of my mind--I'd go w/a content chimera albeit.
**To the extent that someone is an answer--for me it was those in the beggardly squalor these Egyptians lived in in Dahab (then just barely a village, yet w/one bldg w/electric, there on the Red Sea), as well as the actual beggar laying in the strolling boulevard (Ben Yehuda Blvd.) in Jerusalem, I feel any archetypal mystic is thing-actual. With the strange economy of spirit & survival --what I imagined as NOT what I need to be interupting, the vessel for his/her mitigation of those factors playing out their sentient little selves, makes every shown orifice look ringed with bLACK within: shadows behind his guffaw, pinched eyelids, olfactory forebearance of unenchanting odors. My G^d they live this way, & perhaps gather silent hedges, walkways into ubiquity, just elemental facts, like a buddha experiencing the denial of the Destroyer Mara in visions ultimately more tangible than the fight of self-worth in killing ego's bland instruction--those few words of obscene deterance --its excrescence, my trial.
**I don't have any friends in high places. Not even myself. If man is suppose to have a kingly self with which to adjure life in one's magnificence, then perhaps a good slave heralding remote land's resources, as no one else could make the decision to live so distantly would be my lot.
**It's all ego says a Himalayan monk. He was interviewed in this buddhist preachy photo coffee table book of R. Gere's--called pilgrims. But taking the varnasrama-dharma doctrine --the thing about our agency, as opposed to our vocation, a monk is what Siddhartha became. Then he finds the great awakening from the dream of existence, to use Kerouac's assignation. So this monk living so remotely--in a cave perhaps solitarian, still is in the crowd of I & Thou & I & Nature...while mitigating I & We: it's all ego. Where the hell is I & I? Because socially actionable creatures that humanity is instructed this guy to leave the rest at arm's length. So his reaching for a glass of water has Varuna (Uranus) with messages from the ancients, and so-that water won't deluge us in the next incarnation, we speak to it, give it praise at its cloy: it is trying our patience at oUr behest!
**I intend on innundating myself in mania--a conscious pocket, mind economy--money ina pocket ...Leaving things out in the tidal pools like exposing my leprosy to sungods and water deserts. That insanity is a force of calvacades exemplar, it's invited--not really cultivated. But absurd enough in vaporous looming the mendicant in me is "a" peasant " walking to the road, to return all that is old," is a spiritual memory that I'd 'flect.
I love the village--say smoking Jew--with certain places (it's Dostoevskian parlors if I can hack it with me) where he'd resign his need to learn: go to a shtiblech. I shtibl is a studyhall, a shtiblech maybe more like an office, but courted by kinda heirophants to engage in pilpul=argument! Language is the victor, vehemence would be vanquished--insanity is redemption whose meaning in hebrew concerns this assertion: redemption, an answer, and restoration, IS our "turning-around."
**Throwing newspapers--barely maintaining a residence myself--imagining the sentience projected from the small minds of nephews I hear as I jump & skip around Cardinal Valley while I volley my route... It was like I was having to swear to these angels that I'd agree to watch over--"asking the angels"--I was "starting to bleed." (P. Smith) Runny consciousness, solitude as the advent of non-stylin' and un-pompousness, still makes a career of that self-effacement that the rest of relationship--the weird I & We--says much has been said in way of these places I haunt. The sense that my nephews were crowding me struck dharma in my heart, self-duty, and I teared up. With Jenny then some, her excelsior-izing Olds 98 coming up and I try the realness and effect of all this upon her receiving mind. Jenny just reacts motherly--and I see just what it is that circumvents weariness. As she & I stand out in my front, I mention my nephew to her--(he actually just walked up on me as I deliberate this) and she affirms, nods, spits and those angels still are in the abject air in my steps behind, just touching earth.
**take aim--she patters around more OUTside, than the purchase of her gait at home evinces home as memorialized space
I get these ocular migraines. As it comes on devolves recklessly and lessens in the concern it causes, I have not uncertain feelings of strict impermanence. Things like I'm as good as buried--it won't be long now; Mom hasn't barely another day amongst; the business would be sacrificed for the once comely necessary distraction it has become; death, that's it. The lion's share of self-consciousness-tho' gets looked at like there's a promise. These black & white stases in the concourse of star tincture and light intensity, makes me ASK of this receptacle, mind, but I'm used to having no answer on ground's consciousness (pocket) and still I observe -- like give & take here makes even the worst of my attention a trek into clarity...& there is no break like the norm IS stricken.
**My cousin's chimey voice somehow gets even-flow in Val's---like really enumerated. I told her (my cuz) as much around Thanksgiving, just because. The vertex that her audition easy speak emotes from me is really I am getting to hear lavender-mood--something really climate. The opposite of talk-embarrass when vox mundi collapses and reckoning of passion ends...the APposite of which would rather have language fragmented and liminal poesis - a white fire taking the whole of our subtle body, glory having been left behind... Her rosy colored mourn (I think I got that from Kerouac) is rapt and uncomplaining. Someone draining in cosmopolitianism (her, kithe & kin)--g^d I can tell ya' I'm happier than most.
**Like a dog carrying a paper, inky chemicals contrive my brain, in as much as I was master and National Geographics were the broadcasted outward fact come to the fore, and under a lamp with milky white light in its pretense that all colors were heralded. I saw the fireplace from this repose in a dream--it is next to the ottoman, a good enough seat of a 1000deaths, without its exterior wall there--and the vista made plain was in the snow wake, out toward the neighbor's RunJoeRun fence -- the one I watched the german shepherd Missy jump over on so many alerted to occasions... Fire with a crystaline visage frozen intermediary conflagrations not obviated--and yet a hot callalou in letters in my upsetter melancholy that if only it wasn't in proportion of just that one corner of my mind--I'd go w/a content chimera albeit.
**To the extent that someone is an answer--for me it was those in the beggardly squalor these Egyptians lived in in Dahab (then just barely a village, yet w/one bldg w/electric, there on the Red Sea), as well as the actual beggar laying in the strolling boulevard (Ben Yehuda Blvd.) in Jerusalem, I feel any archetypal mystic is thing-actual. With the strange economy of spirit & survival --what I imagined as NOT what I need to be interupting, the vessel for his/her mitigation of those factors playing out their sentient little selves, makes every shown orifice look ringed with bLACK within: shadows behind his guffaw, pinched eyelids, olfactory forebearance of unenchanting odors. My G^d they live this way, & perhaps gather silent hedges, walkways into ubiquity, just elemental facts, like a buddha experiencing the denial of the Destroyer Mara in visions ultimately more tangible than the fight of self-worth in killing ego's bland instruction--those few words of obscene deterance --its excrescence, my trial.
**I don't have any friends in high places. Not even myself. If man is suppose to have a kingly self with which to adjure life in one's magnificence, then perhaps a good slave heralding remote land's resources, as no one else could make the decision to live so distantly would be my lot.
**It's all ego says a Himalayan monk. He was interviewed in this buddhist preachy photo coffee table book of R. Gere's--called pilgrims. But taking the varnasrama-dharma doctrine --the thing about our agency, as opposed to our vocation, a monk is what Siddhartha became. Then he finds the great awakening from the dream of existence, to use Kerouac's assignation. So this monk living so remotely--in a cave perhaps solitarian, still is in the crowd of I & Thou & I & Nature...while mitigating I & We: it's all ego. Where the hell is I & I? Because socially actionable creatures that humanity is instructed this guy to leave the rest at arm's length. So his reaching for a glass of water has Varuna (Uranus) with messages from the ancients, and so-that water won't deluge us in the next incarnation, we speak to it, give it praise at its cloy: it is trying our patience at oUr behest!
**I intend on innundating myself in mania--a conscious pocket, mind economy--money ina pocket ...Leaving things out in the tidal pools like exposing my leprosy to sungods and water deserts. That insanity is a force of calvacades exemplar, it's invited--not really cultivated. But absurd enough in vaporous looming the mendicant in me is "a" peasant " walking to the road, to return all that is old," is a spiritual memory that I'd 'flect.
I love the village--say smoking Jew--with certain places (it's Dostoevskian parlors if I can hack it with me) where he'd resign his need to learn: go to a shtiblech. I shtibl is a studyhall, a shtiblech maybe more like an office, but courted by kinda heirophants to engage in pilpul=argument! Language is the victor, vehemence would be vanquished--insanity is redemption whose meaning in hebrew concerns this assertion: redemption, an answer, and restoration, IS our "turning-around."
**Throwing newspapers--barely maintaining a residence myself--imagining the sentience projected from the small minds of nephews I hear as I jump & skip around Cardinal Valley while I volley my route... It was like I was having to swear to these angels that I'd agree to watch over--"asking the angels"--I was "starting to bleed." (P. Smith) Runny consciousness, solitude as the advent of non-stylin' and un-pompousness, still makes a career of that self-effacement that the rest of relationship--the weird I & We--says much has been said in way of these places I haunt. The sense that my nephews were crowding me struck dharma in my heart, self-duty, and I teared up. With Jenny then some, her excelsior-izing Olds 98 coming up and I try the realness and effect of all this upon her receiving mind. Jenny just reacts motherly--and I see just what it is that circumvents weariness. As she & I stand out in my front, I mention my nephew to her--(he actually just walked up on me as I deliberate this) and she affirms, nods, spits and those angels still are in the abject air in my steps behind, just touching earth.
**take aim--she patters around more OUTside, than the purchase of her gait at home evinces home as memorialized space
I get these ocular migraines. As it comes on devolves recklessly and lessens in the concern it causes, I have not uncertain feelings of strict impermanence. Things like I'm as good as buried--it won't be long now; Mom hasn't barely another day amongst; the business would be sacrificed for the once comely necessary distraction it has become; death, that's it. The lion's share of self-consciousness-tho' gets looked at like there's a promise. These black & white stases in the concourse of star tincture and light intensity, makes me ASK of this receptacle, mind, but I'm used to having no answer on ground's consciousness (pocket) and still I observe -- like give & take here makes even the worst of my attention a trek into clarity...& there is no break like the norm IS stricken.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
The shanty shtetl of my mind's eye glance
**THE SHADOW OF g^D, AND THE pitch of night, are the studied observation of excavated space before me, sun at my back--with substance the contrary standard, a blue slumber--to use Rimbaud's language. A jaunt across Beaumont Park was boundary-made enough that thresholds borne of time passing was in the measure of distance strung before me and a "great awakening from the dream of existence." * Kerouac. I wanted the space absolute & the IN of where I was remitted entirely of a place I couldn't otherwise fathom ontologically. Looked at emptiness as I graduated across the hillocky field--looked at flaps of perimeter-made shadowy self invert & perversely shout in reflexion that-wasn't-enumerated but by my eyes shutting out burning summery grass.
**Felt strange green-night shadows across my pillows, street lights thru my windows--something Dylan says about a kinda tinker on the streets, and we'd paint pictures under our sheets, and my room may as well be an amphora, like I am the pharonic guts in dusty reproach of flat-lined time filling bottles with empty eternity. In Sufferin Ny, where I stayed a night w/Orthodox cousin and her rabbi husband before flying to Israel, the consuming night seemed rather that it was served up to yet some other sentient body--just not mine. And lying there in the guest room I had to recall what it was imagining living slow fidelity next to a river (of life). The intervallic seance of cars passing by, and conscious map appearing, kept stunting my awareness of time & place. I plainly was unfamiliar with the neighborhood, so the vehicular trajectory was voidant and not met. The pavement w/its rubber report was New York-ish, but no empirical plate was set so the victuals of centeredness could be assessed. I braced for a dissolved attention of where I will ever beeee.
**WORDS make us high--or rather the voice drUnk. Tho' I don't mean from something imbibed, but just how thu expression what one says, is nuanced with what gets built upon that edifice & conscious prop. And since we tend to really give a damn ...to be identified thru what it is that conveys us--it is just as likely the folly of solitude 'pon the mt. of abbreviated thought--thru language--is the place from which we jump abysmally...because language is vain, vapors to vapors, as King Solomon saith.-----------The ego tells me everything and sometimes anything true, or at least realistic. I gave every extremis resolve the heat of a gratuitous climb into its furthest range--just because. Language collapsing in upon it itself, is ego rounded out in my leisure due in part that expression is a foundering boat constabulary of self-effacement. The lightning vox adventuring thought having the yawn of concept wretch consciousness, is still in fact liminal--measured, and an allowance of mind restraint from the incorrigible long day's end receding like I LIKE it. It shall pass. Language is NOT set in stone: it's cheap.
Anyway, anyone of us who may get into a stream of consciousness, makes the motive a priori a consumate rush and relevent self-respecting adulation as per this Beat author's excellent way of doing just this--meaning Kerouac. Seriously. And this book (Big Sur) is about his demise into alcoholism which eventually killed him--but not in this book, unless we are speaking in terms of karmic death, in which case I am leaving this NOTE to dead men/women as I conjure this relativity... The book should be relatively cheap, and has "our" brand of release in it so that we can know that Hunter S Thompson was indeed an asshole, but Kerouac was a saint, yet they looked thru the same glass darkly--and that being a factoring-IN of what it is as common denominator for this americana minus any any any authorial body lest we speak of G^D. I'm reading "about" his book On The ROAD, and someone asks him, Do you write about Jesus? And he said, if I were a crazy man and only wrote about Jesus and I come to your house and say Jesus has nothing to do with my "alliterative artifice," *(my words) then you can be sure anyone who says they never speak of Jesus is lying and is crazy. I am interpretive here, but I think he means--no one has a choice, we are all writing about G^d. The above language subject rant I wrote this morning--this paragraph is ahappenin' as of Now, I mean now---no no no NOW....
^^Kickin it w/my nephew today, really relating to something about BMW and release, and a horsefarm by my house where my changes took place... And particularly this time in the late 90s up in the Catskills when boy was about 15 or 16. He'd want to smoke, --I was done bitchin' about the waste of time that that was, so we'd wander out to the forest and Steven would light up. We walk down to the stream, pregnant translucent & damn if I didn't reconcile an empty trove that begs for spiritual content, because of the Jewish thing in presumptive less than magnetic draw upon me...there...& then. Yet, the advantage that the distance even in a remote quality that had self-actualization waiting for me, was now sooo close up, in that creek, mosquitos in a hot callalou/ whatever the Rasta meant by that (actually it may be an allegorical soup reference)/ burning a campfire before heading back up the bungalows, was fealty under no control of mine... Just tossed the motive that I was stuck with my reckoning about day & age--but stuck I was!!
**In Rushdie's book Midnight's Children, these youths across India were born with extra-sensory powers at the inception of the birth of modern India. One youth can enter into the vehicle of imagery of some one's past and be the observer of even times antediluvian--so to speak, I'm saying, before their birth. The presage of ideation, that I would use/choose an image in some kind of intuitive capacity--is entirely by definition of something I can see--as upon a spectral shore--whose message is remote, and in a sense that I've gathered it even in proximal distance... One part of Rushdie's book deals with the bodhisattva Shankarcharya, in N. India. The higher plateaux, the finesse that my inner-eye borrows from a coarser view of the world, and somehow stages mind's perimeter, like I can accede to limits of rational hard-fought for thought, is taking imagination from frayed narratives and acceptable release, to a constancy and becoming a self-proponet, like an arhat. That I need someone is one thing-- that they'd have answered for things for me, is adjudged as body-liberation--is folly jettisoned. In our solitude we may get to just what identity borrowed out of theoria, has as the warrant in solitarian examples for finding ourselves.
~~The train is to reggae, as the sundarbans are to the sitar. Rastas live redeemed even into ghost-towns, Babylon's expellent, til the government comes along and pushes them down. Shudras (Pariahs), on village vocations' margins, live lives' shadows the floe of surface, an erasing of what-is beneath, ultimate transition, utilitarian benevolence...in life as we know it.
~~When was the last long distance pedestrian transect--a kind of ambulating pilgrimage have you undertaken? An interesting trod was taken by me & my buddy once on the road from Rachel's Tomb to Tiberias. We only ended up walking a few hrs. But the grapefruit we apropriated was a measure of magnificate skies. Closer to the lament memorial/ Rachel's Tomb, but never acTuaLLy knowing our proximity there, stood right off the road a UN school, Palestinian of course there, and the custodians were none too availed of comradeship to us strangers. And I just leapt from my imagination that Arabesque epicurean super sweetened tea/chai wouldst be on offer. A crush of world village & rather jettisoning the cramp of fenced off deadly propriety.***One way that TURNED the darkness to light, a probable trajectory if we assume meaning will avail, was thru strenuous activity as the following discusses.:: Here in Lexington seems like a long walk in the offing was a way to gather the disparate elements of myself. I do call it a pilgrimage. It's been a couple of decades but hoofing it from the Univ of Ky up a few miles to my neighborhood--now where I live again--made the presentiment of things like the patternic traffic lights flashing, and then also the in & out trod under street lights, corridor plateau corridor plateau--a symbolic tarry which I could then anticipate in dreams. I was so weary at one time from my hike, that it came to me only certain things may occur in dream-time, and that I might determine there & then what would be the imagery vehicle. The sense of it IT gave me was a view to an ascending path, as opposed to resignation of a lost night and a meandering into its looming shadowy forgetfulness.
**Felt strange green-night shadows across my pillows, street lights thru my windows--something Dylan says about a kinda tinker on the streets, and we'd paint pictures under our sheets, and my room may as well be an amphora, like I am the pharonic guts in dusty reproach of flat-lined time filling bottles with empty eternity. In Sufferin Ny, where I stayed a night w/Orthodox cousin and her rabbi husband before flying to Israel, the consuming night seemed rather that it was served up to yet some other sentient body--just not mine. And lying there in the guest room I had to recall what it was imagining living slow fidelity next to a river (of life). The intervallic seance of cars passing by, and conscious map appearing, kept stunting my awareness of time & place. I plainly was unfamiliar with the neighborhood, so the vehicular trajectory was voidant and not met. The pavement w/its rubber report was New York-ish, but no empirical plate was set so the victuals of centeredness could be assessed. I braced for a dissolved attention of where I will ever beeee.
**WORDS make us high--or rather the voice drUnk. Tho' I don't mean from something imbibed, but just how thu expression what one says, is nuanced with what gets built upon that edifice & conscious prop. And since we tend to really give a damn ...to be identified thru what it is that conveys us--it is just as likely the folly of solitude 'pon the mt. of abbreviated thought--thru language--is the place from which we jump abysmally...because language is vain, vapors to vapors, as King Solomon saith.-----------The ego tells me everything and sometimes anything true, or at least realistic. I gave every extremis resolve the heat of a gratuitous climb into its furthest range--just because. Language collapsing in upon it itself, is ego rounded out in my leisure due in part that expression is a foundering boat constabulary of self-effacement. The lightning vox adventuring thought having the yawn of concept wretch consciousness, is still in fact liminal--measured, and an allowance of mind restraint from the incorrigible long day's end receding like I LIKE it. It shall pass. Language is NOT set in stone: it's cheap.
Anyway, anyone of us who may get into a stream of consciousness, makes the motive a priori a consumate rush and relevent self-respecting adulation as per this Beat author's excellent way of doing just this--meaning Kerouac. Seriously. And this book (Big Sur) is about his demise into alcoholism which eventually killed him--but not in this book, unless we are speaking in terms of karmic death, in which case I am leaving this NOTE to dead men/women as I conjure this relativity... The book should be relatively cheap, and has "our" brand of release in it so that we can know that Hunter S Thompson was indeed an asshole, but Kerouac was a saint, yet they looked thru the same glass darkly--and that being a factoring-IN of what it is as common denominator for this americana minus any any any authorial body lest we speak of G^D. I'm reading "about" his book On The ROAD, and someone asks him, Do you write about Jesus? And he said, if I were a crazy man and only wrote about Jesus and I come to your house and say Jesus has nothing to do with my "alliterative artifice," *(my words) then you can be sure anyone who says they never speak of Jesus is lying and is crazy. I am interpretive here, but I think he means--no one has a choice, we are all writing about G^d. The above language subject rant I wrote this morning--this paragraph is ahappenin' as of Now, I mean now---no no no NOW....
^^Kickin it w/my nephew today, really relating to something about BMW and release, and a horsefarm by my house where my changes took place... And particularly this time in the late 90s up in the Catskills when boy was about 15 or 16. He'd want to smoke, --I was done bitchin' about the waste of time that that was, so we'd wander out to the forest and Steven would light up. We walk down to the stream, pregnant translucent & damn if I didn't reconcile an empty trove that begs for spiritual content, because of the Jewish thing in presumptive less than magnetic draw upon me...there...& then. Yet, the advantage that the distance even in a remote quality that had self-actualization waiting for me, was now sooo close up, in that creek, mosquitos in a hot callalou/ whatever the Rasta meant by that (actually it may be an allegorical soup reference)/ burning a campfire before heading back up the bungalows, was fealty under no control of mine... Just tossed the motive that I was stuck with my reckoning about day & age--but stuck I was!!
**In Rushdie's book Midnight's Children, these youths across India were born with extra-sensory powers at the inception of the birth of modern India. One youth can enter into the vehicle of imagery of some one's past and be the observer of even times antediluvian--so to speak, I'm saying, before their birth. The presage of ideation, that I would use/choose an image in some kind of intuitive capacity--is entirely by definition of something I can see--as upon a spectral shore--whose message is remote, and in a sense that I've gathered it even in proximal distance... One part of Rushdie's book deals with the bodhisattva Shankarcharya, in N. India. The higher plateaux, the finesse that my inner-eye borrows from a coarser view of the world, and somehow stages mind's perimeter, like I can accede to limits of rational hard-fought for thought, is taking imagination from frayed narratives and acceptable release, to a constancy and becoming a self-proponet, like an arhat. That I need someone is one thing-- that they'd have answered for things for me, is adjudged as body-liberation--is folly jettisoned. In our solitude we may get to just what identity borrowed out of theoria, has as the warrant in solitarian examples for finding ourselves.
~~The train is to reggae, as the sundarbans are to the sitar. Rastas live redeemed even into ghost-towns, Babylon's expellent, til the government comes along and pushes them down. Shudras (Pariahs), on village vocations' margins, live lives' shadows the floe of surface, an erasing of what-is beneath, ultimate transition, utilitarian benevolence...in life as we know it.
~~When was the last long distance pedestrian transect--a kind of ambulating pilgrimage have you undertaken? An interesting trod was taken by me & my buddy once on the road from Rachel's Tomb to Tiberias. We only ended up walking a few hrs. But the grapefruit we apropriated was a measure of magnificate skies. Closer to the lament memorial/ Rachel's Tomb, but never acTuaLLy knowing our proximity there, stood right off the road a UN school, Palestinian of course there, and the custodians were none too availed of comradeship to us strangers. And I just leapt from my imagination that Arabesque epicurean super sweetened tea/chai wouldst be on offer. A crush of world village & rather jettisoning the cramp of fenced off deadly propriety.***One way that TURNED the darkness to light, a probable trajectory if we assume meaning will avail, was thru strenuous activity as the following discusses.:: Here in Lexington seems like a long walk in the offing was a way to gather the disparate elements of myself. I do call it a pilgrimage. It's been a couple of decades but hoofing it from the Univ of Ky up a few miles to my neighborhood--now where I live again--made the presentiment of things like the patternic traffic lights flashing, and then also the in & out trod under street lights, corridor plateau corridor plateau--a symbolic tarry which I could then anticipate in dreams. I was so weary at one time from my hike, that it came to me only certain things may occur in dream-time, and that I might determine there & then what would be the imagery vehicle. The sense of it IT gave me was a view to an ascending path, as opposed to resignation of a lost night and a meandering into its looming shadowy forgetfulness.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
JUst Judgment or Unjust Beatific Epiphenomenon
#~# I look over to this prescious woman, disrobed- suspiring* (I saw Kerouac use), perhaps expectant like I'd draw some formal map to these moments, this creative thing we thought we retrieved like no other...! I look at her back and see a man's back. Not just any man, but MINE. Now how deeply ensconced in my own flesh-felt rapt lost on whatever I could say someone should understand me through? Moldering like hay on fire within--feeling kundalini detached. How through with toxic talk-sick confused spittle belched laughable sublime bridge to the Other's heart, whose heart is but a trough of blood, that I throw body and mind to its banks til I am pulsing freely, reckoned, sweetly, lair convened, did this prison mind cease language-liberation thence attributable?
#~#On Who do you Think You are? I watched an actress--Jewish heritage--find the memorialized places whence her family trod (I suppose that's grammatically correct...) in eastern Europe, and then kin who survived haShoah=the Holocaust. I think ...to look across time into those images, see face's sheen, dogs terrorize, humor is illegitimate-- An inner voice arcs, "I'm sorry--I could have done something--I think on you now--what you leave w/me in this vacuum of of self-serving, would make me give that away, because it's just that I'll know I wouldn't give up on you, give up ever at any rate... ever." I see film footage - a child, a girl, one tremor of expression in a momentary glance out of her pale shelter...and fucking clearly it is the only vestige of what sadness mEANT. Just of a sense that Yeah, she willing to cry again, "please let me cry," she wonders. the tremor is indeed a rarified event; there's not enough spirit left in her mind-body for her to realize the still waters she'd beckon. Just give her the bread.
#~#Like I am the principal, I tell myself what we all endure - the work-a-day scholarly student of life, are the means to the ends of how I look at myself as before the same books. The books are fateful, I am the grim reaper, and the harvest is defined by the commencement of fruition furrows clueing me in from some house maiden in her spring rites, whose warnings are about just how long we have til we starve. This is information I hear from the lips of her sublimated earth denizens. I hear my bros & sisters and they tell me without authorial realization that she's condemned them. I receive their comeuppance plaintive cry, I realize the implications. I wonder how it is I got to know what it is that sues the sufferer of their vital norm.
^^My confrontation with letters--the deepest cuts now furthering comely acceptance of self, has impelled me to want radically One thing and only One thing to stamp my need to define transcendence once and for all. I keep anticipating this One thing as if my will would be triumvirated--spiritualized by authorial bodies of mind, body & soul-- by the Climate of the Greater Will.
^^IN regard to the world in its dormancy--the following is my take on a mind delivered to the first step up to the dream-scape::: I LIKE READING when my weary repose is getting the "better" of me. This feeling of sliding off the fly wheel rat......her than sticking to it, is quite an interesting box of rules to adjust to if only without the certainty of our measure of effort to make the conceptual feeling the author imparts actually last. So, I find I have an impulse of being negligent, or rather that the task is negligible so why persist? But, the pith of mind is still prepared to be manifest if I'd only look. Something like the sofa striking the bat rather than a thwack of the bat with its gratuitous purpose to land upon the dull animal of "the chair of thousands of deaths." I instigate the conduit thought-field and where it leads as if losing my way from exhaustion is part of the multiplied direction... THe new yr in a few days, a so called Yr's end sabbath might be a direction to be severely adduced!!
^^*If there's hell below we are all gonna go... But really there is a tangent concept here. Hellish albeit. Just been reading the author for The Last Temptation of Christ. His auto-bio in fact, called Report to Greco. Dude it is beautiful. He considers himself to be X-tian, Communist, Buddhist (or did.). He was writing about these communities of monks on Mt Athos--somewhere in Turkey I think. Greek Orthodoxy enclave--Europe's first I believe. These guys believed--many of them I mean, in the cruxifiction, as opposed to the Resurrection. SAying: LIFE is Cruxifiction. Really bitter old Christian aescetics. But that they were so devout and believed in Stern Judgment was to my mind instructive. Thinking that mankind is on the road to hell, well in fact creates huge visuals for me--that seems like a thing to cultivate. So by doing that limits the veracity of the conception WE all may go there--X-tians are asked to Witness, to be Initiated--not merely believe--and Jes didn't say that, 'cept in the King James version. So I don't have to go to the vertex of a world of displeasure just because there is such a world, or absence of this one that I can imagine. Right? And instead compels me to imagine a reprieve as only the relics of experience may have us do (endure).
*^*Reincarnation or Channeling? Seems reincarnation is the samsara vehicle of what happens presently. We know we incarnate in this life, that there is one world, we live on the threshold of this imminence front--so I am as much Barack as perhaps Saddam Hussein only a few years ago. But not those who have died in this life of so many more years ago that their tidal wave has content but no form--has color but can't be said to exist... You die an existence, you don't die there again--doors close.
#~#On Who do you Think You are? I watched an actress--Jewish heritage--find the memorialized places whence her family trod (I suppose that's grammatically correct...) in eastern Europe, and then kin who survived haShoah=the Holocaust. I think ...to look across time into those images, see face's sheen, dogs terrorize, humor is illegitimate-- An inner voice arcs, "I'm sorry--I could have done something--I think on you now--what you leave w/me in this vacuum of of self-serving, would make me give that away, because it's just that I'll know I wouldn't give up on you, give up ever at any rate... ever." I see film footage - a child, a girl, one tremor of expression in a momentary glance out of her pale shelter...and fucking clearly it is the only vestige of what sadness mEANT. Just of a sense that Yeah, she willing to cry again, "please let me cry," she wonders. the tremor is indeed a rarified event; there's not enough spirit left in her mind-body for her to realize the still waters she'd beckon. Just give her the bread.
#~#Like I am the principal, I tell myself what we all endure - the work-a-day scholarly student of life, are the means to the ends of how I look at myself as before the same books. The books are fateful, I am the grim reaper, and the harvest is defined by the commencement of fruition furrows clueing me in from some house maiden in her spring rites, whose warnings are about just how long we have til we starve. This is information I hear from the lips of her sublimated earth denizens. I hear my bros & sisters and they tell me without authorial realization that she's condemned them. I receive their comeuppance plaintive cry, I realize the implications. I wonder how it is I got to know what it is that sues the sufferer of their vital norm.
^^My confrontation with letters--the deepest cuts now furthering comely acceptance of self, has impelled me to want radically One thing and only One thing to stamp my need to define transcendence once and for all. I keep anticipating this One thing as if my will would be triumvirated--spiritualized by authorial bodies of mind, body & soul-- by the Climate of the Greater Will.
^^IN regard to the world in its dormancy--the following is my take on a mind delivered to the first step up to the dream-scape::: I LIKE READING when my weary repose is getting the "better" of me. This feeling of sliding off the fly wheel rat......her than sticking to it, is quite an interesting box of rules to adjust to if only without the certainty of our measure of effort to make the conceptual feeling the author imparts actually last. So, I find I have an impulse of being negligent, or rather that the task is negligible so why persist? But, the pith of mind is still prepared to be manifest if I'd only look. Something like the sofa striking the bat rather than a thwack of the bat with its gratuitous purpose to land upon the dull animal of "the chair of thousands of deaths." I instigate the conduit thought-field and where it leads as if losing my way from exhaustion is part of the multiplied direction... THe new yr in a few days, a so called Yr's end sabbath might be a direction to be severely adduced!!
^^*If there's hell below we are all gonna go... But really there is a tangent concept here. Hellish albeit. Just been reading the author for The Last Temptation of Christ. His auto-bio in fact, called Report to Greco. Dude it is beautiful. He considers himself to be X-tian, Communist, Buddhist (or did.). He was writing about these communities of monks on Mt Athos--somewhere in Turkey I think. Greek Orthodoxy enclave--Europe's first I believe. These guys believed--many of them I mean, in the cruxifiction, as opposed to the Resurrection. SAying: LIFE is Cruxifiction. Really bitter old Christian aescetics. But that they were so devout and believed in Stern Judgment was to my mind instructive. Thinking that mankind is on the road to hell, well in fact creates huge visuals for me--that seems like a thing to cultivate. So by doing that limits the veracity of the conception WE all may go there--X-tians are asked to Witness, to be Initiated--not merely believe--and Jes didn't say that, 'cept in the King James version. So I don't have to go to the vertex of a world of displeasure just because there is such a world, or absence of this one that I can imagine. Right? And instead compels me to imagine a reprieve as only the relics of experience may have us do (endure).
*^*Reincarnation or Channeling? Seems reincarnation is the samsara vehicle of what happens presently. We know we incarnate in this life, that there is one world, we live on the threshold of this imminence front--so I am as much Barack as perhaps Saddam Hussein only a few years ago. But not those who have died in this life of so many more years ago that their tidal wave has content but no form--has color but can't be said to exist... You die an existence, you don't die there again--doors close.
Monday, December 27, 2010
the blah-terraneans!!
I like these few band names just in their plausible open-community sound of it. The Soul Syndicate singing King's Highway, who are Dready because Times are irreconcileable to deal with tribally (hypothetically)--and so these acolytes say I-man is More Dread than that. Peoples just called the People--reducing their self-emulation to farce in one way, and in another way in a place without anywhere else to turn. Soul Vendors or The Israelites--Christofarians, name whose definition means Those who Struggle with G^d. Strive for G^d=Yisro'el. Names imparting being found as the millionth of a million souls, like there are more opportunities than soul resigning us to obeisance=soul seeking that which has no concept or word, so that is to say an Unknown--a thing that we can't say would exist. And the fascinans is utter musterion that one feel compelled to act in behalf of mention of the Absolute--The Provenance of said community, but never having asked for its prohibitive restoration. Prohibative in knowing that This is imminent is liminal, and motive a priori.
^!^Left my Korean Buddha at Alison's apt, back in the day. She was my second, but really the first. I parted ways with her, remonstrating the intuition of her lasting with me, as I knew the same for the collegiate thang too--I'd leave out and knew I'd not have these things followed thru like the world doing and going by me, people meeting goals & each other, moving forward....
I lived on Rebel Rd. eponymous in a way that I'd call it--soul rebel, because "the sun shall not smite I by day, nor the moon by night." (B. Marley is where I heard that--suppose it's biblacy) I woke up coming down from the sincere mountain of the life - 3yrs of it, I spent with Alison - & the tally of where I'd come from dissipates just as the availing path forward was ackwardly precipitous. Ackward, bound by momentum, but contrition in my heart that I wasn't deciding. In the basement barely looking out to the backyard--here on Rebel, the morning of the dubious past and irrelevant future, grappling with the tether of dream-time, I got punished in receiving the day's beginning--light brandishing an awe in my face, too ill-consuming, and literally I heard bird calls emanating from my bird gullet. Freaked me out--not even laughable now--but will be after I read this here in a few days...
I was reading about the Indian girl, in The Subterraneans=Kerouac enthusing motive.
You seed your soul - that's what you shall reap. The coldest varietal of denizenship--me in this habitat--had Valerie sitting there as unassuming as my being innoculated in more desperate climes. Nothing to speak on around us, only glossy fracturing light that I wanted to cut me. If I'd been to hell, the static-dust and cold coming on to this Winter, had colors just so, and Valerie sitting right in the midst of hell's declination. I saw her there waiting--seemingly saying as bad as I found things now or as a mark against my fate, she is THere alas.
::
If someone's doctrine for self-actualization be answer enough, we may also infer I want to recognize that it isn't OF just one condition that you meant to share it with me. The answer here is not that well thIS OR THAT gospel is dynamic, and you would have never supposed only one door to that Light. You may, but under the sacrosanctity that Self-Actualization goals are shared is like the dust in our hair never washed til we change our hearts, and passion & praise has what is dear in its clutches because its content demand approprotion...give it more where it is lacking. So, I wanted the mechanics of your belief's letters to What-up & scatter but as star splendor, --the dust at our feet, however is as upon a well-trod land, we fill up every available precinct of space memorialized with our martyrdom of time--its dispensational floe yielding to effort's recompence: our feeling received in the LIGHT of Actionable Cause. You have One, sir--I want to observe that as I can, in my way, perhaps...lazily too, but in moments that allude to spiritual endeavor so that Compassion is our vehicle and is arguably thru our episteme exchange in weirder moments than that, so to speak if notions about the Light-Fantastic are complex and are observably releasing the dross rendered patterns in our more self-serving mind back to its source. Not all of which I can capture--lazily man...too bad perhaps or really a languid pattern to listen as my response becomes hopefully more eloquent, or rather just in hopes to respond: I & I & I got to fulfill the Book--and there are G^D-Fearers, People of the Book etc with different ledgers with which we feel G^d may finally oBserve us in prescient awakening thusly, knowing & assuming it happens ALL of the time...evolving.
I look back and sense having been ejected from one 10yr span of life into the next that has no even mellow steady flow like my incarnation previously. Sitting in a bookstore there in Fl. over the T.giving holiday the academician personas I've trusted like yellow withery pages in its throes of hero-protags, are actually gray pulp matter and still I am seeing every other color thru some convenient lens. I sometimes have to be reminded that I give myself over to a life of study. Images are fluent by this convention, and I gather them so that when my body is in agreement with my yawn of effort--it won't otherwise surprise me...
^^^Falling falling in the seconds a feeling elapses like I am being pulled aboard some foyer, a chamber perhaps--stone deaf but sensorily felt like a pure auditive allusion to the present line of jive. Sound-scapes are interupting any authorial body, because the presumption of having been called to stake my presence. **Neighbors dog arguing with the sounds of my mower in my mind's eye--an interlude of grass cut which I want it to go like that, but it is like that. He doesn't achieve toil with me, but snaps at my finger--I let him bite me. I knew he was frantic from grass-cutting blades whirling mischief, and my hand was not its provenance... Clamped on my finger for a second but in a toothy kiss.
!#! I love some strange equinox when I fish for just how wrong I am. My own worst critic--I am not. Rather I look to hear someone deny my verity. In that flight of concept denied, it's hopeless to meet my own motive anyway. Their vehemence is enough--makes my yeah's yeahs. Mundane bridge to awareness.
!#! If you say you have a life, you are miles ahead of me. But in my self-professed insignificance, I get a full-spectrum bird's eye view. AND: in memorium, many we have lost--I am thankful for a flimmer of hope that possibly we are still only talking about ONE world.
^!^Left my Korean Buddha at Alison's apt, back in the day. She was my second, but really the first. I parted ways with her, remonstrating the intuition of her lasting with me, as I knew the same for the collegiate thang too--I'd leave out and knew I'd not have these things followed thru like the world doing and going by me, people meeting goals & each other, moving forward....
I lived on Rebel Rd. eponymous in a way that I'd call it--soul rebel, because "the sun shall not smite I by day, nor the moon by night." (B. Marley is where I heard that--suppose it's biblacy) I woke up coming down from the sincere mountain of the life - 3yrs of it, I spent with Alison - & the tally of where I'd come from dissipates just as the availing path forward was ackwardly precipitous. Ackward, bound by momentum, but contrition in my heart that I wasn't deciding. In the basement barely looking out to the backyard--here on Rebel, the morning of the dubious past and irrelevant future, grappling with the tether of dream-time, I got punished in receiving the day's beginning--light brandishing an awe in my face, too ill-consuming, and literally I heard bird calls emanating from my bird gullet. Freaked me out--not even laughable now--but will be after I read this here in a few days...
I was reading about the Indian girl, in The Subterraneans=Kerouac enthusing motive.
You seed your soul - that's what you shall reap. The coldest varietal of denizenship--me in this habitat--had Valerie sitting there as unassuming as my being innoculated in more desperate climes. Nothing to speak on around us, only glossy fracturing light that I wanted to cut me. If I'd been to hell, the static-dust and cold coming on to this Winter, had colors just so, and Valerie sitting right in the midst of hell's declination. I saw her there waiting--seemingly saying as bad as I found things now or as a mark against my fate, she is THere alas.
::
If someone's doctrine for self-actualization be answer enough, we may also infer I want to recognize that it isn't OF just one condition that you meant to share it with me. The answer here is not that well thIS OR THAT gospel is dynamic, and you would have never supposed only one door to that Light. You may, but under the sacrosanctity that Self-Actualization goals are shared is like the dust in our hair never washed til we change our hearts, and passion & praise has what is dear in its clutches because its content demand approprotion...give it more where it is lacking. So, I wanted the mechanics of your belief's letters to What-up & scatter but as star splendor, --the dust at our feet, however is as upon a well-trod land, we fill up every available precinct of space memorialized with our martyrdom of time--its dispensational floe yielding to effort's recompence: our feeling received in the LIGHT of Actionable Cause. You have One, sir--I want to observe that as I can, in my way, perhaps...lazily too, but in moments that allude to spiritual endeavor so that Compassion is our vehicle and is arguably thru our episteme exchange in weirder moments than that, so to speak if notions about the Light-Fantastic are complex and are observably releasing the dross rendered patterns in our more self-serving mind back to its source. Not all of which I can capture--lazily man...too bad perhaps or really a languid pattern to listen as my response becomes hopefully more eloquent, or rather just in hopes to respond: I & I & I got to fulfill the Book--and there are G^D-Fearers, People of the Book etc with different ledgers with which we feel G^d may finally oBserve us in prescient awakening thusly, knowing & assuming it happens ALL of the time...evolving.
I look back and sense having been ejected from one 10yr span of life into the next that has no even mellow steady flow like my incarnation previously. Sitting in a bookstore there in Fl. over the T.giving holiday the academician personas I've trusted like yellow withery pages in its throes of hero-protags, are actually gray pulp matter and still I am seeing every other color thru some convenient lens. I sometimes have to be reminded that I give myself over to a life of study. Images are fluent by this convention, and I gather them so that when my body is in agreement with my yawn of effort--it won't otherwise surprise me...
^^^Falling falling in the seconds a feeling elapses like I am being pulled aboard some foyer, a chamber perhaps--stone deaf but sensorily felt like a pure auditive allusion to the present line of jive. Sound-scapes are interupting any authorial body, because the presumption of having been called to stake my presence. **Neighbors dog arguing with the sounds of my mower in my mind's eye--an interlude of grass cut which I want it to go like that, but it is like that. He doesn't achieve toil with me, but snaps at my finger--I let him bite me. I knew he was frantic from grass-cutting blades whirling mischief, and my hand was not its provenance... Clamped on my finger for a second but in a toothy kiss.
!#! I love some strange equinox when I fish for just how wrong I am. My own worst critic--I am not. Rather I look to hear someone deny my verity. In that flight of concept denied, it's hopeless to meet my own motive anyway. Their vehemence is enough--makes my yeah's yeahs. Mundane bridge to awareness.
!#! If you say you have a life, you are miles ahead of me. But in my self-professed insignificance, I get a full-spectrum bird's eye view. AND: in memorium, many we have lost--I am thankful for a flimmer of hope that possibly we are still only talking about ONE world.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
BURN your books you've written-+-in the Himalayas
Folks get all incredulous that we may make room for them at all. The sense of it is that now perhaps they would likely need to do the same for you. Up near Ellenville NY, Catskill Mts where my aunt's bungalow colony thrived, then later nose dived, I spent 3-4 weeks hanging out in a sorta seclusion, but w/minimal familial interaction. Visiting w/Didra my Orthodox cousin seems only to anticipate a certain "in" with which Jewishness would be made the point of reference--as she sees it. Anything else is non-negotiable. I had this movie's CD soundtrack--the movie is called Little Odessa. Has Tim Roth, Maximillian Schell, Edward Furlong and two others we'd recognize. Anyway, the soundtrack has Judeo-Russian themes, opera, folk music, somewhat klezmer sounding in one or two songs. I tried, yet succeeded to give this music to my cousin. On her part that she finds herself giving out Jewish persona, to vaguely imagine this sense coming from the other direction was only apropos because her starting point was her propriety--a view to higher ground without the surfeit of nuances that any unreligious person could consign. Her look distantly to warranted purity was deliberate enough that I could meet it. To be the target of that--would actually be disconcerting, and something I had avoided...
~~
The thought flourish from Kerouac--maybe more like homunculus languid reality floe--that there is "snow" around this preponderant image in iconographic setting--he says snow!--his now departed-from the earth's melancholy locked in this atom-ic cell--a picture not delivering his friend's essence, like, static unsustaining the currency of that love **THAT LOVE INDEED is the point--is taking place in Mexico City. And in similar ways that having read Patti Smith's liner notes in Radio Ethiopia, is the "undoing" of contemporary unwelcoming from all identity having become a commodity there/or anywhere and leaving very few memorialized spaces where I could accede to--to run around imagining...the intensity behind the slumber of perverted godly images--but rather as magnificate! This intensity is one thing--his proliferate consignation where mostly most of us can belong is thus!!
If you burn a book, it shoUld be your own....feel a meaningful restraint than to shadowy & hearty thought--in the valley of the tongues tonite. An expectation is realized, but by this tableau-bound author where his intent is provident. And my opinion that I wouldn't have Dostoevskii's dank student or dispossessed doing-what-one-wilt man becoming demon of his self road written in certainty for me head-scaped in his studies back-when IN my grasp now & again & anew, is been rebuffed. (so, again I am appreciating Fydor D.) Myth --as the layers of alliteration bespeak of hand in hand transcriptional freedom IS not time & place, but is practiced reason. The spiritual narratives of the Alteros Yamomamo Natives in S. America are indeed myth--but at variance from the west's convenient false measure of its import-- to me--it is not myth's ploy to expunge lesser cultural acumen as the sarcastic poets froth over, but only they the myth-teller's lives are exemplar at its vertex (peak). The Yamomamo haven't that media to afford such breathless spittle. That earth denizen speaks of his world on-going--myth paints every day grasping for a lunar (painting the heavens spiritually truth-baring) sabbath of generations uniquely accomplished of eternality, as his gods deign succor.
~*~You better get out yer grave. Your friends don't fuck around, 'cause they as dead as you. You better reconcile to be brave, getting it together in any kind of weather is a leap into the sighs glances & whisper of the climate of the greater Will. Bukowski said he was in better co. waking up in a cemetery every morning--the night had been strangled by duppies (doppelganger). If more than one it could be reason enough to feign interest in a mind of multiplicity. The first observation is that we are fragmented--the mind is. So faced with (1) doppleganger--it might cold I Up, 'pon that bridge... If G^d is oNe (not 1 of, but unique!), I want to fall abysmally thru the wilderness tabernacle ......since the proud land is merely trying to meet each step as we expand across, lumber onward, it does my gait like giant leaps are imminent yet progressively. The following is with a sense of what this entry may mean. **Bukowski seems - thru the eyes of his frustrated hero - to be chased by a doppleganger. And it is his fault perhaps, but he really... is compelled to face that part of himself--the distorted look in the mirror which is a pain very close to the bone... Maybe a serene showroom dummie, Foool on the hilll transparency making him validate the least of his self---meaning "appearances." There is something lovely about disappearing if only into The Good or The Beautiful (or as he did into the Unknown mystery of the hereafter), because usually the problem is we see ourselves too clearly and it is without our knowledge of self intact.
**Zazen=sesshun=sitting=asana...Dude told me that he wasn't willing to change something he had well recently relished written. I said language is transformative, not that we aren't vessels for the only thing given away, but if "liquid language (is) awash" the speak easy breath of word is water w/undeniable attribute of mercy, and water is the vehicle for incarnations of everything seeking time's relevance. Showered of the thrill that we capture relevance, language to measure adulating over its supine lethargy, is language in the surmise of the Other.
**Being restored to a state of knowing: any author, my words your words, media flurries--like it is a vomitorium only to go relish again the victuals of my sensory greed... Even subtle appetite fulfilled like tea-head, dust in a cup--"forest of life underfoot" to quote Patti Smith. The village quorum at precinct edge sifting loamy thoughts, dust kicked up, indecision where silence is resumed. Blood silence & the medium is sand--letters drawn from learning in school ledgers written with tree-sap and charcoal.
~~kAFKA says, It's still OK just living at home. And perhaps his feeling of denied anthropomorphism, but rather as an insect, or in a letter he wrote as becoming bodily like a snake with finesse enough to slide past and into wall crevices, had the absolute consignation living-with-father & family as a necessary escape. His embrace of diaspora ideology and Jewish insignificance, may have sacrifice of self at one's father's hand--like Abraham and Isaac (the akeidah, meaning the binding of Isaac) prescient in view of the melancholy reality that has transcendence out of man's accord... Abraham's Get Thee Out verity, when he left home, trappings of identity et al, and family may have an implication more conventional than thoughts over self and self-annihilation kAFKA otherwise convened. Obviously things in the industrial complex and sweep of history as before him may have subsumed exile as the apropos alternative.
~* Is the spectral shore, meaning mind's furniture, symbolic? If thoughts feelings and actions are allegory to higher ground, whatever that-that sense of peace may be called, so if we FEEL that at our seat of awareness that it is the chair where we have died a 1000deaths, then certainly we become more sincere about the regard for consciousness= ours or anything's!! But symbolic life is the only contending of truth with which we suffer... if we put down the menu and just eat, then how do we reconcile suffering w/o enjoining relationship with the fEElings of its conspiring, expiring, whatever IT does TO us???
A yoga interested fellow says the following in quotes "...self inquiry (?) it may be pertinent to learn to ignore feelings and detach or become numb..." My response was: Well, to this I'd say we move into consciousness and into relationship and when this is not possible or the price is too high, we might have a view to what it is that we can't control: LIfe is out of our control, even as much as it is a transcendental bridge to awareness. It is the material void, 3/4 of what we see seems submerged, like hot icebergs...the essence eludes us. The mind wants an actionable cause, it is the hardest thing to do to compartmentalize "emptiness." To court the benumbing of our condition. Abso--fucking--lutely.
#~#Lepids entombed in crystalis underneath a bridge--two communities sundered by the divide. Or on a veranda door jamb, (Nabakov...) and recognition of parent's concern to have prodigy survey such happiness. Mom on one side, father at the other, a door antediluvian - the wherefore of mom & dad's historicity mind current as entrance to the new day...and the exiting door yet as Unknown and as locked with which samsara keeps us guessing if meaning will avail ! "Vapors to vapors," even the least of ourselves in the wake of exemplars to good enough or not Identity cosmogony, all is vanity--as Solomon calls it... The orchards of Jerusalem, the 6 yrs in the deerpark where Sidhartha attains the name Shakyamuni denoting his "seeking." The knowledge of relationship as relics of impressions that clearly aren't the ends of man.... If immortality is our becoming appearance--mind appearance, didn't the riven parent's tenure deny our exile as iconoclasts sometimes with which presence-ceased is the report of idols destroyed...
Subject: I don't see one religion thru the lens of another
I don't see one religion thru the lens of another. Being a Buddha is not saying emulate a Christ figure. In Buddhism you want the Greater Will to witness you, see you in reverence and sorrow, propitiation. Messiah is to intercede, be a witness, suffer your consequences. One would observe Him. In Hinduism gods are subject to impermanence as any acolyte would--I wonder what they think of my path's disappearance?
Rob & I got bit part jobs for a movie filming in the Sinai desert, in Israel's southern most region. Dressed as bedouin enduring pretty cold middle-eastern Winter's night, in inappropriate dress, we just swilled coffee from early evening on & not getting much in the way of supper. Rob scored some scant hashish pieces and I rolled it up with some tobacco--what a ruinous high especially as observer of a crowd of whitenecks, so to speak--feeling every bit as out of it, I guess I'd call these British street urchins--a bunch of slackers then literally stuck in Israel, lots of street hassle standing on corners making trouble. Seeing these boys crawl out of doorways, no shoes & sometimes a rucksack, but usually not, we all converged on the Peace Cafe, where we had come to get hired.
~~
The thought flourish from Kerouac--maybe more like homunculus languid reality floe--that there is "snow" around this preponderant image in iconographic setting--he says snow!--his now departed-from the earth's melancholy locked in this atom-ic cell--a picture not delivering his friend's essence, like, static unsustaining the currency of that love **THAT LOVE INDEED is the point--is taking place in Mexico City. And in similar ways that having read Patti Smith's liner notes in Radio Ethiopia, is the "undoing" of contemporary unwelcoming from all identity having become a commodity there/or anywhere and leaving very few memorialized spaces where I could accede to--to run around imagining...the intensity behind the slumber of perverted godly images--but rather as magnificate! This intensity is one thing--his proliferate consignation where mostly most of us can belong is thus!!
If you burn a book, it shoUld be your own....feel a meaningful restraint than to shadowy & hearty thought--in the valley of the tongues tonite. An expectation is realized, but by this tableau-bound author where his intent is provident. And my opinion that I wouldn't have Dostoevskii's dank student or dispossessed doing-what-one-wilt man becoming demon of his self road written in certainty for me head-scaped in his studies back-when IN my grasp now & again & anew, is been rebuffed. (so, again I am appreciating Fydor D.) Myth --as the layers of alliteration bespeak of hand in hand transcriptional freedom IS not time & place, but is practiced reason. The spiritual narratives of the Alteros Yamomamo Natives in S. America are indeed myth--but at variance from the west's convenient false measure of its import-- to me--it is not myth's ploy to expunge lesser cultural acumen as the sarcastic poets froth over, but only they the myth-teller's lives are exemplar at its vertex (peak). The Yamomamo haven't that media to afford such breathless spittle. That earth denizen speaks of his world on-going--myth paints every day grasping for a lunar (painting the heavens spiritually truth-baring) sabbath of generations uniquely accomplished of eternality, as his gods deign succor.
~*~You better get out yer grave. Your friends don't fuck around, 'cause they as dead as you. You better reconcile to be brave, getting it together in any kind of weather is a leap into the sighs glances & whisper of the climate of the greater Will. Bukowski said he was in better co. waking up in a cemetery every morning--the night had been strangled by duppies (doppelganger). If more than one it could be reason enough to feign interest in a mind of multiplicity. The first observation is that we are fragmented--the mind is. So faced with (1) doppleganger--it might cold I Up, 'pon that bridge... If G^d is oNe (not 1 of, but unique!), I want to fall abysmally thru the wilderness tabernacle ......since the proud land is merely trying to meet each step as we expand across, lumber onward, it does my gait like giant leaps are imminent yet progressively. The following is with a sense of what this entry may mean. **Bukowski seems - thru the eyes of his frustrated hero - to be chased by a doppleganger. And it is his fault perhaps, but he really... is compelled to face that part of himself--the distorted look in the mirror which is a pain very close to the bone... Maybe a serene showroom dummie, Foool on the hilll transparency making him validate the least of his self---meaning "appearances." There is something lovely about disappearing if only into The Good or The Beautiful (or as he did into the Unknown mystery of the hereafter), because usually the problem is we see ourselves too clearly and it is without our knowledge of self intact.
**Zazen=sesshun=sitting=asana...Dude told me that he wasn't willing to change something he had well recently relished written. I said language is transformative, not that we aren't vessels for the only thing given away, but if "liquid language (is) awash" the speak easy breath of word is water w/undeniable attribute of mercy, and water is the vehicle for incarnations of everything seeking time's relevance. Showered of the thrill that we capture relevance, language to measure adulating over its supine lethargy, is language in the surmise of the Other.
**Being restored to a state of knowing: any author, my words your words, media flurries--like it is a vomitorium only to go relish again the victuals of my sensory greed... Even subtle appetite fulfilled like tea-head, dust in a cup--"forest of life underfoot" to quote Patti Smith. The village quorum at precinct edge sifting loamy thoughts, dust kicked up, indecision where silence is resumed. Blood silence & the medium is sand--letters drawn from learning in school ledgers written with tree-sap and charcoal.
~~kAFKA says, It's still OK just living at home. And perhaps his feeling of denied anthropomorphism, but rather as an insect, or in a letter he wrote as becoming bodily like a snake with finesse enough to slide past and into wall crevices, had the absolute consignation living-with-father & family as a necessary escape. His embrace of diaspora ideology and Jewish insignificance, may have sacrifice of self at one's father's hand--like Abraham and Isaac (the akeidah, meaning the binding of Isaac) prescient in view of the melancholy reality that has transcendence out of man's accord... Abraham's Get Thee Out verity, when he left home, trappings of identity et al, and family may have an implication more conventional than thoughts over self and self-annihilation kAFKA otherwise convened. Obviously things in the industrial complex and sweep of history as before him may have subsumed exile as the apropos alternative.
~* Is the spectral shore, meaning mind's furniture, symbolic? If thoughts feelings and actions are allegory to higher ground, whatever that-that sense of peace may be called, so if we FEEL that at our seat of awareness that it is the chair where we have died a 1000deaths, then certainly we become more sincere about the regard for consciousness= ours or anything's!! But symbolic life is the only contending of truth with which we suffer... if we put down the menu and just eat, then how do we reconcile suffering w/o enjoining relationship with the fEElings of its conspiring, expiring, whatever IT does TO us???
A yoga interested fellow says the following in quotes "...self inquiry (?) it may be pertinent to learn to ignore feelings and detach or become numb..." My response was: Well, to this I'd say we move into consciousness and into relationship and when this is not possible or the price is too high, we might have a view to what it is that we can't control: LIfe is out of our control, even as much as it is a transcendental bridge to awareness. It is the material void, 3/4 of what we see seems submerged, like hot icebergs...the essence eludes us. The mind wants an actionable cause, it is the hardest thing to do to compartmentalize "emptiness." To court the benumbing of our condition. Abso--fucking--lutely.
#~#Lepids entombed in crystalis underneath a bridge--two communities sundered by the divide. Or on a veranda door jamb, (Nabakov...) and recognition of parent's concern to have prodigy survey such happiness. Mom on one side, father at the other, a door antediluvian - the wherefore of mom & dad's historicity mind current as entrance to the new day...and the exiting door yet as Unknown and as locked with which samsara keeps us guessing if meaning will avail ! "Vapors to vapors," even the least of ourselves in the wake of exemplars to good enough or not Identity cosmogony, all is vanity--as Solomon calls it... The orchards of Jerusalem, the 6 yrs in the deerpark where Sidhartha attains the name Shakyamuni denoting his "seeking." The knowledge of relationship as relics of impressions that clearly aren't the ends of man.... If immortality is our becoming appearance--mind appearance, didn't the riven parent's tenure deny our exile as iconoclasts sometimes with which presence-ceased is the report of idols destroyed...
Subject: I don't see one religion thru the lens of another
I don't see one religion thru the lens of another. Being a Buddha is not saying emulate a Christ figure. In Buddhism you want the Greater Will to witness you, see you in reverence and sorrow, propitiation. Messiah is to intercede, be a witness, suffer your consequences. One would observe Him. In Hinduism gods are subject to impermanence as any acolyte would--I wonder what they think of my path's disappearance?
Rob & I got bit part jobs for a movie filming in the Sinai desert, in Israel's southern most region. Dressed as bedouin enduring pretty cold middle-eastern Winter's night, in inappropriate dress, we just swilled coffee from early evening on & not getting much in the way of supper. Rob scored some scant hashish pieces and I rolled it up with some tobacco--what a ruinous high especially as observer of a crowd of whitenecks, so to speak--feeling every bit as out of it, I guess I'd call these British street urchins--a bunch of slackers then literally stuck in Israel, lots of street hassle standing on corners making trouble. Seeing these boys crawl out of doorways, no shoes & sometimes a rucksack, but usually not, we all converged on the Peace Cafe, where we had come to get hired.
Sunday, December 05, 2010
The Present line of Thinking is interrogative from Jazz's list/tilt Prone
~~*Malamud's* Pop recites a few verbs learned in nightSchool after his immigration here. Lights a cig. Melancholia is the report of his visage. Rosy-colored mourn: his progeny feels a Winter's sun every bit in its deflated ill-capacity; the three oranges of Prokofiev's symphonic delivery roll across his pillow in dull dust ridden brownstone. An ocean above making satellites into these celestial rooms emptied of our respite; noble work the give & take of places you ought to be.... My office is, my office is, a hotch-potch of prevailing motives in ambulations thru work-fields, I transverse as if its geometric pattern gives way to no perimeters. Rather I cut a path like the thrum of yarn.
*Malamud actually means "teacher" and naturally to unwilling students
**^**This native american dude (part N. A.) hanging around Common Grounds flipped out one night, not on drugs, but very lost in his wooden eyes in his manner--thusly out of relationship, most formidably the one of I & We...--his I & Thou is likely quite profound. I spoke to him earlier that night in that cooler evening of this Fall/fall coming on. Literally he disappeared from my periphery, and to turn on him & to suppose why seemed utterly the wrong thing to do. Then. But, next time--as I gainsay weirdness--so a thing like this will happen again I'm willing to bet, then, like I say next time I'll watch the pillars of consciousness=his, & mine as I dissipate in the mirror, yield to the magnetic draw I otherwise withdrew from in this occasion. A friend characterized this guy's mindblow-out just right. He was speaking his inner-dialogue, rather than translating it to deny the remoteness one so easily recognizes as the distance qualifying relationship. His eyes are currently before me--they're welcome, have no foreboding...he was taken to Eastern State after a few weeks jail time for observation, probably took it for what it is=stricken w/unfamiliar self-adulation. Kerouac untethered my eyes sharp rapt vista tree canopied moment from sight's unrest otherwise under streetlights, for me. This the untranslateable retreat to lightning vox fiery abdomen, the Dharma people's tApAs, is the sHsHsh of making a fire, which is unlit when symbolic currency feels dear. Now he's out on his own recognizance.
Probably won't see 'em again.
^*^I'm strong, but I want to be weak. I'm the yr's sabbath, but I want to be the week. I want to awaken, but losing vague accounts of affirmation. I want to be a fern, but stand in extreme clime as acacia. I stand against pillow army invasion, but can't haunt memorialized space occasion. Don't like spirited nationality demarcation, most are Eurasian. This is sad, I'm felicitas & thank G^d for making me mad. Anything smacks of consciousness awry, my body tells me everything that's true. The measure of physical soul, the mediate surfeit of angst, is mind's recourse into strewn anthropos; her lavender key in every hill's loom, maternal episteme to laud--she's Kerouac's broom.
~*~don't know how useful this may be, nothing really to turn off
I've seen both of tHem, and there is only one of me now. I have some friends and they don't fuck around, tho'. I thought you knew how inclined you were to suffer me and appreciate how much better you'd know them-- The flash of big Os always portends colors, and colors are the content of form. If eternal forms were present, I'd thank Valerie to look thru me with wooden eyes, because her trees are the people, she's the denied sky with the turning out of earth. I am a wanderer not wanting to find her anymore than wanting to seek with her. Firth's perimeter moldering makes excellent proud land to transect to determine origins or to change fate. She's the climate of the greater will, and the liminal starting point is imagination listing like transcriptional nonexistence (think the allusion anything mechanical provides=spokes going in the opposite direction; the valley below looking escalante' because an outcrop segregates your view from quickest way down--before you, and what is lost in its distance strung). The wave up, that color form portrays, my reflecting on the still water with which we sit nigh, makes the voidant compassionate body the consciousness the Other Shore/Ultimate Reality or G^d met.
*~*The back of my mind looks like a crumpled grocery bag--brown, multifoliated, pregnant. The proffer of Mom's domestic profile is just like a sweet savor of chocolate eaten when the day's long ends are exposed. I carry the bags in, the supper eternality lurches forward a sense of purpose corrupting the sheen on my tiled basement bedroom floor. The digestion of NPR articles, Salman Rushdie books, & Potok books about core-cultures explicating the drift toward apologist values (like the doldrums in watering down--those values--to the contrabearing Other) about my non-orthopraxy is my dispensational whiling away days then. Those Others doing a community's biding, me with no authorial self-responsibility--no one to make complex the promise of spiritual actualization--like we'd integrate witnessing the mean of spirituality with no chimera makes my security an Acculturation of the Attainment of the Other Shore...perhaps in a glimpse, but weirdly temporally. I'd want that much more: the broken bridge AND the dream.
***Askin' the angels in my youth, was permissed because I suppose I got to ask for a reason. The angels around now thru lens of magnified spaces with meaning that elude, but merely giving me deference to ask, only ask--that entering the interrogative, would render angels' wisdom always the same acquiescence, just submit to the weary Doest thou love the Fog? Because if u fear, you hate it-- And if u hate it, you love it...
**10,000points of light: read this in a Jewish/Buddhist book. Sitting in the field of self-discovery: as close to touching the earth as haunches on the ground permits, I thought of a weird exile from the heavens, like people tear themselves from the limbs of star tincture, just to see who else came along for the ride. Seeing faces in chandeliers, everyone crowned in lights. The idea that we all are stars, is seen uniformally, yet one's light may have been emitted from a point of its progress light-years prior to the mediate engaged point at which their relevant presence is adduced. The shapeless mass as g^d's being may be defined seems every bit the consignment of inner-space conflagrations--it is considerably apposite to imagine that nothing evades being exposed to wholeness undenied...
**It is just that I am believing it entirely possible this chic knows when a dialogue ensues so late at night, and from across water, I'd have to defy the times when we pass-by & meet the sense that the normative presences are becoming the truck of a deeper aside. Seeing her is as sweet as the feminine flourish yet on my dreary sounding board, and what I want from her isn't accelerating. Not really my business because I know I show her the floors of consciousness that my pondering mind is acquisitive over til the closed crowd of selves personified need its vehemence, and my carrot reward demands that I'm the first out the door. She's not my woman, but rains down like the message from ancients--and I have to tell her I regard her present status as my career of my lessened persistence. The night we met when saying to her if thou wert as my sister is becoming languid blue slumber--I would've kissed her cheek, as I did, but at the more precise moment. G^d damn, I have a sister, and she's been coming, now she's over (this threshold)--I can't get enough, and I can't know to want more...
**I wish that this one self-expression, kind of asserted-knowing just why I know verbiage out of theophanic mind's vent in some other trumpet than voice's truck with my body vehicle could be heard. As in the convening of silent segue-way from one song (the songs generally are interoperable w/Coltrane's stuff), definitely something ridiculously numinous, where I find I am finishing the thought of the last syllable and lightning-vox note, with a precise cause. A be-causality--a causality--a casual reality I & Thou-flourish, me to the friend present & all the heights of minds clung unto that high chamber. A chamber of the just-so language of selflessness & identity kindly clearly but radically dispelled. It is self-utterance out of dream-body thus eluding, evasive, aquatic, and ultimately perfectly sustaining had I found the limb extruded from my center where "liquid language awash" -Wallace Stevens, was bowing off of the bough and reach of compassion in bloom...
**Have you ever woken up next to barren railroad tracks, endlessly prevailing of time's sequester over your dire need for convalescence? The other night, similarly, I thought it must have been someone out in the street as if I'd migrated there among them, but with the bird's eye view from my bed next to the window--looking out... and they were all the emitted thought energy surrounding the train-ing thru train-rail-rumbling my mind begins to follow and anticipate. The feeling was a sense of pink or lavender shimmering lamp light shone on my face, and the weird wakened feeling like someone standing over you as you sleep is the self-consciousness I can't otherwise steep in the conscious pocket, because since I am the one doing that--it is an especially compelling reason to wonder at the light then personified. Mummers thread thru my brow, and even in this surfacing, I deny not knowing just what is being said like it comes from Without--saying what is conveyed & having the complete script of chimera corrupted - putting words where otherwise just sighs had gotten my mind's lingua franca in the common denominator of thought's impute, as loss of my interlocutor is dawning.
*Malamud actually means "teacher" and naturally to unwilling students
**^**This native american dude (part N. A.) hanging around Common Grounds flipped out one night, not on drugs, but very lost in his wooden eyes in his manner--thusly out of relationship, most formidably the one of I & We...--his I & Thou is likely quite profound. I spoke to him earlier that night in that cooler evening of this Fall/fall coming on. Literally he disappeared from my periphery, and to turn on him & to suppose why seemed utterly the wrong thing to do. Then. But, next time--as I gainsay weirdness--so a thing like this will happen again I'm willing to bet, then, like I say next time I'll watch the pillars of consciousness=his, & mine as I dissipate in the mirror, yield to the magnetic draw I otherwise withdrew from in this occasion. A friend characterized this guy's mindblow-out just right. He was speaking his inner-dialogue, rather than translating it to deny the remoteness one so easily recognizes as the distance qualifying relationship. His eyes are currently before me--they're welcome, have no foreboding...he was taken to Eastern State after a few weeks jail time for observation, probably took it for what it is=stricken w/unfamiliar self-adulation. Kerouac untethered my eyes sharp rapt vista tree canopied moment from sight's unrest otherwise under streetlights, for me. This the untranslateable retreat to lightning vox fiery abdomen, the Dharma people's tApAs, is the sHsHsh of making a fire, which is unlit when symbolic currency feels dear. Now he's out on his own recognizance.
Probably won't see 'em again.
^*^I'm strong, but I want to be weak. I'm the yr's sabbath, but I want to be the week. I want to awaken, but losing vague accounts of affirmation. I want to be a fern, but stand in extreme clime as acacia. I stand against pillow army invasion, but can't haunt memorialized space occasion. Don't like spirited nationality demarcation, most are Eurasian. This is sad, I'm felicitas & thank G^d for making me mad. Anything smacks of consciousness awry, my body tells me everything that's true. The measure of physical soul, the mediate surfeit of angst, is mind's recourse into strewn anthropos; her lavender key in every hill's loom, maternal episteme to laud--she's Kerouac's broom.
~*~don't know how useful this may be, nothing really to turn off
I've seen both of tHem, and there is only one of me now. I have some friends and they don't fuck around, tho'. I thought you knew how inclined you were to suffer me and appreciate how much better you'd know them-- The flash of big Os always portends colors, and colors are the content of form. If eternal forms were present, I'd thank Valerie to look thru me with wooden eyes, because her trees are the people, she's the denied sky with the turning out of earth. I am a wanderer not wanting to find her anymore than wanting to seek with her. Firth's perimeter moldering makes excellent proud land to transect to determine origins or to change fate. She's the climate of the greater will, and the liminal starting point is imagination listing like transcriptional nonexistence (think the allusion anything mechanical provides=spokes going in the opposite direction; the valley below looking escalante' because an outcrop segregates your view from quickest way down--before you, and what is lost in its distance strung). The wave up, that color form portrays, my reflecting on the still water with which we sit nigh, makes the voidant compassionate body the consciousness the Other Shore/Ultimate Reality or G^d met.
*~*The back of my mind looks like a crumpled grocery bag--brown, multifoliated, pregnant. The proffer of Mom's domestic profile is just like a sweet savor of chocolate eaten when the day's long ends are exposed. I carry the bags in, the supper eternality lurches forward a sense of purpose corrupting the sheen on my tiled basement bedroom floor. The digestion of NPR articles, Salman Rushdie books, & Potok books about core-cultures explicating the drift toward apologist values (like the doldrums in watering down--those values--to the contrabearing Other) about my non-orthopraxy is my dispensational whiling away days then. Those Others doing a community's biding, me with no authorial self-responsibility--no one to make complex the promise of spiritual actualization--like we'd integrate witnessing the mean of spirituality with no chimera makes my security an Acculturation of the Attainment of the Other Shore...perhaps in a glimpse, but weirdly temporally. I'd want that much more: the broken bridge AND the dream.
***Askin' the angels in my youth, was permissed because I suppose I got to ask for a reason. The angels around now thru lens of magnified spaces with meaning that elude, but merely giving me deference to ask, only ask--that entering the interrogative, would render angels' wisdom always the same acquiescence, just submit to the weary Doest thou love the Fog? Because if u fear, you hate it-- And if u hate it, you love it...
**10,000points of light: read this in a Jewish/Buddhist book. Sitting in the field of self-discovery: as close to touching the earth as haunches on the ground permits, I thought of a weird exile from the heavens, like people tear themselves from the limbs of star tincture, just to see who else came along for the ride. Seeing faces in chandeliers, everyone crowned in lights. The idea that we all are stars, is seen uniformally, yet one's light may have been emitted from a point of its progress light-years prior to the mediate engaged point at which their relevant presence is adduced. The shapeless mass as g^d's being may be defined seems every bit the consignment of inner-space conflagrations--it is considerably apposite to imagine that nothing evades being exposed to wholeness undenied...
**It is just that I am believing it entirely possible this chic knows when a dialogue ensues so late at night, and from across water, I'd have to defy the times when we pass-by & meet the sense that the normative presences are becoming the truck of a deeper aside. Seeing her is as sweet as the feminine flourish yet on my dreary sounding board, and what I want from her isn't accelerating. Not really my business because I know I show her the floors of consciousness that my pondering mind is acquisitive over til the closed crowd of selves personified need its vehemence, and my carrot reward demands that I'm the first out the door. She's not my woman, but rains down like the message from ancients--and I have to tell her I regard her present status as my career of my lessened persistence. The night we met when saying to her if thou wert as my sister is becoming languid blue slumber--I would've kissed her cheek, as I did, but at the more precise moment. G^d damn, I have a sister, and she's been coming, now she's over (this threshold)--I can't get enough, and I can't know to want more...
**I wish that this one self-expression, kind of asserted-knowing just why I know verbiage out of theophanic mind's vent in some other trumpet than voice's truck with my body vehicle could be heard. As in the convening of silent segue-way from one song (the songs generally are interoperable w/Coltrane's stuff), definitely something ridiculously numinous, where I find I am finishing the thought of the last syllable and lightning-vox note, with a precise cause. A be-causality--a causality--a casual reality I & Thou-flourish, me to the friend present & all the heights of minds clung unto that high chamber. A chamber of the just-so language of selflessness & identity kindly clearly but radically dispelled. It is self-utterance out of dream-body thus eluding, evasive, aquatic, and ultimately perfectly sustaining had I found the limb extruded from my center where "liquid language awash" -Wallace Stevens, was bowing off of the bough and reach of compassion in bloom...
**Have you ever woken up next to barren railroad tracks, endlessly prevailing of time's sequester over your dire need for convalescence? The other night, similarly, I thought it must have been someone out in the street as if I'd migrated there among them, but with the bird's eye view from my bed next to the window--looking out... and they were all the emitted thought energy surrounding the train-ing thru train-rail-rumbling my mind begins to follow and anticipate. The feeling was a sense of pink or lavender shimmering lamp light shone on my face, and the weird wakened feeling like someone standing over you as you sleep is the self-consciousness I can't otherwise steep in the conscious pocket, because since I am the one doing that--it is an especially compelling reason to wonder at the light then personified. Mummers thread thru my brow, and even in this surfacing, I deny not knowing just what is being said like it comes from Without--saying what is conveyed & having the complete script of chimera corrupted - putting words where otherwise just sighs had gotten my mind's lingua franca in the common denominator of thought's impute, as loss of my interlocutor is dawning.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Kafka-esque & the floor of consciousness
Big fat Adel was the first Egyptian I ever carried on with--the polymath dude in 7th grade biology class doesn't count. His 3rd world body stench is an insensed memory impression which I do actually want to conjure. It has the frank persuasion of death somehow, yet contrite Thought- mine- that was my ascending momentum circa 1987, was vital and Yes alive. His diabetes and obesity is plaintive and dispensational of some era-mythos in my sentient greed re-enlivening the empath notion that most of whom I knew at this time were the mettle of kaleidoscopic Certainty. I can only abide by these familial presences looking back at pieces of me Then, as opposed to weird equanimity and habitual levity things are recorded with Now. Death certainly has taken Adel, but the open book where his life is narrated remains unfulfilled. And he, like my rabbi with stale bookish breath, together in every other solemn occasion, gives me a paper cut on the finger of the mind after grabbing the book of rules and resigning their oblivion to my shapeless mass & mind-sore.
^^This may sound strange, at first, but stick to it til this paragraph's end, and you'll see it place us back on our feet w/no constraint or depraved moral compass:
In Dao thought it is called "shu"--a kind of self-scrutiny, self-analysis to enter your lowest common denominator and be transformative. I have had thoughts of aggression, as if I was the one thing between someone & his doing harm to an innocent. I even compulse like I am physically stopping them.... On the flip side, I've imagined someone trying to elicit from me something that he'd use toward deletorious advantage--& again I hesitate or shutter as if I am violated against somehow. Like he's Hitting me, cutting me (general themes of suffering & torture I have only read about)--all the while in the sanctimony that I ought to hold in high esteem a supposed reprieve from a state of dis-ease. The strange discerning is a huge body conscious type endeavor. Feeling heat here and there, incredulous at the numbness maybe that would have otherwise just been temporate, or normative. I avoid this psychic incursion now, but it was strangely informative on the odd occasion. Like the shifting around of leaden consciousness, just to catch ourselves on a different limb, pinned but as a part of the tree-community...an extremity way to disabuse certain attributes in their mutual arising, as the example of Mercy and Judgment are. To mitigate judgment, and fall abysmally into mercy.
I remember something tonite. I've dreamt about you. You were one of the 4 souls peopling the profound 4 cornered room--to call it the inner-temple is too reverent. Because it is the ghetto of the mind that one sifts thru before blood is blood's truth, and I want to paint my sister, you and all the earth's agencies of benevolence w/the kindest least of myself...diminutive selves! Somehow I thought that there was little that I could do for my person, these animicule apparitions needing to breathe sentience in the light I'd forgotten about. Thou wert as my sister, and in temporate moments I look forward into that mirror. You're there in a capacity that begs no adulation that I am top-ranking (in BMW's Survival album's sense). I would imagine turning out of the blue of her personality's shade like I am soul-sublimated by a wisdom creed so familial, but mouldering and dumb too as if I can't make the decision to have courage my mind is proliferating on the same conditions she is wont to lead me thru. But, it's my room I saw her in...or is it?
Subject: thinking about a book called Burnt Books, about Kafka&Rabbi Nakhman
I want to believe, but not tote it around in a wheelbarrow. I want to be initiated thru the gate of light, unto the Opening of Truth/Ultimate Law, but as Kafka had in his parabal, rather than the door closed behind us, I'd want it left open after I've entered. Because equivocating the condition in this yah dispensation, is fulfilling the expectation of our usual fare: The door is ultimately closed on us here too. Yet finding oneself in the yawn of release from the clutches of symbolic life, into Infinitude, necessarily locked the temporal reality outside of the equation whence we adduced relationship. Law or Truth, then necessarily--a destiny w/ astral existentialism--plays a cruel joke... We enter thru the frontdoor where we have just exited thru the last hallway meandering on the margins of the cosmic house.
"My body tells me anything, everything that's true." What a great line in a Fleet Foxes song. This would be praise easily and lament as motive. I use it the lyric below, but referencing the lavender mood, and climate of the chimerical slumber in repose when Valerie is delivered to this man's first cause: Beauty.I just give up...submit. Someone says your in, in the door--and I just what door? "Your feet are on the ground, you have legs." And I see myself pinned in the tree, don't know how I'm hanging. This sweet Italian woman tonite, she looked up, caught my sighs whispers glances, and I just fade in fear of vanity. Her name is Valeria, & I'm stark-ridden, Valerie--my lady--whose eponymous name had foundering starts with this woman and the last one I came onto the last time at the pub. The other chic's middle-name is Valerie's, and her girl-friend showed up with the same name as my first long term girl-friend's name. That particular night Howie & I went up past the skateboard punk hangout to piss, and Valentine's Day was on a flyer, jumping out at me. If she's insinuating herself into my sight-seen it is just as well to believe tHat as it is that I solicit the project of my worth, and give myself up to seeing her bedroom eyes in the mummer of star tincture and tell myself that she's anything, everything that's true.
This below I am trying to piece together in a sorta bird's eye view of selfhood/self & body as I am rendering unto maybe even a sleepy blue slumber of you & I as we would lie in bed--and that damned TV would play into the wee hrs, making me get up and turn it off.
Awakened to presense is usually a top heavy exposure of my whole body--more dreamy breathless and fearful views were of a face, but for content and unrarified air seeing the measure of trunk, limbs, cup is reifying enough to call it victory. Anthropos for the vehicle of conversant lapse into apophasis (silent oracle and negation of distraction), has perhaps a quick shutter, and bones are the last presinct. Bone valence thru propitiating Pte Indian gods, were drug in a field, vernal trfoliate life over-coming and the earth's gesture is new life, in a way that makes Native American plant hallucenigenics easily supposed even w/o inducing them. When doing Salvia Divinorum, the 40x product, then at home with Valerie, made me hope to contravene in the norm (w/o this sage herb) that I had cemented a sense that waking up meant petting her and then getting ready and breaking those morning thresholds. The sorta "wakened" state in a repetitive motion as she sat across the room as I was tripping for an interval of 10-20 minutes, made me wonder if I could arrest that same sense--coming out of a dream into her arms. But of course the affected thought patterns, and her looking at me like I was a mad man - I guess I was laughing uncontrollable - wouldn't artificially let my caprice prevail. Just a stale high, lugubrious like the dust in the house was catching up with me. I tend to insinuate a downward trend on these occasions, and naturally think that whatever happens would be anticipated, and thus having foreknowledge means I could have done something different, to make it work. Maybe, maybe not...I'm only looking forward now, and adamantly macrobiotic in the present vibe and love thru our distance but in a kind of osmoses anyway.
^^This may sound strange, at first, but stick to it til this paragraph's end, and you'll see it place us back on our feet w/no constraint or depraved moral compass:
In Dao thought it is called "shu"--a kind of self-scrutiny, self-analysis to enter your lowest common denominator and be transformative. I have had thoughts of aggression, as if I was the one thing between someone & his doing harm to an innocent. I even compulse like I am physically stopping them.... On the flip side, I've imagined someone trying to elicit from me something that he'd use toward deletorious advantage--& again I hesitate or shutter as if I am violated against somehow. Like he's Hitting me, cutting me (general themes of suffering & torture I have only read about)--all the while in the sanctimony that I ought to hold in high esteem a supposed reprieve from a state of dis-ease. The strange discerning is a huge body conscious type endeavor. Feeling heat here and there, incredulous at the numbness maybe that would have otherwise just been temporate, or normative. I avoid this psychic incursion now, but it was strangely informative on the odd occasion. Like the shifting around of leaden consciousness, just to catch ourselves on a different limb, pinned but as a part of the tree-community...an extremity way to disabuse certain attributes in their mutual arising, as the example of Mercy and Judgment are. To mitigate judgment, and fall abysmally into mercy.
I remember something tonite. I've dreamt about you. You were one of the 4 souls peopling the profound 4 cornered room--to call it the inner-temple is too reverent. Because it is the ghetto of the mind that one sifts thru before blood is blood's truth, and I want to paint my sister, you and all the earth's agencies of benevolence w/the kindest least of myself...diminutive selves! Somehow I thought that there was little that I could do for my person, these animicule apparitions needing to breathe sentience in the light I'd forgotten about. Thou wert as my sister, and in temporate moments I look forward into that mirror. You're there in a capacity that begs no adulation that I am top-ranking (in BMW's Survival album's sense). I would imagine turning out of the blue of her personality's shade like I am soul-sublimated by a wisdom creed so familial, but mouldering and dumb too as if I can't make the decision to have courage my mind is proliferating on the same conditions she is wont to lead me thru. But, it's my room I saw her in...or is it?
Subject: thinking about a book called Burnt Books, about Kafka&Rabbi Nakhman
I want to believe, but not tote it around in a wheelbarrow. I want to be initiated thru the gate of light, unto the Opening of Truth/Ultimate Law, but as Kafka had in his parabal, rather than the door closed behind us, I'd want it left open after I've entered. Because equivocating the condition in this yah dispensation, is fulfilling the expectation of our usual fare: The door is ultimately closed on us here too. Yet finding oneself in the yawn of release from the clutches of symbolic life, into Infinitude, necessarily locked the temporal reality outside of the equation whence we adduced relationship. Law or Truth, then necessarily--a destiny w/ astral existentialism--plays a cruel joke... We enter thru the frontdoor where we have just exited thru the last hallway meandering on the margins of the cosmic house.
"My body tells me anything, everything that's true." What a great line in a Fleet Foxes song. This would be praise easily and lament as motive. I use it the lyric below, but referencing the lavender mood, and climate of the chimerical slumber in repose when Valerie is delivered to this man's first cause: Beauty.I just give up...submit. Someone says your in, in the door--and I just what door? "Your feet are on the ground, you have legs." And I see myself pinned in the tree, don't know how I'm hanging. This sweet Italian woman tonite, she looked up, caught my sighs whispers glances, and I just fade in fear of vanity. Her name is Valeria, & I'm stark-ridden, Valerie--my lady--whose eponymous name had foundering starts with this woman and the last one I came onto the last time at the pub. The other chic's middle-name is Valerie's, and her girl-friend showed up with the same name as my first long term girl-friend's name. That particular night Howie & I went up past the skateboard punk hangout to piss, and Valentine's Day was on a flyer, jumping out at me. If she's insinuating herself into my sight-seen it is just as well to believe tHat as it is that I solicit the project of my worth, and give myself up to seeing her bedroom eyes in the mummer of star tincture and tell myself that she's anything, everything that's true.
This below I am trying to piece together in a sorta bird's eye view of selfhood/self & body as I am rendering unto maybe even a sleepy blue slumber of you & I as we would lie in bed--and that damned TV would play into the wee hrs, making me get up and turn it off.
Awakened to presense is usually a top heavy exposure of my whole body--more dreamy breathless and fearful views were of a face, but for content and unrarified air seeing the measure of trunk, limbs, cup is reifying enough to call it victory. Anthropos for the vehicle of conversant lapse into apophasis (silent oracle and negation of distraction), has perhaps a quick shutter, and bones are the last presinct. Bone valence thru propitiating Pte Indian gods, were drug in a field, vernal trfoliate life over-coming and the earth's gesture is new life, in a way that makes Native American plant hallucenigenics easily supposed even w/o inducing them. When doing Salvia Divinorum, the 40x product, then at home with Valerie, made me hope to contravene in the norm (w/o this sage herb) that I had cemented a sense that waking up meant petting her and then getting ready and breaking those morning thresholds. The sorta "wakened" state in a repetitive motion as she sat across the room as I was tripping for an interval of 10-20 minutes, made me wonder if I could arrest that same sense--coming out of a dream into her arms. But of course the affected thought patterns, and her looking at me like I was a mad man - I guess I was laughing uncontrollable - wouldn't artificially let my caprice prevail. Just a stale high, lugubrious like the dust in the house was catching up with me. I tend to insinuate a downward trend on these occasions, and naturally think that whatever happens would be anticipated, and thus having foreknowledge means I could have done something different, to make it work. Maybe, maybe not...I'm only looking forward now, and adamantly macrobiotic in the present vibe and love thru our distance but in a kind of osmoses anyway.
Tuesday, November 02, 2010
**LIGHTwaves ~~MOSES' grave's oPen**
The Book of Ethics, Talmud, in Jewish canon says a sticky point that one should pay for his teachers/friends as such. Literally doing this has the appeal to my warrant of not having steered toward them and then formidably not being found-amongst so worthy--but I burn that down soon enough. Dude is is is off & on on the street--now w/another friend and having to come up w/125.oo dollars to stay there. (I'm giving him a 100.oo) No contention that he is a good dude--never exploiting our goodwill. I relate unwaveringly to resourceless long days...cold-lampin' (sic--meaning my definition may not be ebonic). Meaning, coolin' it somewhere, a lighted room, nothing beckoning without, nothing sustaining the hunger within---sitting convulsed in meditation. It woUlD seem possible that I am right outa this situation, maybe right out of desperation at any rate. I'd tell ya', I've never left it! I can't say I have ever wasted my time, tho'-- Brahmodya in Hindu thought is the "parlor" social thing, and finding the silence resuming after words aren't any longer martyred, our sense is that "electricity comes from other planets" (Lou). I'll have my brother around as long as that is the appeal, there is a lot to be said for whiling away (Paul says as much--can't remember the precise lyric... Blue Sun??).
When rastas say someday we'll walk these streets forever---I loved the denouement of an Orchard/Garden/Paradise maybe because formlessness is There. But man trod fully like a mega-transect. Determined to imagine the material void, & the path meets him--stays conflagrative. Form is liberated since wisdom --a masculine principal of the godhead--arises with "knowing" sooo w/self-realization--the maternal womb of binah and now man can't any longer seek the mt tops, 'cause city too hot... Pretty soon he can't, but live entirely conceiving of his power spot as good enough. His path meets him, the Himalayas are moving.
I have a techni-color thought. I have this image of "a sad man wanting to stand up in my eyes" from Elias Khoury, a Palestinian author contemporary with Amos Oz--the Israeli author/Peace Now activist. The sad man is the sand's collapse like "ancient rosy colors behind my eyelids" (Kerouac) where something called Mine sought oblivion.
Momma home in a empty house, son is gone to the Himalayas, just out of the IDF--she wanders the house now at night listening to an umbrella of peace, sounds like "narayme, narayme" the call of a particular bird. From Amos Oz's book The Same Sea, and similarly my aunt, having endured as long as she did, had a sense of theophany as if she pressed her ear to the wall of temporal and flat mortal denial. The message crossed water, watching elders ambulate concertedly, pointedly, leaves no excuse for me to languish: they could tip over like a top heavy glass of milk, but at the same ttime what seems evident is that they are long distant runners, and have been living next to a extolling river, scribing the message of slow fidelity.
The reproach of unrevealed resolve, musterion--like now suddenly it is on the line, is only less victorious if I think so. Tending to resolve the need to think, bodes for rather well for listening instead. Sounds arrive in shallow water, and yet seem synaesthetic in the spectral aircell a room takes on. Just like the appeal pitch shadows & depth are - filling us up w/every languid goal to look again under the street light for the key we lost in the alley, I'm comfortable saying I don't know (or am willing to think how fire/tapas was light of the quality that only my heart fuels), the light seemed good enough. Since cosmic significant light demands just what ought to douse the heavens with now this season a deflated ball/Winter's Sun, light rays ensuing anything Of me or by extension is the Climate of the Greater Will.
Subject: lazy, or maybe actually kinda decisive--derived past stuff--but added, edited
Train comin' 'round the bend...like 3 times a night, sometimes more. Last night, I didn't notice tho'. Living proximal to the long distance traveler (literally), is a symbol of life in all its impermanence=the journey & the journey-made. Tracks running thru skin-scapes moist and with soul-force, has my thoughts revolve around Ben Kingsley's flight out of character like he was on a 6 Flags ride (in Gandhi), just affably surveying India's Bharata-varna, this World as it proceedth in its ancient quality.*** Old garments are shed, new bodies are donned like new garments... Humankind's path is earth, the temporal kingdom, tho' he/she has the freedom to stop inertia, & the Celestial Bodies don't. So our path may be more dynamic, a so-called Conscious-Being. *(P.K., my varietal with some of your language) We see the Sun, but the Sun is turning out of blue, but our reason does not surmount. Our dialogue w/the cosmos is yet impermanent--therein do we live the ontological record. This is the self-hypnoses sung about--I have heard: the ground is magnificate & I am at the top of the world. In our theoria, the thing about dreams is your having perceived that the world is moving around you, you are a quiet-static moment, & you'll sense THAT when looking at the observer in that moment as things move in flux--Kerouac says, big floats take notice, which is the Observer in the dream, everything else lives in the demand of the fray! The content of my goal is only the elements I gather from this trail, and I'll know my destiny as long as my first step remains the singular advantage it purports itself to be: "Forest of life underfoot"**.Patti Smith's words from R. Gere's book Pilgrims.
In a dream your path meets you, feathers falling like perpetual acquiescence to the epiphenomenal...looking up & in, looking up & in, until the requiem of change tho' confused aerial sight-thrum, is compartmentalized in torpid vessels we opt for rather than an Unknown having been diagrammed in the dream's end!
Sorting out having slipped into days dispensational just not on my watch, the enumeration media thru an exile from eclipsed cosmogony bares the fruits of hearing. I hear an acolyte beware of an extinguished norm, like sign-posts in his retreat from solitarian pleading for days end. Get off the path, "Truth is a pathless Land." Krishnamurti's observation of truth concealing reality.
When rastas say someday we'll walk these streets forever---I loved the denouement of an Orchard/Garden/Paradise maybe because formlessness is There. But man trod fully like a mega-transect. Determined to imagine the material void, & the path meets him--stays conflagrative. Form is liberated since wisdom --a masculine principal of the godhead--arises with "knowing" sooo w/self-realization--the maternal womb of binah and now man can't any longer seek the mt tops, 'cause city too hot... Pretty soon he can't, but live entirely conceiving of his power spot as good enough. His path meets him, the Himalayas are moving.
I have a techni-color thought. I have this image of "a sad man wanting to stand up in my eyes" from Elias Khoury, a Palestinian author contemporary with Amos Oz--the Israeli author/Peace Now activist. The sad man is the sand's collapse like "ancient rosy colors behind my eyelids" (Kerouac) where something called Mine sought oblivion.
Momma home in a empty house, son is gone to the Himalayas, just out of the IDF--she wanders the house now at night listening to an umbrella of peace, sounds like "narayme, narayme" the call of a particular bird. From Amos Oz's book The Same Sea, and similarly my aunt, having endured as long as she did, had a sense of theophany as if she pressed her ear to the wall of temporal and flat mortal denial. The message crossed water, watching elders ambulate concertedly, pointedly, leaves no excuse for me to languish: they could tip over like a top heavy glass of milk, but at the same ttime what seems evident is that they are long distant runners, and have been living next to a extolling river, scribing the message of slow fidelity.
The reproach of unrevealed resolve, musterion--like now suddenly it is on the line, is only less victorious if I think so. Tending to resolve the need to think, bodes for rather well for listening instead. Sounds arrive in shallow water, and yet seem synaesthetic in the spectral aircell a room takes on. Just like the appeal pitch shadows & depth are - filling us up w/every languid goal to look again under the street light for the key we lost in the alley, I'm comfortable saying I don't know (or am willing to think how fire/tapas was light of the quality that only my heart fuels), the light seemed good enough. Since cosmic significant light demands just what ought to douse the heavens with now this season a deflated ball/Winter's Sun, light rays ensuing anything Of me or by extension is the Climate of the Greater Will.
Subject: lazy, or maybe actually kinda decisive--derived past stuff--but added, edited
Train comin' 'round the bend...like 3 times a night, sometimes more. Last night, I didn't notice tho'. Living proximal to the long distance traveler (literally), is a symbol of life in all its impermanence=the journey & the journey-made. Tracks running thru skin-scapes moist and with soul-force, has my thoughts revolve around Ben Kingsley's flight out of character like he was on a 6 Flags ride (in Gandhi), just affably surveying India's Bharata-varna, this World as it proceedth in its ancient quality.*** Old garments are shed, new bodies are donned like new garments... Humankind's path is earth, the temporal kingdom, tho' he/she has the freedom to stop inertia, & the Celestial Bodies don't. So our path may be more dynamic, a so-called Conscious-Being. *(P.K., my varietal with some of your language) We see the Sun, but the Sun is turning out of blue, but our reason does not surmount. Our dialogue w/the cosmos is yet impermanent--therein do we live the ontological record. This is the self-hypnoses sung about--I have heard: the ground is magnificate & I am at the top of the world. In our theoria, the thing about dreams is your having perceived that the world is moving around you, you are a quiet-static moment, & you'll sense THAT when looking at the observer in that moment as things move in flux--Kerouac says, big floats take notice, which is the Observer in the dream, everything else lives in the demand of the fray! The content of my goal is only the elements I gather from this trail, and I'll know my destiny as long as my first step remains the singular advantage it purports itself to be: "Forest of life underfoot"**.Patti Smith's words from R. Gere's book Pilgrims.
In a dream your path meets you, feathers falling like perpetual acquiescence to the epiphenomenal...looking up & in, looking up & in, until the requiem of change tho' confused aerial sight-thrum, is compartmentalized in torpid vessels we opt for rather than an Unknown having been diagrammed in the dream's end!
Sorting out having slipped into days dispensational just not on my watch, the enumeration media thru an exile from eclipsed cosmogony bares the fruits of hearing. I hear an acolyte beware of an extinguished norm, like sign-posts in his retreat from solitarian pleading for days end. Get off the path, "Truth is a pathless Land." Krishnamurti's observation of truth concealing reality.
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