My urine piddle is a wrinkle in time; I only want to piss on spectral shores. Next to attritioning river of time (the irony of its slow fidelity takes earth's map into one penultimate direction--the ocean is never full, takes more & more & denies all the purchase of man's alliterating paths, padding thru dust=articulating it & washed of its precise content!), memory 'flect and thought tarries like light in waves of immense magnificate days...
Matter is an Efficient Cause when we suss Form (the Place, as if when speaking of the Absolute.)--matter proliferates actualization--the Observer is destined to reduce his assertions, since Form holds sway. Form requires less reason than it does a disclaimer on our aimlessness, & only after thwarting causelessness caloused misintuited Essense, Meaning meaning Form founds a Natural Congregation, as opposed to a National Cause. The pattern placed in effect from authority speaks of "security" the heathen must be ever more vigilant in appreciation. Psychological restraints are intra-mantra slavery that encourages interest in something immanent, when one rather should begin to use the cues of language as he hears them--Outwardly, rather than as he names his feelings.
Material void is Time--timeliness if What-Is sours from the misfortunate machinations of revision, always refuting authority "psychologically misapprehended," would have minds relish the shame that makes the heirophant (likeness of which he's made a nation of One) high (cleverly clinging to life undeveloped).
Sun's corona pushes my thoughts to the blue redeemed blanket, and starwealthy possibilities!
As some mystic heathen, solitude waiting for me to brave solarity, around the mid-teens of my life, I threaded the white horizon break as companion to katan Olam, the microcosm, healing contained Within, and its Meaning elusive but indicated Without
I am there but not less than her--more. Yet she so ooother, is the beatific exigent to all that world you ever leverage voluntas to work for. Still, her promise is in semblance, and not necessarily in union. Her formal throe into all my social resource, consumes me--consumes everything more than me. She's more than muse - she gives Emotional-soul, the one associated with Mercy, to the vehicle of expression. She is Spirit chorus--the wind commentator--and I am sullied by just a feeling... Without her is one thing, without me is quite another. I am sullied by just a feeling. She's its epiphany--at least I gainsay my fealty embowering thru powerlessness.
Blood spore dissipation, mind-sore apprehension is this one's and that one's utter inept rapture with the marvel of this world notably taken for soluable sensory data. The reserve any One-other has to desire more integrity in homeward loam has all the product of imagination of my vouchsafe in cedar clarified lair--thing actual.
Language is material--martyring its potent affection may be self-duty, a way to "save" yourself from the threat that the well of time, the conscious-pocket, is a reservoir of the Other's extremis in your center from Without.
Imagine that suspended feeling,when the road transpires really very linearly. For a moment hypnotic & freed up. Either the weird security that we attend to in its moment to moment nuance is jettisoned or not--but if it is, this state of mind--similar to the attention we sight in meditation, only reveals a feeling about MORE loss of control... Rather it is much like the daoists claim about fluidity, effortlessness! The road is matched in perfect glyphs self promoting ready to be scathed--an image adduces formally a book of rules--aspirations of imagination. But how the mind codifies the Efficient Cause has Shapeless Mass = Jah--in one spectral vessel, a moment, and just a pulse that nothing any longer is hidden.
PURITY's DECISOR...In death or in life, water ought to be our exigent incarnation. It IS merciful, has all the attributes of Eternality. Heaven is thought of as a fountain..."blue, blue windows behind the stars." N Young* And what is unique upon earth is ancestor revival mischief, but thru his/her source-=-messages showering us with rainy meaning. Its flowing mysterium makes the easily defined ubiquity as it posits the air the sun the buena vista, looks gravid when, say, a stream is met with a recent deluge--a pregnant translucent surface contrives this quality.
It is the big things, we answer for, that destroy intuition. Focus on a diminutive cause. The means are always letter permutations--analytic meditation, as recommended by his Holiness the Dalai Lama, for disambiguation to allay traduced passions, and to tether one to the Truth. The doctrinaire society however bound to integrity for their success, protects it at the cost of the praxis of awakening.
Last night I came up w/ a sense that the Observer is the extinguisher of freedom. Men seem emergent from space, where as women seem to refine Time as a pilgrimage thru space. If memorialized space has convenient thresholds where the intermediary is effective in man's need for a Roof (Rastas chant I need a Roof in Old Testament verity.), just as within a dream, had we looked, Mind is always predominant behind the drawn curtains enveloping our anthropos evol!!! Man hunts the provocateur of consciousness impulses--and one usually orients himself to what is the most evident, and most accessible moment of release...
For a time I decided not to look in a mirror. Other people telling me they've done that always seemed so contrived--like a strange concern over vanity had consumed them. In Jerusalem at the yeshiva I stayed at, went to classes over-together for just a few weeks, the men had no mirrors in the lavatories. (Odd, and compelling--tho' other and unevidenciary.) Driving down my neighborhood road anticipation of my visage now after a couple of months of avoiding my rreflection would have a continguous immanent quality. Not so much the obviate readying oneself for presentation in social oevre as we project and schedule, but what occurred was a feeling that the next time I look it would be a tremulous look under the veil--a purdah of distance strung... I waited til I thought I had seduced the most revealing facade of appearance--a tacit escounced moment -- then at a precise moment, instead of holding eyes into the steady gaze toward rear-view mirror, I pulled down the visor--having no mirror--and wallah, there I look back at myself all King Crimsony as if reflection should be coiled in stillness in the looking glass... The stranger was abated--I knew the red anthropositing of I Me Mine, yet the receiver of my cadence certainly was not withOut: it was wholly within.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Wednesday, June 08, 2011
June & the summer road apparitions proliferate
^^^^Krshnamurti's definition of meditation develops the point about attention, and not persisting on creating stronger focus. Thought content is trappings of frustrations and incomplete resignation on self-preservation--so content is not important. To reference thought w/any value statement is barbed w/his correct sense of the problem of escape unique to one's social-ego constraint. In Amongst White Clouds, a monk relates When he needs apparel--the demand of weather and health, clothes crawl upon his humble frame. Needs aren't invented, but are fulfilled precipitiously--the world, the path meet him. There is no yawn of distances to imagine relationship--instead the numinous and experiential are immanent (remains within!).
The Observer
The Observer is the extinguisher of the freedom...
occuring in mediacy, it doesn't matter according to its content.
What sublimates the Meaning of Outward Fact? What conveys our graduation (all mediate) to Awakening.
Religion?
Never flourishing in a temptor's face
Never in declination ill-contained & heavy,
prioritizing what is good for Meditation.
So, Gandhi's definition is Self-Actualization.
Dogma--this rhetoric of any intensified-transition
(we want revolution or revelation)
as it speaks to mischief abated,
just means lethargy in its legs to compel me.
I'm not typically assertive that way--ambition is only to relate, and the bread of self-knowledge has consequence and eternality to contend with.
Discipline frames nature
--nature aborts nothing
temporal=breath respiring
(waves and conditions... )
'A burning in my chest and in my lungs'
Freedom is clearly unique
--timeless--
no space in the comport between You and the Catharsist
--and stripped of its descriptors like still waters unimpressed by its deluge victim...
^#~~Reading Jack Kerouac, his first book, makes reflection--memory 'flect, things in shoals of night myth made in this case thru Trees' imagery again developing in fields of opportunity. How covetous minds are in the "million" leaves in sway, trees with a million coves to hide the ephemeral: my changes are literally nothing in the remonstrated day's long ends having only light-play to appertain tree presence--vital, observing, and earth's delivery of fractal awe. In Krshnamurti's To Himself, the underwhelm of tree's boughs but nigh in his meditation, keeps me in tight reigns that the dialect & thought transpiring goes one way...one is just appreciating the whiling arc of the sun as the lesson of other revolves within everytime, just within--it--the tree--does not congratulate its terrestrial associate.
^#~~Feeling the day's elements; languid in the garage. Summer seems the decisor at once then gone. Wish I was in the Catskills, that hideaway--those bungalows, across Casten st all up in the country by the blueberry patches--wholly regular in t...hese woods. Cool streams evading trafficked shitty city, I-man go to the mt. top!
I remember being up in NY w/your brother when we were around 15yrs old. Sitting here with only a handful of times in between brings on memoria in full effect!! My nephews and I would amble thru the forest, they'd smoke--making me feel a strange cause, even esoteric as in how consciousness narrows into semi-ecstatic contrivances. Here there's no tree boughs making umbrella canopy, sharding light and polygons obfuscating distances looking at its ground reception, but smoke philo-heady and retrieved just now makes Ky weather Other & available.
^#~~It is the big things, we answer for, that destroy intuition. Focus on a diminutive cause. The means are always letter permutations--analytic meditation, as recommended by his Holiness the Dalai Lama, for disambiguation to allay traduced passions, and to tether one to the Truth. The doctrinaire society however bound to integrity for their success, protects it at the cost of the praxis of awakening.
^#~~In death or in life, water ought to be our incarnation. It IS merciful, has all the attributes of Eternality. Heaven is thought of as a fountain..."blue, blue windows behind the stars." N Young*
And what is unique upon earth is ancestor revival mischief, but thru his/her source-=-messages showering us with rainy meaning. Its flowing mysterium makes the easily defined ubiquity as it posits the air the sun the buena vista, looks gravid when, say, a stream is met with a recent deluge--a pregnant translucent surface contrives this quality.
^#~~If one is at the peak of his/her experience, it may be when most crowd consciousness is left at bay. In R. Gere's book called Pilgrims, a Nepalese monk is asked of his perspective in light of the physical success the Outward Fact sublimates the acolyte: He says It is All Ego! Rather, what was simply asked was What is the answer in all endeavor toward self-actualization.
Last night I came up w/ a sense that the Observer is the extinguisher of freedom. Men seem emergent from space, where as women seem to refine Time as a pilgrimage thru space. If memorialized space has convenient thresholds where the intermediary is effective in man's need for a Roof (Rastas chant I need a Roof in Old Testament verity.), just as within a dream, had we looked, Mind is always predominant behind the drawn curtains enveloping our anthropos evol!!! Man hunts the provocateur of consciousness impulses--and one usually orients himself to what is the most evident, and most accessible moment of release...
The Observer
The Observer is the extinguisher of the freedom...
occuring in mediacy, it doesn't matter according to its content.
What sublimates the Meaning of Outward Fact? What conveys our graduation (all mediate) to Awakening.
Religion?
Never flourishing in a temptor's face
Never in declination ill-contained & heavy,
prioritizing what is good for Meditation.
So, Gandhi's definition is Self-Actualization.
Dogma--this rhetoric of any intensified-transition
(we want revolution or revelation)
as it speaks to mischief abated,
just means lethargy in its legs to compel me.
I'm not typically assertive that way--ambition is only to relate, and the bread of self-knowledge has consequence and eternality to contend with.
Discipline frames nature
--nature aborts nothing
temporal=breath respiring
(waves and conditions... )
'A burning in my chest and in my lungs'
Freedom is clearly unique
--timeless--
no space in the comport between You and the Catharsist
--and stripped of its descriptors like still waters unimpressed by its deluge victim...
^#~~Reading Jack Kerouac, his first book, makes reflection--memory 'flect, things in shoals of night myth made in this case thru Trees' imagery again developing in fields of opportunity. How covetous minds are in the "million" leaves in sway, trees with a million coves to hide the ephemeral: my changes are literally nothing in the remonstrated day's long ends having only light-play to appertain tree presence--vital, observing, and earth's delivery of fractal awe. In Krshnamurti's To Himself, the underwhelm of tree's boughs but nigh in his meditation, keeps me in tight reigns that the dialect & thought transpiring goes one way...one is just appreciating the whiling arc of the sun as the lesson of other revolves within everytime, just within--it--the tree--does not congratulate its terrestrial associate.
^#~~Feeling the day's elements; languid in the garage. Summer seems the decisor at once then gone. Wish I was in the Catskills, that hideaway--those bungalows, across Casten st all up in the country by the blueberry patches--wholly regular in t...hese woods. Cool streams evading trafficked shitty city, I-man go to the mt. top!
I remember being up in NY w/your brother when we were around 15yrs old. Sitting here with only a handful of times in between brings on memoria in full effect!! My nephews and I would amble thru the forest, they'd smoke--making me feel a strange cause, even esoteric as in how consciousness narrows into semi-ecstatic contrivances. Here there's no tree boughs making umbrella canopy, sharding light and polygons obfuscating distances looking at its ground reception, but smoke philo-heady and retrieved just now makes Ky weather Other & available.
^#~~It is the big things, we answer for, that destroy intuition. Focus on a diminutive cause. The means are always letter permutations--analytic meditation, as recommended by his Holiness the Dalai Lama, for disambiguation to allay traduced passions, and to tether one to the Truth. The doctrinaire society however bound to integrity for their success, protects it at the cost of the praxis of awakening.
^#~~In death or in life, water ought to be our incarnation. It IS merciful, has all the attributes of Eternality. Heaven is thought of as a fountain..."blue, blue windows behind the stars." N Young*
And what is unique upon earth is ancestor revival mischief, but thru his/her source-=-messages showering us with rainy meaning. Its flowing mysterium makes the easily defined ubiquity as it posits the air the sun the buena vista, looks gravid when, say, a stream is met with a recent deluge--a pregnant translucent surface contrives this quality.
^#~~If one is at the peak of his/her experience, it may be when most crowd consciousness is left at bay. In R. Gere's book called Pilgrims, a Nepalese monk is asked of his perspective in light of the physical success the Outward Fact sublimates the acolyte: He says It is All Ego! Rather, what was simply asked was What is the answer in all endeavor toward self-actualization.
Last night I came up w/ a sense that the Observer is the extinguisher of freedom. Men seem emergent from space, where as women seem to refine Time as a pilgrimage thru space. If memorialized space has convenient thresholds where the intermediary is effective in man's need for a Roof (Rastas chant I need a Roof in Old Testament verity.), just as within a dream, had we looked, Mind is always predominant behind the drawn curtains enveloping our anthropos evol!!! Man hunts the provocateur of consciousness impulses--and one usually orients himself to what is the most evident, and most accessible moment of release...
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Sleeping Waking Trodding Encamping............
***PURITY's DECISOR...In death or in life, water ought to be our exigent incarnation. It IS merciful, has all the attributes of Eternality. Heaven is thought of as a fountain..."blue, blue windows behind the stars." N Young* And what is unique upon earth is ancestor revival mischief, but thru his/her source-=-messages showering us with rainy meaning. Its flowing mysterium makes the easily defined ubiquity as it posits the air the sun the buena vista, looks gravid when, say, a stream is met with a recent deluge--a pregnant translucent surface contrives this quality.
^^^^When anyone leaves off with a sigh, the glance is where to begin. Early one morning up at what Zadie called Kruegers, in Gardenside--all the neighborhood flak with walnut trees giving up to shopping cntr drone, I sat up on a bench, rolled some Bugler, watched as if, face obscurred, dudes presence demonstrating light of my brother. He's closest in age, somewhat violent in nature, and self-replicates in Egyptian tombs when certain coool air brightens the sublime porte, something in me somewhere in abandonment...
*****Bad Muthas Goose & the bros. Grimm, these bluesy texan rappers--pretty ugly bunch, I big up (rasta), do it in the context of a Red fly Nation practice back in the day. Hard. I sEE it az many--as pissed, man. Anyway, that to identify with coarse and "night erupting in a hot blast" (Linton Kwesi Johnson), is just lotus mind having as much repute, yeah as much repute. I don't have to step in the fire (negativity has no place--Sight!), the fire we see just baptizes, orients the bleak vista conspired with one road. --Abraham unscathed in Nimrod's cauldron--a human sacrifice aborted... should be because it is the lowest common denominator. The flames magnificate like lotus pedals. But Abraham leaves family home ascesis as his clan soughts gods in those paradisaical throes. Lekh-lekha: he got thee out. Renunciation or privation the world made disciplined a mind of this once inspired Abram (a Friend of G-d? Arabs attest, Jews picked up on...or maybeee an antecedent somewhere.) World(s) extinguished, new dawns will fade! The West wants to see G-d, the East wants suffering to cease, so his/her G*d would reflect on his/her nature. If only thru expression, his name is thwarted from the East--but the word for breath is its root in Hebrew.
##########I wondered why even ask if Kerouac--a Metatrone kind of angel--would make known to me just the right view to the transcendental media; Writing me into his proscribed Americana, its cult of self-reliance and all the rest of his universal biblacy, when I couldn't resist anymore the appreciating solitarian day--Kerouac looked as busy as gravid loam all ventrally placed...and earth mummer as distant as his captive solicit in making its foci recognizably dear. I watch private motives in vain distillation because I'd been deceived that it pulled back with equal force. That magnificate probity of certainty draws sentience nigh, but nothing of its cause. Just way over, far over this path not like that path is meeting me but only at the survey of immensity.
****A gate at the side of the house, next to the log pile, may simply be a no departure plaintive way, the gate I'd hold open toward the concourse of spectral timelessness. An image of similar slumbering Autumnal gate--meaning utility in its intent for what rabbi Cooper processes thru in his narrative-"Journey into Sufism, Buddhism, & Judaism," appears on this book's front cover exactly as I remember it on Williamsburg Rd--my crystal palace that'd been heralded for so long as the mess having to make me honest. I douse it w/exuding light and I'm guaranteed misfortune from it, tho' never does it take notice what I'm convulsed with with equal force. Kicking It Over, indeed...! The gate keeper may be holding it open toward this as terminally as a life expanse appropriates, holding it now and perhaps thEn thE End whEn I see who the cap fits.
Kafka has our victim upon his death bed, enduring nothing shadows of rescue could have provided, and sees not the mediator of his born anew awareness, as nigh, instead the stranger-anointed waves him ON from outside his window at the roof's peak of the adjacent facing neighboring house. Mara with a thousand eyes - or any of his minion - just as ill-contained, has what we know to be our destiny with self-knowledge, but only after we no longer imagine it possible. Then thru his visage, unto light and light only, the old existent garment shed, a new body is donned.
****Molasses sadness no matter my penance surrendered. Why is it a pilgrimage whenever I don't wear a wristwatch? I'm raw and cursed with nothing to blame for this attrition. "I want to bomb a church," Bob says, look for the tall trees--and I feel like a small axe. I saw this book mentioned--one written by one of Maimonides's elite, it's called The Work on the Voice of Humanity. I'm used to one word foundering in a stream of exigency, consequences enumerated from decorating the ego-list but I cut the valence from careening voluble inward projection... One word and the fire relevence cannot be anymore sublime, can't make lotus leaves in cool throne asana moment anything but a lament for Ibrahim collated in Islamic typos--a Friend of G^d, they say--steps in fire but does not get burned. What else do I lament but my proxy to material void, material nothing, unforgettable fire--not in my control? In one scrawl of my hand beckoning the night, I might discover an eternal glyph--but until then sorrow is rewarded with unknowing.
####My school portrays a strict teacher, so if silence ensues, the sand pallette-media school-paraphernalia just got handed out. And not only am I before the writ, I am yet seized upon it from behind the top of the page, in the grip of its author. Or scruple counselor, who deigns its purport more authentic. Teachers' Strange from populist thought coupled with hero's happenstance to care about much more than the conscious crowd's frozen sea of perfect lack of intent, distills psychologic passions...if studying the soul's rational health convalescence gets recommended in each instance of strife.
##########I'm upon a hill, just a talking head in dream-scape, & words like world is the companion to--a mediator of--the unfurled tongue in valleys of language strife, is that venacular of iconographic convention with no reach into another reservoir of nations' babel. Just provincial: we are doomed to convey animal appetites, because intra-mantra slavery can't be adduced.
####I'm a consequencialist. The last thing that seems opportune has the toppling effect of reason that only announces that the present IS been resumed, but is not necessarily resuming. Sight: Sam Harris here. A deification of someOne inviting his own impermanent salience, still leaves the best of what suffering has to offer with the living--speak of a living G*d Jews tout. Yet that acolyte's (a Jew's)god vitiates the regard for inward journeying in favor of social agency, if inward journeying is to court experiments into consciousness. Say doing what is best toward meditation-- well-being is convened at its behest since there are more likely possibilities that core-communities in the least of their demise have the exemplar macrobiotic intentions.
^^^^When anyone leaves off with a sigh, the glance is where to begin. Early one morning up at what Zadie called Kruegers, in Gardenside--all the neighborhood flak with walnut trees giving up to shopping cntr drone, I sat up on a bench, rolled some Bugler, watched as if, face obscurred, dudes presence demonstrating light of my brother. He's closest in age, somewhat violent in nature, and self-replicates in Egyptian tombs when certain coool air brightens the sublime porte, something in me somewhere in abandonment...
*****Bad Muthas Goose & the bros. Grimm, these bluesy texan rappers--pretty ugly bunch, I big up (rasta), do it in the context of a Red fly Nation practice back in the day. Hard. I sEE it az many--as pissed, man. Anyway, that to identify with coarse and "night erupting in a hot blast" (Linton Kwesi Johnson), is just lotus mind having as much repute, yeah as much repute. I don't have to step in the fire (negativity has no place--Sight!), the fire we see just baptizes, orients the bleak vista conspired with one road. --Abraham unscathed in Nimrod's cauldron--a human sacrifice aborted... should be because it is the lowest common denominator. The flames magnificate like lotus pedals. But Abraham leaves family home ascesis as his clan soughts gods in those paradisaical throes. Lekh-lekha: he got thee out. Renunciation or privation the world made disciplined a mind of this once inspired Abram (a Friend of G-d? Arabs attest, Jews picked up on...or maybeee an antecedent somewhere.) World(s) extinguished, new dawns will fade! The West wants to see G-d, the East wants suffering to cease, so his/her G*d would reflect on his/her nature. If only thru expression, his name is thwarted from the East--but the word for breath is its root in Hebrew.
##########I wondered why even ask if Kerouac--a Metatrone kind of angel--would make known to me just the right view to the transcendental media; Writing me into his proscribed Americana, its cult of self-reliance and all the rest of his universal biblacy, when I couldn't resist anymore the appreciating solitarian day--Kerouac looked as busy as gravid loam all ventrally placed...and earth mummer as distant as his captive solicit in making its foci recognizably dear. I watch private motives in vain distillation because I'd been deceived that it pulled back with equal force. That magnificate probity of certainty draws sentience nigh, but nothing of its cause. Just way over, far over this path not like that path is meeting me but only at the survey of immensity.
****A gate at the side of the house, next to the log pile, may simply be a no departure plaintive way, the gate I'd hold open toward the concourse of spectral timelessness. An image of similar slumbering Autumnal gate--meaning utility in its intent for what rabbi Cooper processes thru in his narrative-"Journey into Sufism, Buddhism, & Judaism," appears on this book's front cover exactly as I remember it on Williamsburg Rd--my crystal palace that'd been heralded for so long as the mess having to make me honest. I douse it w/exuding light and I'm guaranteed misfortune from it, tho' never does it take notice what I'm convulsed with with equal force. Kicking It Over, indeed...! The gate keeper may be holding it open toward this as terminally as a life expanse appropriates, holding it now and perhaps thEn thE End whEn I see who the cap fits.
Kafka has our victim upon his death bed, enduring nothing shadows of rescue could have provided, and sees not the mediator of his born anew awareness, as nigh, instead the stranger-anointed waves him ON from outside his window at the roof's peak of the adjacent facing neighboring house. Mara with a thousand eyes - or any of his minion - just as ill-contained, has what we know to be our destiny with self-knowledge, but only after we no longer imagine it possible. Then thru his visage, unto light and light only, the old existent garment shed, a new body is donned.
****Molasses sadness no matter my penance surrendered. Why is it a pilgrimage whenever I don't wear a wristwatch? I'm raw and cursed with nothing to blame for this attrition. "I want to bomb a church," Bob says, look for the tall trees--and I feel like a small axe. I saw this book mentioned--one written by one of Maimonides's elite, it's called The Work on the Voice of Humanity. I'm used to one word foundering in a stream of exigency, consequences enumerated from decorating the ego-list but I cut the valence from careening voluble inward projection... One word and the fire relevence cannot be anymore sublime, can't make lotus leaves in cool throne asana moment anything but a lament for Ibrahim collated in Islamic typos--a Friend of G^d, they say--steps in fire but does not get burned. What else do I lament but my proxy to material void, material nothing, unforgettable fire--not in my control? In one scrawl of my hand beckoning the night, I might discover an eternal glyph--but until then sorrow is rewarded with unknowing.
####My school portrays a strict teacher, so if silence ensues, the sand pallette-media school-paraphernalia just got handed out. And not only am I before the writ, I am yet seized upon it from behind the top of the page, in the grip of its author. Or scruple counselor, who deigns its purport more authentic. Teachers' Strange from populist thought coupled with hero's happenstance to care about much more than the conscious crowd's frozen sea of perfect lack of intent, distills psychologic passions...if studying the soul's rational health convalescence gets recommended in each instance of strife.
##########I'm upon a hill, just a talking head in dream-scape, & words like world is the companion to--a mediator of--the unfurled tongue in valleys of language strife, is that venacular of iconographic convention with no reach into another reservoir of nations' babel. Just provincial: we are doomed to convey animal appetites, because intra-mantra slavery can't be adduced.
####I'm a consequencialist. The last thing that seems opportune has the toppling effect of reason that only announces that the present IS been resumed, but is not necessarily resuming. Sight: Sam Harris here. A deification of someOne inviting his own impermanent salience, still leaves the best of what suffering has to offer with the living--speak of a living G*d Jews tout. Yet that acolyte's (a Jew's)god vitiates the regard for inward journeying in favor of social agency, if inward journeying is to court experiments into consciousness. Say doing what is best toward meditation-- well-being is convened at its behest since there are more likely possibilities that core-communities in the least of their demise have the exemplar macrobiotic intentions.
Sunday, May 08, 2011
ZINDAPIR-- the mind sore ain't black, it's Green--Mr Green
^^Probably the most identifiable unreconciably known smell to man & beast is dust. Exquisite dust underfoot. Molds and viroids, half-worlds, between worlds... DusT to dusT if dusK to dusK proved an ashen Sun, giving up what I need--I run to it, shadows of rescue. The dust on the soul weighting down its ascending destiny, the world's excresence wafts and is born illimitable like This One & That One.
^^^^The requirement of meditation is ones beseeching an inward journey, and the inward journey reconciled when we merely entertain the frozen sea within--before and after the retreat. Maimonides says this to the effect, but "frozen sea" is Kafka. In Maimonides' --the foremost Jewish theologian, the Book of Adoration: purity is the goal of attention and the profane cleaved into what initially Mind resolves--a world of fragmentation. I read that we Jews face east too, yet the cold rear door of the synagogue I experienced, its classroom corridor leading to the arbor, brought me to conjure all the expanse withOut, turning toward the west. If western skies had truth to verify an awakening, it's coming around. It would have to, because what I suspired in knowing was that damnable sleeping thru life's dream, and losing its intervallic cessation. There's one long ascending slumber night, encumbered, fluid even nuanced, anticipating the requisite change that has the self-same character in volition in our Exile thru these dormancy wastes.
^^Theosophical writings, a sun's deluge--irradiant but remote, marks the antiquity of watery realms in saints' propitiation--Mr Green--tendered in roiling skies. The relicky stones tarry, jump into the sky in strange Hebraic accounts of Sambatyon at rivulet's edge, prohibitive at the penultimate margins till entrance can't any longer have denied you--Shangralah emblems get notice here. Paradise sundered in Awakening--Moses' left no Exile of Self, or Nation behind. Moses who didn't accede to Promised land, was a rational choice for hagiography since he enjoyed tacit blessing to seize water's ubiquity. This victory, near The Victorious, al-Kahir, Cairo, still him in the microcosm--deigning the Macrocosm, is to be enervating, because Higher Will wasn't contiguous, now it is prohibitive. =Judgment, and still ablutional pale water is merciful, as yet (restricting *adj.) Truth would be compelling adulterated, so fluid but viscous & gravid, because it is shed of messages from antediluvial spirits hidden in fountains, sky born or earth clothed.
^^Religion reckoned! Not spirituality like folks contenting themselves w/--eVerYone dEEp down has gOOd in them, are propitiating something clearly like no-view impeding their sorry lofty gaze... Public apostasy is Religion--it's spiritual now! It's not backward anymore than the width of a coin wholly marks the dynamism of the human condition, and once-flipped doesn't reconcile whither in illusionary mind or elucidated heart. In defense had I a need to demonstrate to a Believer that No I'm not doing the same thing, & as such missionizing, I'd say where is this Received Knowledge whose proselytes entertain my initiation? A x-tian witnesses, jews pity--they both are self-annihilating, because to witness is to martyr, to pity is to empty yourself. They both judge.
If you forget life is just to die, then the sooner will you go away. Incarnations abound to the extent that we aren't distracted over authorial incantations: luckily I had a rabbi who believed in evolution and the communications from the ancients that predicted Jewish lore. Had he known I never was acquisitive over traditional terms of identity, I may have made a better student: one can only talk to g*d being amongst, otherwise we maybe dealing with his attributable vessels, like the night's moon-soaked shade (the dialect is appreciable, but indifferent. The voidant anticipation of long days gotten through, is the requiem of change on behalf of your brothers and sisters who are here to intercede 'pon the theoria that comes with silence & apophases... I'm on my way with job-1 relieved of my attention...soon. Escape? "You smoke weed, it makes your eyes sharp." is Revolution propounded by Linton Kwesi Johnson.
^^^I'm a consequencialist. The last thing that seems opportune has the toppling effect of reason that only announces that the present IS been resumed, but is not necessarily resuming. Sight: Sam Harris here. A deification of someOne inviting his own impermanent salience, still leaves the best of what suffering has to offer with the living--speak of a living G*d Jews tout. Yet that acolyte's (a Jew's)god vitiates the regard for inward journeying in favor of social agency, if inward journeying is to court experiments into consciousness. Say doing what is best toward meditation-- well-being is convened at its behest since there are more likely possibilities that core-communities in the least of their demise have the exemplar macrobiotic intentions.
^^^I feel approached by even the most benevolent of peers with the assumption they need to know if I am dawdling along -- constancy reviewed. It must mean that I get to a valley corridor, veils proliferating & folks just want to peer underneath. The guy who did the artwork on the Apples in Stereo last album cover stopped by the shop today--he's a neighbor. He deals with a sense that if he had his way he'd catch up with me or just anyone: ageist and circumspect, evolving in his interests, but missing out in the other's more free air. The same sensitivity alights in MY thinking, and I call it thought and never warrant a grasp of egoism that a friend could divulge my interests anymore convened than the irresolute defines me. It's simple and we're all getting that somewhat. I leapt to the notion in intra-mantra slavery that really I'm not going anywhere--and persisting over what I'll ever be doing next week, year, or lifetime is only focus prayers on poignant emptiness. Numinous reactions to friends get eclipsed by ocular migraines occasionally anyway--it is succour to imagine there is no way out in those moments, not even to relate over this condition in the hotch-potch of daily trials appealling to the goof that I was expected and needed to be reassured.
Buddhist's might imagine salvation as non-negotiable. If we are liberated from birth, death, and proud land trod, then this reconcile we adduce to be liberated is contingent upon suffering's noble cause. The Buddhist would say cessation is goal--and to the extent that desires are untried makes a peak experience in the outward fact the sense that nothing need be done, particularly a foundering principle on salvation's retreat. I have read that even love would be jettisoned if it performs meditation's entreaty-- I love, but am ill-contained if hope is the game= One only hopes we he is Without.
^^^^The requirement of meditation is ones beseeching an inward journey, and the inward journey reconciled when we merely entertain the frozen sea within--before and after the retreat. Maimonides says this to the effect, but "frozen sea" is Kafka. In Maimonides' --the foremost Jewish theologian, the Book of Adoration: purity is the goal of attention and the profane cleaved into what initially Mind resolves--a world of fragmentation. I read that we Jews face east too, yet the cold rear door of the synagogue I experienced, its classroom corridor leading to the arbor, brought me to conjure all the expanse withOut, turning toward the west. If western skies had truth to verify an awakening, it's coming around. It would have to, because what I suspired in knowing was that damnable sleeping thru life's dream, and losing its intervallic cessation. There's one long ascending slumber night, encumbered, fluid even nuanced, anticipating the requisite change that has the self-same character in volition in our Exile thru these dormancy wastes.
^^Theosophical writings, a sun's deluge--irradiant but remote, marks the antiquity of watery realms in saints' propitiation--Mr Green--tendered in roiling skies. The relicky stones tarry, jump into the sky in strange Hebraic accounts of Sambatyon at rivulet's edge, prohibitive at the penultimate margins till entrance can't any longer have denied you--Shangralah emblems get notice here. Paradise sundered in Awakening--Moses' left no Exile of Self, or Nation behind. Moses who didn't accede to Promised land, was a rational choice for hagiography since he enjoyed tacit blessing to seize water's ubiquity. This victory, near The Victorious, al-Kahir, Cairo, still him in the microcosm--deigning the Macrocosm, is to be enervating, because Higher Will wasn't contiguous, now it is prohibitive. =Judgment, and still ablutional pale water is merciful, as yet (restricting *adj.) Truth would be compelling adulterated, so fluid but viscous & gravid, because it is shed of messages from antediluvial spirits hidden in fountains, sky born or earth clothed.
^^Religion reckoned! Not spirituality like folks contenting themselves w/--eVerYone dEEp down has gOOd in them, are propitiating something clearly like no-view impeding their sorry lofty gaze... Public apostasy is Religion--it's spiritual now! It's not backward anymore than the width of a coin wholly marks the dynamism of the human condition, and once-flipped doesn't reconcile whither in illusionary mind or elucidated heart. In defense had I a need to demonstrate to a Believer that No I'm not doing the same thing, & as such missionizing, I'd say where is this Received Knowledge whose proselytes entertain my initiation? A x-tian witnesses, jews pity--they both are self-annihilating, because to witness is to martyr, to pity is to empty yourself. They both judge.
If you forget life is just to die, then the sooner will you go away. Incarnations abound to the extent that we aren't distracted over authorial incantations: luckily I had a rabbi who believed in evolution and the communications from the ancients that predicted Jewish lore. Had he known I never was acquisitive over traditional terms of identity, I may have made a better student: one can only talk to g*d being amongst, otherwise we maybe dealing with his attributable vessels, like the night's moon-soaked shade (the dialect is appreciable, but indifferent. The voidant anticipation of long days gotten through, is the requiem of change on behalf of your brothers and sisters who are here to intercede 'pon the theoria that comes with silence & apophases... I'm on my way with job-1 relieved of my attention...soon. Escape? "You smoke weed, it makes your eyes sharp." is Revolution propounded by Linton Kwesi Johnson.
^^^I'm a consequencialist. The last thing that seems opportune has the toppling effect of reason that only announces that the present IS been resumed, but is not necessarily resuming. Sight: Sam Harris here. A deification of someOne inviting his own impermanent salience, still leaves the best of what suffering has to offer with the living--speak of a living G*d Jews tout. Yet that acolyte's (a Jew's)god vitiates the regard for inward journeying in favor of social agency, if inward journeying is to court experiments into consciousness. Say doing what is best toward meditation-- well-being is convened at its behest since there are more likely possibilities that core-communities in the least of their demise have the exemplar macrobiotic intentions.
^^^I feel approached by even the most benevolent of peers with the assumption they need to know if I am dawdling along -- constancy reviewed. It must mean that I get to a valley corridor, veils proliferating & folks just want to peer underneath. The guy who did the artwork on the Apples in Stereo last album cover stopped by the shop today--he's a neighbor. He deals with a sense that if he had his way he'd catch up with me or just anyone: ageist and circumspect, evolving in his interests, but missing out in the other's more free air. The same sensitivity alights in MY thinking, and I call it thought and never warrant a grasp of egoism that a friend could divulge my interests anymore convened than the irresolute defines me. It's simple and we're all getting that somewhat. I leapt to the notion in intra-mantra slavery that really I'm not going anywhere--and persisting over what I'll ever be doing next week, year, or lifetime is only focus prayers on poignant emptiness. Numinous reactions to friends get eclipsed by ocular migraines occasionally anyway--it is succour to imagine there is no way out in those moments, not even to relate over this condition in the hotch-potch of daily trials appealling to the goof that I was expected and needed to be reassured.
Buddhist's might imagine salvation as non-negotiable. If we are liberated from birth, death, and proud land trod, then this reconcile we adduce to be liberated is contingent upon suffering's noble cause. The Buddhist would say cessation is goal--and to the extent that desires are untried makes a peak experience in the outward fact the sense that nothing need be done, particularly a foundering principle on salvation's retreat. I have read that even love would be jettisoned if it performs meditation's entreaty-- I love, but am ill-contained if hope is the game= One only hopes we he is Without.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
In this yah Neighborhood--the sojourn to departed person's precincts
^^^Out behind my cousin's old house, rt. there on Nich'ville rd are interred bodies--grave sites exciting the possibilities that I can recommend other semi-permanent conscious crowds, something possible taking place that Observers had observed..., will detail a path in & out of these environs... Stale consecration libations were only cheap beer parties--in backyard treehouse, poured out to poor lives relieved of this Station in life--I'm presenting just then; their consideration was palpable. The sequestered field of possibilities--the little rock, fenced-in graveyard at the entrance of old people's domicile-apts, by the Burger King, by the Weiner King, by Racket Time, by my last paned threshold window, looking off to empty day's promisory: vague ablutions THESE deceased propose to meet me in Due time-my due! I believe it vehemently then--and want a similar introduction as if a sensual personae is made known.
^^The tin peal of all the sing-song rhetoric, here at its media borne moment has to make sublimation now, my sublimation--corrupting language as dogged as appearances. Once and for all there's a dialect, because I can't any longer sequester talk bound to emotion. Their emotions. It seems more oratory is stony percussion, & telegraphed. I want vox ambulating like white sands' paths meeting me, orienting me toward an opportunity of its greatest dissipation. A view to its roil. Brahmins proscribing in the aeries of air-wave graves, tableaus of What is Said and at the bridge of the day's long ends, alert like a muezzin--hundreds of thousands of Bilals, Muhammed's first crier--are only chanting Presence--& in grammars of bird song, and human dance, still only saying I'm Here, Yea! Over Here.
^^To assess perhaps a deep aside--it can't be at your center--I used to throw against the mindwall a few things: Something conceptual to develop using mantras including words like Kavvanot--Focus Meditation, Kabbalah--Received, & Enoch--the strange temporal transitions one may go thru.
A friend mentioned Enoch--this prophet for critical meditation, the kind where letter permutation is theoria in mediate happenstance. If life (eventuality) is to process, then articulating it is the dross pen lying fallow until chthonian forces brandish new tableaux. So toward Metatrone's Book of zzz Life - his agency is to enscribe the acolyte into the "transcendental bridge of awareness" - this is also Enoch, as is told, sublimating the profane, meaning the astral aeries or our cosmic interest of it, into the Microcosm. It's called Restoration. =tikkun. Words to exalt have this root. Language is the profession of prophets' ordeal, and is what strangers dream at its best when mysterium is vindicated as the totem nears...like their animicule symbols, energy vessels, bodies sentience awakening.
^^Hallucinations in Jerusalem: I was 20--but now just Watched a documentary on the first production of A, and its Mood & Mind Science, say for cluster migraines--which are, I am told, the worst...
It is Nat. Geo. doc on LSD. That it delivers the norm apostate to refuse desire... In Jerusalem Rob & I split a hit--and wandered in cooler Fall rain--light shower. I think I wanted to see emotions' procession finally laid out, but still bound to machine probity makes observable release an *immediate* pay-off--I couldn't finesse a way forward that my abysmal jump would have been a perfect compulsion: long times to contemplate. Long times to contemplate aren't in fact timely... I'm just realizing in that ambiance I still have infinitum more empty bottles to fill, with an answer the bottle-sought provides but not in its acquisition. Just my reach for it. Tea that night helped to make the mentoring of moments suspiring, suspire mercurially.
^^When I was 6yrs old at the neighboring st. in Laurel Grove Austin, Texas--I sought to be conveyed in a few moments the thoughts that constituted what was to me My lifetime. So to be articulated into something not so easily defined, I thought I should start At-the-End of the path/those thoughts/that day/This life. My query involves as follows: we tend to sort out the last 5mins in any kind of constancy, our life's totality i.e. generalities supposing some inertia that there is some Grand design to our efforts. This usually means something epiphenomenal like the image of the rabbi, in my mind, that has the dust of archetypes upon it (life's exquisite dust--the halotosis of institutions & Rabbi Schwab's weathered dross stimulation.) --rather a motivating emotion I suppose in meditation. Is this K'fitsas haderekh? Translation: "Skipping," what one does w/visions & thus the experience of presence made known. I'm here yet also and within grasp at some point in temporal elsewheres at once?
^^^There's only +he dream of existence & +hen +he exegete from +he awakening from +he dream of existence. All we have to go on. So when a sage says self-knowledge is sooo eclipsed, lapsed because now one considers that it is the valley-limned ...really long time coming--shadowy depths denied as merely a surfeit of memoria, now no different than our dearly departed days of youth, maybe intensity--as much as embraced blue slumber comfort that every bit of me is become sacrificed--I ! But it's not that now years into the lairs of conscious satelites (receiving...) we endure helplessness anew, but rather it - these empirical throes of annihilation - were remarkable right out youth's convening. Then -- blue to black, green to earth's slumbering colours--change . From just knowing who's registering our angst and then allowing real suggestions in what direction we go, to irreconciled languish in our minds lit! BUT LIT it is. Now to validate cornering even the solace expectations were met. In that corner the heathen back Yea, on the wall. Late for festival, but enjoining the same release as festivals contend--at what point does 432,000 yrs my piligrimage thru some woodlands of this passing, make 10,ooo things of what is manifest---earth nomenclature, exquisite dust 'pon clay man's hoof, at fractured trees... birds over-taking, architecture in the skyline--make Unity Unique--a garden of no path. Truth is at the dukka (conflict) da'ath (knowledge) deled (door), at the ocean margins *fountain sky above*, & no further. (?) ttttthere is No Path.
^^The tin peal of all the sing-song rhetoric, here at its media borne moment has to make sublimation now, my sublimation--corrupting language as dogged as appearances. Once and for all there's a dialect, because I can't any longer sequester talk bound to emotion. Their emotions. It seems more oratory is stony percussion, & telegraphed. I want vox ambulating like white sands' paths meeting me, orienting me toward an opportunity of its greatest dissipation. A view to its roil. Brahmins proscribing in the aeries of air-wave graves, tableaus of What is Said and at the bridge of the day's long ends, alert like a muezzin--hundreds of thousands of Bilals, Muhammed's first crier--are only chanting Presence--& in grammars of bird song, and human dance, still only saying I'm Here, Yea! Over Here.
^^To assess perhaps a deep aside--it can't be at your center--I used to throw against the mindwall a few things: Something conceptual to develop using mantras including words like Kavvanot--Focus Meditation, Kabbalah--Received, & Enoch--the strange temporal transitions one may go thru.
A friend mentioned Enoch--this prophet for critical meditation, the kind where letter permutation is theoria in mediate happenstance. If life (eventuality) is to process, then articulating it is the dross pen lying fallow until chthonian forces brandish new tableaux. So toward Metatrone's Book of zzz Life - his agency is to enscribe the acolyte into the "transcendental bridge of awareness" - this is also Enoch, as is told, sublimating the profane, meaning the astral aeries or our cosmic interest of it, into the Microcosm. It's called Restoration. =tikkun. Words to exalt have this root. Language is the profession of prophets' ordeal, and is what strangers dream at its best when mysterium is vindicated as the totem nears...like their animicule symbols, energy vessels, bodies sentience awakening.
^^Hallucinations in Jerusalem: I was 20--but now just Watched a documentary on the first production of A, and its Mood & Mind Science, say for cluster migraines--which are, I am told, the worst...
It is Nat. Geo. doc on LSD. That it delivers the norm apostate to refuse desire... In Jerusalem Rob & I split a hit--and wandered in cooler Fall rain--light shower. I think I wanted to see emotions' procession finally laid out, but still bound to machine probity makes observable release an *immediate* pay-off--I couldn't finesse a way forward that my abysmal jump would have been a perfect compulsion: long times to contemplate. Long times to contemplate aren't in fact timely... I'm just realizing in that ambiance I still have infinitum more empty bottles to fill, with an answer the bottle-sought provides but not in its acquisition. Just my reach for it. Tea that night helped to make the mentoring of moments suspiring, suspire mercurially.
^^When I was 6yrs old at the neighboring st. in Laurel Grove Austin, Texas--I sought to be conveyed in a few moments the thoughts that constituted what was to me My lifetime. So to be articulated into something not so easily defined, I thought I should start At-the-End of the path/those thoughts/that day/This life. My query involves as follows: we tend to sort out the last 5mins in any kind of constancy, our life's totality i.e. generalities supposing some inertia that there is some Grand design to our efforts. This usually means something epiphenomenal like the image of the rabbi, in my mind, that has the dust of archetypes upon it (life's exquisite dust--the halotosis of institutions & Rabbi Schwab's weathered dross stimulation.) --rather a motivating emotion I suppose in meditation. Is this K'fitsas haderekh? Translation: "Skipping," what one does w/visions & thus the experience of presence made known. I'm here yet also and within grasp at some point in temporal elsewheres at once?
^^^There's only +he dream of existence & +hen +he exegete from +he awakening from +he dream of existence. All we have to go on. So when a sage says self-knowledge is sooo eclipsed, lapsed because now one considers that it is the valley-limned ...really long time coming--shadowy depths denied as merely a surfeit of memoria, now no different than our dearly departed days of youth, maybe intensity--as much as embraced blue slumber comfort that every bit of me is become sacrificed--I ! But it's not that now years into the lairs of conscious satelites (receiving...) we endure helplessness anew, but rather it - these empirical throes of annihilation - were remarkable right out youth's convening. Then -- blue to black, green to earth's slumbering colours--change . From just knowing who's registering our angst and then allowing real suggestions in what direction we go, to irreconciled languish in our minds lit! BUT LIT it is. Now to validate cornering even the solace expectations were met. In that corner the heathen back Yea, on the wall. Late for festival, but enjoining the same release as festivals contend--at what point does 432,000 yrs my piligrimage thru some woodlands of this passing, make 10,ooo things of what is manifest---earth nomenclature, exquisite dust 'pon clay man's hoof, at fractured trees... birds over-taking, architecture in the skyline--make Unity Unique--a garden of no path. Truth is at the dukka (conflict) da'ath (knowledge) deled (door), at the ocean margins *fountain sky above*, & no further. (?) ttttthere is No Path.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
To the Extent I've become the Other Brother
A black american might say in a striking excelsior bout of self-consciousness, "My G-d My G-d people just like these around us, had my nation in links and chains--"they're dressed in the same pollution" says Marley in horse trot riddim indicating the judgment before halelujah time. Even blood knowing the attendant norm as Core-Culture wouldn't naturally be as prohibitive... So, he's self conscious, not in fear, but in that which brings wisdom. And whose numina is the wealth of Identity, I-dren, Sistren...his conscious crowd? Not yours perhaps, but consider his embrace outside our loosening world-savy contentment, and consider our embrace outside that too.
***I was looking for something to do, so I came over to your house. I think then over in the vicinity where the WT Young library was put up. I know Kakie was over that way too, but you too somewhere living with Leslie, and only Leslie was at home where I ended up in that dusk of consistantly symbolic night in Lexington: one could be certain of the escape of time's efforts--the season brought me into the terminus of Autumnal tumult, while my studies in a fluid draft (like a draft horse) anchored me to music's release with the certainty that anything could be as true. You'd gone to a gig, and I see your hat on your bed's backboard. Leslie is sitting on the bed, but I'm reticent to sit around and bullshit with her, like I am invited to something beyond the given rappore. It's winter and at any rate I sit on a cold stoop at the entrance to the bedroom, wanting to light a cig. In the tale of conscious crowd in my mind I had it that folks were on healthy awareness experiments, I assumed ya'll's reserve for that then--but I had no way to verify. I consider the apposite of an event of convalescence, eating right, to have the expectation of drugged conduct beckoned, but when I'm patiently trialing consciousness--so reading awhile, taking in music otherly, whatever it may be--it's through smoking in convened moments that has a day spirited in giant leaps--so to the victory of physical liberation, a volley of power over time's reins!!
**Attention appreciating, unthwarted, wanting Dostoevskii's K bro to entreat my need to Turn-Around!!!
I'm not subdued by the fact that many of my trials were deliberative. It may mean everything is self-duty with the key to self available in loss of motive in as much as one might have been certain. Again, when the course of my life seems liminal, then at least orienting myself toward the ineffable is evidence of probabilities endless indicated right out of our reach. I know mostly *what-is* is out of my control--even the decisor mental event. But what stands out is the distance between my convulsed self and the semblance - the idea - the motive NOT to act. Things are; I'm becoming; G^d is complex, intricate, so my sense is not to justify acting in IT's behalf, but to be the convergence of time place & community. That way the narrative that says I've alone manufactured the dialect with What-Is (Immense) is not so dear that I would be damned for capturing Otherness--w/the intent to deny it's responsibility upon me adjured. Solemnity expected in my mind, not authorially placating my ignorance.
**That there would be a statute that suggests a culture can't advance because it is a vehicle for a mission, has little to do with an acolyte toward his her appreciation of what resourcefulness they have been reduced down to consider. A worthy World View, propitious self-knowledge, is not one that elaborates one's conflict w/an ambiguous claimant's surmise. No prophets typically avail an adherent were they'd most likely have had their most sober efforts staged for a fractal event. Theoria is finding In ('side the fluid thoughtlessness), the liberation of ourselves in this temporal actionable cause, is finding Out. Love Kerouac's use of The Great Awakening to the Dream of Existence--his letter, to my Mutazila's faylasuf *philosophy*: To dream thereby we exist, to deign meaning for the dream's observer is gaining access to his her teacher. The Teacher or Prophet's lives are chimera activities...
^^Theoria is finding In ('side the fluid thoughtlessness), & the liberation of ourselves in this temporal actionable cause, is finding Out. The Dao monk rations out the practical appeal toward Effortlessness. When it occurred to me that I find myself sitting, asana unpuzzled legs indian style, memorialized space is glossy unscattered, inviting me to run into it. Fluidity--thus, repentant--and no frontiers for knowledge, temporate non-self in momentum of torpor-esque persona hushing floutist nuances is the only thing held in the mirror.
**Idols are silent, but the gods are noisy***
This babel falling with it's gravity pulling us with it's reins is more like a voidant possibility. Drawing us into distances strewn with lousy promises, like food as "resolved" sustenance--Babel as what's been deficated, yet nothing in evidence that gives life strong sensory data. Bowels empty, and these lives in transformation yet out of our control--this very message from Without, fortifies nothing. Stillness achieved is just the fable of man's mind that silence is by measure & force his due. It is all so obvious to me that some little limb--divined mind shore--the silence, is in fact tacit and not auditory or sound-appreciating the hue and lack therein, because I looked at it. It is the tethered fealty to propriety of release--in our heads, yet we are indeed a collective unto experience until thru observation the fray is the won-overed motive that delivers the Commiserate to the truth that NOTHING IS IN FACT happening. Not silence, not sound in its fluid appeal to corporeal auditive phonic furniture.
***I was looking for something to do, so I came over to your house. I think then over in the vicinity where the WT Young library was put up. I know Kakie was over that way too, but you too somewhere living with Leslie, and only Leslie was at home where I ended up in that dusk of consistantly symbolic night in Lexington: one could be certain of the escape of time's efforts--the season brought me into the terminus of Autumnal tumult, while my studies in a fluid draft (like a draft horse) anchored me to music's release with the certainty that anything could be as true. You'd gone to a gig, and I see your hat on your bed's backboard. Leslie is sitting on the bed, but I'm reticent to sit around and bullshit with her, like I am invited to something beyond the given rappore. It's winter and at any rate I sit on a cold stoop at the entrance to the bedroom, wanting to light a cig. In the tale of conscious crowd in my mind I had it that folks were on healthy awareness experiments, I assumed ya'll's reserve for that then--but I had no way to verify. I consider the apposite of an event of convalescence, eating right, to have the expectation of drugged conduct beckoned, but when I'm patiently trialing consciousness--so reading awhile, taking in music otherly, whatever it may be--it's through smoking in convened moments that has a day spirited in giant leaps--so to the victory of physical liberation, a volley of power over time's reins!!
**Attention appreciating, unthwarted, wanting Dostoevskii's K bro to entreat my need to Turn-Around!!!
I'm not subdued by the fact that many of my trials were deliberative. It may mean everything is self-duty with the key to self available in loss of motive in as much as one might have been certain. Again, when the course of my life seems liminal, then at least orienting myself toward the ineffable is evidence of probabilities endless indicated right out of our reach. I know mostly *what-is* is out of my control--even the decisor mental event. But what stands out is the distance between my convulsed self and the semblance - the idea - the motive NOT to act. Things are; I'm becoming; G^d is complex, intricate, so my sense is not to justify acting in IT's behalf, but to be the convergence of time place & community. That way the narrative that says I've alone manufactured the dialect with What-Is (Immense) is not so dear that I would be damned for capturing Otherness--w/the intent to deny it's responsibility upon me adjured. Solemnity expected in my mind, not authorially placating my ignorance.
**That there would be a statute that suggests a culture can't advance because it is a vehicle for a mission, has little to do with an acolyte toward his her appreciation of what resourcefulness they have been reduced down to consider. A worthy World View, propitious self-knowledge, is not one that elaborates one's conflict w/an ambiguous claimant's surmise. No prophets typically avail an adherent were they'd most likely have had their most sober efforts staged for a fractal event. Theoria is finding In ('side the fluid thoughtlessness), the liberation of ourselves in this temporal actionable cause, is finding Out. Love Kerouac's use of The Great Awakening to the Dream of Existence--his letter, to my Mutazila's faylasuf *philosophy*: To dream thereby we exist, to deign meaning for the dream's observer is gaining access to his her teacher. The Teacher or Prophet's lives are chimera activities...
^^Theoria is finding In ('side the fluid thoughtlessness), & the liberation of ourselves in this temporal actionable cause, is finding Out. The Dao monk rations out the practical appeal toward Effortlessness. When it occurred to me that I find myself sitting, asana unpuzzled legs indian style, memorialized space is glossy unscattered, inviting me to run into it. Fluidity--thus, repentant--and no frontiers for knowledge, temporate non-self in momentum of torpor-esque persona hushing floutist nuances is the only thing held in the mirror.
**Idols are silent, but the gods are noisy***
This babel falling with it's gravity pulling us with it's reins is more like a voidant possibility. Drawing us into distances strewn with lousy promises, like food as "resolved" sustenance--Babel as what's been deficated, yet nothing in evidence that gives life strong sensory data. Bowels empty, and these lives in transformation yet out of our control--this very message from Without, fortifies nothing. Stillness achieved is just the fable of man's mind that silence is by measure & force his due. It is all so obvious to me that some little limb--divined mind shore--the silence, is in fact tacit and not auditory or sound-appreciating the hue and lack therein, because I looked at it. It is the tethered fealty to propriety of release--in our heads, yet we are indeed a collective unto experience until thru observation the fray is the won-overed motive that delivers the Commiserate to the truth that NOTHING IS IN FACT happening. Not silence, not sound in its fluid appeal to corporeal auditive phonic furniture.
Monday, April 04, 2011
Throes of mind semblance in & of descriptors
throes in & of descriptors
**Ever morning canvas
Solarity--physically pure all my summers, but clement environs makes me seek the incumbent volley--the tragic space, the denouement of iconoclasm. Threw away all art--adjudged something professional. I had to throw away all art, because I lost my lightning vox. Nothing dear enough to make mind wallow deafening sorrow the wind in mantra & breath: expression. It's explanate to say letter permutations I sought quietly in a 19th century translation of Flavius Josephus histories, sounded out songs in anthropos language dopemined in bird song so I dreamt of horns. Flesh-colored like ears - like urban-suburban arising and slumbering are the ZZZs of sounds colluding in what resonates in nervous auditory vessel self. The city-scape has thrust if its presence means multiply, yet city is too hot when arbor and only sky tumults in its falling (*Babel)--language populates the fallen regime: what we hear. But the auditive suspiring even if bad (ass) music would tear up your flesh, make the abstract pug marks the animal self first grasped as alliterative oN a path. Sometimes ole brown speaks with his dance, sometime later w/his hands--and always in vision where sounds are seen on an ever morning canvas.
Pagans see G^d, Jews hear G^d, Buddhist's feel relented from meta-physics--so do Rastas... Tosh sings, "Stop that Train, I'm leaving." Hindus want their God to see them o so devotional.
**Weird phased dandelion-gone-to seed light adrift grafted my attention to some impulse that spells healing wonder, in weak teeth--still there mostly--but ridiculously guarded. Then I pulled some thready eyelash out of my face--cathartic appeal, eyes had become grabbing hands and I tooled the burnishing lamp in the half-light dream-time so that vision might be received anywhere but in the illustrated bird-book mind: pulling light out of my eyes. This ocular episteme must have graduated in stony apparitional narratives, as when I first started smoking herb, and once my sub-conscious devised symbolism for it, the white sclera became a finely twisted spliff...that could be handed out. And in a few dreams per my trod down ole farm roads, which were near my house, the hand to mouth sense in appetites mitigated, were eye(s) to respiratory mechanics, and exhalation of weird anticipation of vaporous salience.
^^^^^Since when is a community going to succeed if they atrophy from the core-communities, meaning MOST of the rest of the world? So there are new crises, resources all gone but now we have to fight over G-dly resources. See I am a Jew in exile, this dispensation IS an exile. A doctrine can help us wonder at What or Who SEEs us AND even after these lives' thresholds, incarnations into something hopefully not reductive & petty, but rather as observers of our a creative facility: maybe G-D? or scant Evidence we are to hold in High Esteem. Maybe Not G-d? Then devotion!! And just as there are no clerics in Judaism, I WILL not recognize "institutional" de'ot, but rather "knowledge" *de'ot--(the word Maimon used takes turns w/another use of the Arabic - akhlaq meaning "nature.") in places where negativity isn't established. A righteous war this is not, and people --"striving" to G-d as you & me *so to speak --want to get out of the backyard of the Violent precincts in the world. Not outa Israel dude--but bro' IT is already a 2 state solution, and must be sured up w/honor of Our G-d the exact same G-d both these communities can speak TO in and amongst our pallors and s(h)ouks.
****People want to touch a nerve. Solicit our interest. U-s-sri a word-- sounding a lot like usury-- used in north Iffriqiyyah by Jews and Muslims, likely as Europeans (as into Italy) began to acquire an appetite for (Indian) Arabic science finds this word having truck. Thru the mercantile of meritable ethos of THE traveler, numbers started adding up to permeable core cultures. So the "give and take" of the work-A-day *u-s-sri, begat the deleterious and the potent vehicle, Work makes Freedom. Still, my purpose is that the long ends of the day doesn't supply the odds against my sense of the cult of self-reliance. And folks appertain fealty every time while I loose my sense that they require recompence for the blast purchase of the taste of what they got.
^*^Amazing that some kind of hallucination whelms me in a conscious pocket, taking sticky mind funk and contorting the bracketing narrative & imagination. But I wish I could be resigned to not literally require alchemical chaos to work on me--...and instead perseverance and my sober academician life--found here by teachers not certified to imagine I've indulged in assignation. W/books called The Set Table and and its objective performed in The Tablecloth, menus are useless, just eat the sabbath's meal-- a sabbath in history, one's Retreat. Albeit the sweet ordeal of a day's entirety in a glance known in its pregnant surfac-ing is a short retreat; to cultivate it makes appetite sated not by the courage for want of victory, but victory over appetite, to be skillful (they say devoted, disciplined.). Numerologist Mendlebrot saw the need to develop formulas for irregularity -- his symbolic excelsior was the amoebic image called G^d's thumb print. Just as when reading Kerouac--particularly a dream with his repose in a chair having died there a 1000 deaths, what he has collude in the hero's path is the observer in ambulations: something like, big floats take notice. Down by a river, self-simulation keeps the alliterative fundamental, because in echolalia - life's fount mutual arises with reckoned lives led till reduced unto simplicity...it is just our world giving a niche for dream within a dream within a dream.
^^My grandma (Bubby) was from the same town as Madame Blavatskii--Ekatrinaslav, Ukraine. The town is been called something else since WW11. Blavatskii set up Jidda K. to be head of the Theosophical Society, of which he would not remain the head: Truth is a Pathless Land. My man--here, that I work with--used to sit before Krishnamurti and take in the discussions... In an attempt to tie myself within 6 degrees (looking back w/ 20-20 vision), I had written down a region name that caught my interest, now yrs ago, in Blavatskii's Esoteric/Exoteric Writings, is a place called Andrapradesh. Carved it in stone while laughing inside at the motive-that-sifted thru my grasp and was denied except for the conscious/physical map appropriated. Turns out Jidda was from there--and my friend here makes the labor of letter permutations in analytical meditation (whose suggestion I heed from Dalai Lama's discussions) seem kaleidoscopic and up to the moment--real imminence!!! A certain kind of theoria began to appreciate with my reading of her Self-Actualization writ--and I plan on those moments to convulse in thresholds in the world-to-come, in my pharonic chamber when all language is threaded into the garment of phenomenal existence. Old bodies are shed like weary veils, new bodies are donned like new garments.
**The primitives believed in Incarnations--reincarnations, but it was not a project into their future worth. Incarnations just as the media of conventional representations--animals and people, skies and rivers bisecting the earth: these things were immediate and demonstrated thru nurture of a kind that makes us call Fractal Patterns now the flame-substance of life, in all its strangeness an agency of Life's Creative sense of an Absolute. So when karma's principles has supplicants note death as handily as regret over moral compass some god demurred as his cause a priori (our fate)--we know then that instead of locked in this material world, it became the desire and folly of man to also live thru restraint in spiritual endeavor--as in the problem w/your compassion causing violence, Tolstoy essays. Hinduism developed, or rather devolved, to allow the devoted to complicate his/her life w/competition to assumed time elements... "IT soon come!!" can't be decried, it is the manifest and revolution of spirit to see the Material Void represented by conscious satellites, soft machines, & sensual bodies .
** I see Dylan in some unfurnished apartment, or taken in by someone, but solitarian occasions where the cognitive yields to the towering obsolete & it's just him & a book on the table (almost a typical scenario). He is calling himself something in the vast immediacy just to turn to his potential to see thru what he can never ally himself with, power. I'm reminded of the image of an old mendicant (wandering ascetic), in this case a Jew (*certainly Dylan's life with grandmother made him the beggardly student-of-life--I take Chagall's Smoking Jew representing), and he comes to a small room in this ghetto, or tucked away village restricted from the rest of the region. To be free from the Powers-that-Be means at first to seek out the thousand deaths he maintained only to find, in his world the even more grave conceptuality of the Bible, or Book of Ethics--Talmud--more grave than anything the authority could do to him (in his mind). So he sits in a shtibel (study room) the open book swells his head with forced thoughts, "he" is across the room and the distance is a maze of gravid time resisted now forever 'til then. And all he can know is a Seperateness called Kodesh/holy. Dylan seems to claim loyalties, calling himself "a Zionist for life," but again the world is out of balance & we are still younger than yesterday--think history & antecedents we jump from in that liminal box!! The history of G-d is replete with a context of only one conversation with the Infinite that mattered. G-d said, "Hey?" & man said, "I AM (present)."
**Ever morning canvas
Solarity--physically pure all my summers, but clement environs makes me seek the incumbent volley--the tragic space, the denouement of iconoclasm. Threw away all art--adjudged something professional. I had to throw away all art, because I lost my lightning vox. Nothing dear enough to make mind wallow deafening sorrow the wind in mantra & breath: expression. It's explanate to say letter permutations I sought quietly in a 19th century translation of Flavius Josephus histories, sounded out songs in anthropos language dopemined in bird song so I dreamt of horns. Flesh-colored like ears - like urban-suburban arising and slumbering are the ZZZs of sounds colluding in what resonates in nervous auditory vessel self. The city-scape has thrust if its presence means multiply, yet city is too hot when arbor and only sky tumults in its falling (*Babel)--language populates the fallen regime: what we hear. But the auditive suspiring even if bad (ass) music would tear up your flesh, make the abstract pug marks the animal self first grasped as alliterative oN a path. Sometimes ole brown speaks with his dance, sometime later w/his hands--and always in vision where sounds are seen on an ever morning canvas.
Pagans see G^d, Jews hear G^d, Buddhist's feel relented from meta-physics--so do Rastas... Tosh sings, "Stop that Train, I'm leaving." Hindus want their God to see them o so devotional.
**Weird phased dandelion-gone-to seed light adrift grafted my attention to some impulse that spells healing wonder, in weak teeth--still there mostly--but ridiculously guarded. Then I pulled some thready eyelash out of my face--cathartic appeal, eyes had become grabbing hands and I tooled the burnishing lamp in the half-light dream-time so that vision might be received anywhere but in the illustrated bird-book mind: pulling light out of my eyes. This ocular episteme must have graduated in stony apparitional narratives, as when I first started smoking herb, and once my sub-conscious devised symbolism for it, the white sclera became a finely twisted spliff...that could be handed out. And in a few dreams per my trod down ole farm roads, which were near my house, the hand to mouth sense in appetites mitigated, were eye(s) to respiratory mechanics, and exhalation of weird anticipation of vaporous salience.
^^^^^Since when is a community going to succeed if they atrophy from the core-communities, meaning MOST of the rest of the world? So there are new crises, resources all gone but now we have to fight over G-dly resources. See I am a Jew in exile, this dispensation IS an exile. A doctrine can help us wonder at What or Who SEEs us AND even after these lives' thresholds, incarnations into something hopefully not reductive & petty, but rather as observers of our a creative facility: maybe G-D? or scant Evidence we are to hold in High Esteem. Maybe Not G-d? Then devotion!! And just as there are no clerics in Judaism, I WILL not recognize "institutional" de'ot, but rather "knowledge" *de'ot--(the word Maimon used takes turns w/another use of the Arabic - akhlaq meaning "nature.") in places where negativity isn't established. A righteous war this is not, and people --"striving" to G-d as you & me *so to speak --want to get out of the backyard of the Violent precincts in the world. Not outa Israel dude--but bro' IT is already a 2 state solution, and must be sured up w/honor of Our G-d the exact same G-d both these communities can speak TO in and amongst our pallors and s(h)ouks.
****People want to touch a nerve. Solicit our interest. U-s-sri a word-- sounding a lot like usury-- used in north Iffriqiyyah by Jews and Muslims, likely as Europeans (as into Italy) began to acquire an appetite for (Indian) Arabic science finds this word having truck. Thru the mercantile of meritable ethos of THE traveler, numbers started adding up to permeable core cultures. So the "give and take" of the work-A-day *u-s-sri, begat the deleterious and the potent vehicle, Work makes Freedom. Still, my purpose is that the long ends of the day doesn't supply the odds against my sense of the cult of self-reliance. And folks appertain fealty every time while I loose my sense that they require recompence for the blast purchase of the taste of what they got.
^*^Amazing that some kind of hallucination whelms me in a conscious pocket, taking sticky mind funk and contorting the bracketing narrative & imagination. But I wish I could be resigned to not literally require alchemical chaos to work on me--...and instead perseverance and my sober academician life--found here by teachers not certified to imagine I've indulged in assignation. W/books called The Set Table and and its objective performed in The Tablecloth, menus are useless, just eat the sabbath's meal-- a sabbath in history, one's Retreat. Albeit the sweet ordeal of a day's entirety in a glance known in its pregnant surfac-ing is a short retreat; to cultivate it makes appetite sated not by the courage for want of victory, but victory over appetite, to be skillful (they say devoted, disciplined.). Numerologist Mendlebrot saw the need to develop formulas for irregularity -- his symbolic excelsior was the amoebic image called G^d's thumb print. Just as when reading Kerouac--particularly a dream with his repose in a chair having died there a 1000 deaths, what he has collude in the hero's path is the observer in ambulations: something like, big floats take notice. Down by a river, self-simulation keeps the alliterative fundamental, because in echolalia - life's fount mutual arises with reckoned lives led till reduced unto simplicity...it is just our world giving a niche for dream within a dream within a dream.
^^My grandma (Bubby) was from the same town as Madame Blavatskii--Ekatrinaslav, Ukraine. The town is been called something else since WW11. Blavatskii set up Jidda K. to be head of the Theosophical Society, of which he would not remain the head: Truth is a Pathless Land. My man--here, that I work with--used to sit before Krishnamurti and take in the discussions... In an attempt to tie myself within 6 degrees (looking back w/ 20-20 vision), I had written down a region name that caught my interest, now yrs ago, in Blavatskii's Esoteric/Exoteric Writings, is a place called Andrapradesh. Carved it in stone while laughing inside at the motive-that-sifted thru my grasp and was denied except for the conscious/physical map appropriated. Turns out Jidda was from there--and my friend here makes the labor of letter permutations in analytical meditation (whose suggestion I heed from Dalai Lama's discussions) seem kaleidoscopic and up to the moment--real imminence!!! A certain kind of theoria began to appreciate with my reading of her Self-Actualization writ--and I plan on those moments to convulse in thresholds in the world-to-come, in my pharonic chamber when all language is threaded into the garment of phenomenal existence. Old bodies are shed like weary veils, new bodies are donned like new garments.
**The primitives believed in Incarnations--reincarnations, but it was not a project into their future worth. Incarnations just as the media of conventional representations--animals and people, skies and rivers bisecting the earth: these things were immediate and demonstrated thru nurture of a kind that makes us call Fractal Patterns now the flame-substance of life, in all its strangeness an agency of Life's Creative sense of an Absolute. So when karma's principles has supplicants note death as handily as regret over moral compass some god demurred as his cause a priori (our fate)--we know then that instead of locked in this material world, it became the desire and folly of man to also live thru restraint in spiritual endeavor--as in the problem w/your compassion causing violence, Tolstoy essays. Hinduism developed, or rather devolved, to allow the devoted to complicate his/her life w/competition to assumed time elements... "IT soon come!!" can't be decried, it is the manifest and revolution of spirit to see the Material Void represented by conscious satellites, soft machines, & sensual bodies .
** I see Dylan in some unfurnished apartment, or taken in by someone, but solitarian occasions where the cognitive yields to the towering obsolete & it's just him & a book on the table (almost a typical scenario). He is calling himself something in the vast immediacy just to turn to his potential to see thru what he can never ally himself with, power. I'm reminded of the image of an old mendicant (wandering ascetic), in this case a Jew (*certainly Dylan's life with grandmother made him the beggardly student-of-life--I take Chagall's Smoking Jew representing), and he comes to a small room in this ghetto, or tucked away village restricted from the rest of the region. To be free from the Powers-that-Be means at first to seek out the thousand deaths he maintained only to find, in his world the even more grave conceptuality of the Bible, or Book of Ethics--Talmud--more grave than anything the authority could do to him (in his mind). So he sits in a shtibel (study room) the open book swells his head with forced thoughts, "he" is across the room and the distance is a maze of gravid time resisted now forever 'til then. And all he can know is a Seperateness called Kodesh/holy. Dylan seems to claim loyalties, calling himself "a Zionist for life," but again the world is out of balance & we are still younger than yesterday--think history & antecedents we jump from in that liminal box!! The history of G-d is replete with a context of only one conversation with the Infinite that mattered. G-d said, "Hey?" & man said, "I AM (present)."
Monday, March 21, 2011
Sight: seen!
**My favorite dream in recent times is sorta a head above head look upon an astrolabe, like I was looking over my own shoulder. The astrolabe would rotate of its own volition. But if it was under my control (I just couldn't feel my hands' dexterity) then therein lies the strange phenomena of time passing with memoria expunged--nothing personal to measure; and my Free-will (voluntas) - that very awareness like pillars of consciousness collapsing because of the immensity of the staged affect from seeing moon arc and go down, then the sun glimmering somewhat like a deflated winter's sun...its light more approachable, but its remoteness denying its imminence. Over & over witnessing day in day out and crowding fluid feelings of my sense of being in a pocket of time: gut bucket weekdays, and plateau weekend in weird sabbatical reckonings--any and all pilgrimages in time like end of year, end of decade, end of any and all dispensational sensitivity...
^^^Subject: canopy vandalizes the ground with polygons
In an oak-riddled dialect with empty neighborhood:
The place my "head made-strong" was in lighted fields, aeries of light embankments--all slightly above me--being drawn up. I thought of deliberative bird song, tastes in my mouth--mantra breath, but no utterance to resume the dialect except for my drumming patter on a 12" Pearl cunga. In the garage door threshold one-drop speaking with my hands, then I lean to one side on my lawn chair, my head consoled by a gesture I see of Madame Blavatskii, her Esoteric & Exoteric Writings. Just how she has her fist as hammer quill to penetrate the frozen sea within, the very tabula rasa I was raising my eyes to...her hand holds sanctuary in a grip of something conceptual, tightness 'pon the head, her temple is grasped, theoria of my Fire brow, rebel stopping the fighting--the two threads of a horizon, white thread dark thread tethers me to anything propitiated in the fat soul of plenty!!
****Look at that adept tongue of Stevie Wonder. His music comes and my attention picks up, and then I'm brought to some equinox to meet & greet the strangely staged delivery. His delivery has language acuity--creative, but the discipline in this articulation say as compared to Farakhan has it established that the Mendicant (=Farakhan, for argument purposes) isn't anymore rife with self-profession than the (predominant) rosy colored mourn and soul of "black riddim bubble bouncing," & "black magic record speaking" (*Linton Kwesi Johnson &*Lee Perry respectively) we adduce in rock-steady and blue beat and rhythm & blues. Louis Farakhan--Nation of Islam preacher, shows something sustained in the valley of tongues which accords with the numinous, and yet shows only an existential valence--and certain colors as in an artist's cause is entirely a conflagration of language awash yet upon way different shores to receive...
****IT is all bunk to think that reading the tea leaves, or chicken innards or the trajectory of celestial bodies--tho' eminent, spectacular, and psychosomatic in the sense that IT may be helpful, has any true rational effect on the individual. Our consciousness construes our influences, our influences don't contrue US that advances evidence the Outward fact conspires for benefit or anything else. I'm deriving this from having listened to Richard Dawkins yesterday--a true breath of fresh air. This Thinker really is NOT ascerbic--he genuinely wants people to be critically aware.
**Miracles betray the last thing empirical that were the victuals of ascension. On & on to devise a dialect with moon soaked eyes, only in the valley of tongues - her taste, at my feast I'm donning plates to consume her providence. The angle bespeaks ocean's volumne of what lights the night...this blue slumber awake. Maimonides principle of Incorporeality to take a stand that Eternity is foundational & not this creation which ushers impermanence to the visage of likenesses, & revenue that beginnings are misunderstood dispensations we can't tear from antediluvian thick-with-it yawn of estates and skies. Unity is essense lept out of conscious satellites--like glowering cars dividing destinations from imminent suburban homes to fade away junctures up in blue pleroma arced from tree architecture comporting til our grasp graspes.
^^Maimon--the name is also the same word Muslims are more likely noted as in the Koran--was the Jewish theologian 800yrs ago defining Jewish ideal as reason. The Love for G-d was not a biblacy exposition, has Theoria & Meditation as man's ends (al-ghaya al-insaniyyah), so prayer & ritual is the impulse... devotion & meaning in being Present. One doesn't believe in the Absolute because there are no questions in mind! Reason Is--yet an Unknown with solitarian validity for you, isn't answer enough in resigning exile from self unto destiny, but rather being a proponet of fate's middling. This "mean" without our demur makes convention less general and shows one the Light in Night.
**In my green youth I just was found wonting--in the trough of sinewy thought what all it meant 'pon anxious cries of its reception was something I couldn't wait for. That weight in a pallet, that wait for mysteries leaving queries for anything coveting things I threw against sensual mind shores. No option to imagine myself in incidious gray days and only succumb to that. Gray mts in a Yugoslavian backdrop, looked bluer more usually til projecting forward was the imminent mt's release of you... Gray frozen ocean within, as Kafka would have it, contents halophilic, elements of its attribute to roil--blood, ebbs at the last step temporally. Complicating its liquid report... splurb, riddim, bouncing, a breath outside, aeries in the shelf-stow of its funky porridge.
Subject: blue monday people & I know there are a few
Winston Rodney (Burning Spear) lyricked IT is DRY & HEaVY... IT IT IT... and we must pull IT, like Jah's heavy load, like the Train on a collision course with the fate of a long distance journey!! The wet paint, an impressionable self is always a sense, for me, when I feel what I am being impacted with what is inopportune... Sly lyricked "If you feel it pulling back, you are going strong." Sometimes the ECLIPSE of some sense of being quite in league with an Other--for me, my brother--gets the empirical outward fact stated so BRIEFLY that I don't know any longer what it is I should grapple with, what it is I throw in with. I wondered about the line, satta massagana, in Jamaican patois... In Rockers--the Rasta movie, at one point some dude is indicated that he's "satta massagana": withal the subterfuge (w/o relying on my-own moral compass) of ghetto-ology shows this young blood sitting on the side-lines of even the minutiae of slackening-vocations from his fellow ghetto denizens, precisely his sitting-unannounced WAS what I call a denouement of something authorial. The guy is barely communicating a nod of support of some norm--and that ephemeral nod he catches from the pity of the protagonist is like he the uber-mensch is barely in line ahead of his submissive--this mon unreconciled with the give & take of goods & services . This man is THAT man, is I & I content with an imaginative narrative, the very thoughts feelings and actions as allegory to man's ends in Higher Ground.
^^^Subject: canopy vandalizes the ground with polygons
In an oak-riddled dialect with empty neighborhood:
The place my "head made-strong" was in lighted fields, aeries of light embankments--all slightly above me--being drawn up. I thought of deliberative bird song, tastes in my mouth--mantra breath, but no utterance to resume the dialect except for my drumming patter on a 12" Pearl cunga. In the garage door threshold one-drop speaking with my hands, then I lean to one side on my lawn chair, my head consoled by a gesture I see of Madame Blavatskii, her Esoteric & Exoteric Writings. Just how she has her fist as hammer quill to penetrate the frozen sea within, the very tabula rasa I was raising my eyes to...her hand holds sanctuary in a grip of something conceptual, tightness 'pon the head, her temple is grasped, theoria of my Fire brow, rebel stopping the fighting--the two threads of a horizon, white thread dark thread tethers me to anything propitiated in the fat soul of plenty!!
****Look at that adept tongue of Stevie Wonder. His music comes and my attention picks up, and then I'm brought to some equinox to meet & greet the strangely staged delivery. His delivery has language acuity--creative, but the discipline in this articulation say as compared to Farakhan has it established that the Mendicant (=Farakhan, for argument purposes) isn't anymore rife with self-profession than the (predominant) rosy colored mourn and soul of "black riddim bubble bouncing," & "black magic record speaking" (*Linton Kwesi Johnson &*Lee Perry respectively) we adduce in rock-steady and blue beat and rhythm & blues. Louis Farakhan--Nation of Islam preacher, shows something sustained in the valley of tongues which accords with the numinous, and yet shows only an existential valence--and certain colors as in an artist's cause is entirely a conflagration of language awash yet upon way different shores to receive...
****IT is all bunk to think that reading the tea leaves, or chicken innards or the trajectory of celestial bodies--tho' eminent, spectacular, and psychosomatic in the sense that IT may be helpful, has any true rational effect on the individual. Our consciousness construes our influences, our influences don't contrue US that advances evidence the Outward fact conspires for benefit or anything else. I'm deriving this from having listened to Richard Dawkins yesterday--a true breath of fresh air. This Thinker really is NOT ascerbic--he genuinely wants people to be critically aware.
**Miracles betray the last thing empirical that were the victuals of ascension. On & on to devise a dialect with moon soaked eyes, only in the valley of tongues - her taste, at my feast I'm donning plates to consume her providence. The angle bespeaks ocean's volumne of what lights the night...this blue slumber awake. Maimonides principle of Incorporeality to take a stand that Eternity is foundational & not this creation which ushers impermanence to the visage of likenesses, & revenue that beginnings are misunderstood dispensations we can't tear from antediluvian thick-with-it yawn of estates and skies. Unity is essense lept out of conscious satellites--like glowering cars dividing destinations from imminent suburban homes to fade away junctures up in blue pleroma arced from tree architecture comporting til our grasp graspes.
^^Maimon--the name is also the same word Muslims are more likely noted as in the Koran--was the Jewish theologian 800yrs ago defining Jewish ideal as reason. The Love for G-d was not a biblacy exposition, has Theoria & Meditation as man's ends (al-ghaya al-insaniyyah), so prayer & ritual is the impulse... devotion & meaning in being Present. One doesn't believe in the Absolute because there are no questions in mind! Reason Is--yet an Unknown with solitarian validity for you, isn't answer enough in resigning exile from self unto destiny, but rather being a proponet of fate's middling. This "mean" without our demur makes convention less general and shows one the Light in Night.
**In my green youth I just was found wonting--in the trough of sinewy thought what all it meant 'pon anxious cries of its reception was something I couldn't wait for. That weight in a pallet, that wait for mysteries leaving queries for anything coveting things I threw against sensual mind shores. No option to imagine myself in incidious gray days and only succumb to that. Gray mts in a Yugoslavian backdrop, looked bluer more usually til projecting forward was the imminent mt's release of you... Gray frozen ocean within, as Kafka would have it, contents halophilic, elements of its attribute to roil--blood, ebbs at the last step temporally. Complicating its liquid report... splurb, riddim, bouncing, a breath outside, aeries in the shelf-stow of its funky porridge.
Subject: blue monday people & I know there are a few
Winston Rodney (Burning Spear) lyricked IT is DRY & HEaVY... IT IT IT... and we must pull IT, like Jah's heavy load, like the Train on a collision course with the fate of a long distance journey!! The wet paint, an impressionable self is always a sense, for me, when I feel what I am being impacted with what is inopportune... Sly lyricked "If you feel it pulling back, you are going strong." Sometimes the ECLIPSE of some sense of being quite in league with an Other--for me, my brother--gets the empirical outward fact stated so BRIEFLY that I don't know any longer what it is I should grapple with, what it is I throw in with. I wondered about the line, satta massagana, in Jamaican patois... In Rockers--the Rasta movie, at one point some dude is indicated that he's "satta massagana": withal the subterfuge (w/o relying on my-own moral compass) of ghetto-ology shows this young blood sitting on the side-lines of even the minutiae of slackening-vocations from his fellow ghetto denizens, precisely his sitting-unannounced WAS what I call a denouement of something authorial. The guy is barely communicating a nod of support of some norm--and that ephemeral nod he catches from the pity of the protagonist is like he the uber-mensch is barely in line ahead of his submissive--this mon unreconciled with the give & take of goods & services . This man is THAT man, is I & I content with an imaginative narrative, the very thoughts feelings and actions as allegory to man's ends in Higher Ground.
Monday, March 14, 2011
The Purity of Soul's Release--would be in the temporal!!
^^PlEAse--*something anything motivate me; my motivation is observable in a surfeit of self-duty IN MIND, not actionably! So, I really really give a damn, and I know just that modicum of the vocabulary of self-adulation, but the very real truth that mostly nothing IS in fact that dear to me, and is not in my control stammers my project of self-worth... In the morning, at dawn I am on the street out in front of my house, hoofing it a few dozen paces over here to the shop, and donut days. All around reflections from head-lights, or light posts engaged and clarifying, makes the greetings of friends in time & in place--across distances, and thru the maya of dream-scapes in their wakening eclipse, strangely a stand tall and be counted few moments, pulling me up and making my trunk seem rooted again, make things seem like the ends-of-man in primary conditions stain the only pocket of the day's tally when all things truly are possible.
^^Before huge windows--about the 3rd floor at the Lex Downtown Library, looking out toward Main St. I'm sitting scanning embowering from the prism of ideation w/meditation portents viewable in the sly look of some Buddhist practitioner. He looks way out--in the serene context captured in this Indian Artbook--seized as upon the distance & simultaneity, his Forward-I Revolution is definitely behind the sincere homunculus mask, translator-face ...translating unknown primordial first thoughts!! In gradations I'm here at the pivot: his ebb like the ground at his feet is gathering throngs of gem shaped leaves, but (this place) wholly possessed by him since my floe denies his distance-covered in sharp-eyed veils LIFTED to demonstrate what is equally assumed--that his eyes are eased into looks closer to something cosmic and within me within him--just a glance toward the journey Inside! World-view is not actual, it is instead political and manipulation of them asses, can't be cultivated, bares not fruit, a consciousness leaden but emergent from the Material Void, stagnates the promise of inner-journeys strung... Light like a feather as if he has wings-- and concommitantly, if you have legs, you know you are on the Ground--are good aphorisms for taking my leave from unredemptive world's demise expectorated from Media -- all but fiction, all truth but none of it prone to my interests!!
-----IT is my attempt only to have someone imagine themselves as BEfore the big windows at the library--wide open pleroma, the spirit of the blue dome giving me up to urban supra-mundane...
Now, please, I am not trying get past people's usual vernacular--but there are a couple of points of entry. Just imagine a Buddha whose face is either strongly at attention--really taking in a sense of vastness; Or a Buddha who appears to be looking way deep behind his/her serene austere mask of Compassion... Are we inner journeying, or are we Moving into Relationship i.e. consciousness that is without!??
^^It seems really obvious that since the mind demands order--and is frontier bound due to it, that even the confusions and complexities we deal with will get adroitly placed into stocked shelves, libraries of thought furniture, and this is all a presumption of the Supra-Mundane Laws of the Proofs of Being: LAWS. My friend--the archeologist, gave me a definition sounding much like a Greek version, and etymological bearing of my last name, Lakes. Legas (and lagos is lakes in Spanish). But the name is quite like the word for Law. I had a conversation/seance few moments w/our mutual friend the night before, I said, If only I could begin again to dream all that litigical self-assertion, and threshold mythos that of expectations as hotly sincere...!! Certainly martyred language, what we call ourselves, what it feels like to have the mummer of self-referencial thrum of silent intervals in mantra's comforts is Illegal, but Permitted....and is the best way to sanction doing whatever we want with the book of rules in our season's thought event!!
^^The purchase of that jingle jangle morning paid for thru a life surfaced of all my changes, is Resources namely like money ina pocket...and still money me a bloodclot. Glad I could spend all the existential worth: I'm here withal, a new dawn. But why ask the angels if you are starting to bleed, if bleeding me was done to save my life? JUST wake up--Ok I submit. Feeling like mind is a cumbersome 3 oranges, 1rst pacing in someplace abbreviated, then throttling their splendor across my pillow, past my head pulling the "ancient rosy colors behind my eyelids" *Kerouac, to their fate and onto dolomite-florid tile floors. I spent valuable salutory days and I can't go back. Meanwhile to quote Elias Khoury *Palestinian author I register, " I can't get the sad man to stand up in my eyes."
^^My good man at work--he used to sit in intimate park crowds and listen to Krishnamurti. In time, maybe unsettled throes corrupting sublime notions makes sowing active orthopraxy get him to the fray Unchecked now. Iconclast nicely iced anarchism leaves supreme doors just vacuous. Still, at least anyone can say therein lies the intermediary: this or that observer--in the vacous. I know its dross of mind to court certain audition impulses, but to be true to anything we can say - & every word viable stabled irreducible - the worst sense can only be the smote day of language concommitant w/ vain 2 dimensional proxy deserted road... Not just why do I have to divulge the decisor, but who am I to swallow Folly-Wholly of the unparturitioned horizon.
^^The Anointed, take your pick (Avalokiteshvara--an incarnation of Compassion, object of Attention--lyrical ever+astute, promiser Enough of Becoming outside of self), was a fisher of men=the ole soul distinguished in giving back the prodigy of self-possession. The purity of the soul is oft-physical & actionable, more usually when noted in Biblacy. It's called *salah al-nafs*--the physical soul. In Aramaic, our language bridge from Semitic language to Indo-European, has this letter in nafs, the nun an N which does mean "fish." The telling of Hasidic lore thru antecedents - folk mysterion (propitiation), way more liberating in time's yawn, hopes down from up above TO the fish whose soul likely cannot incarnate. Jesus is a Fisher of Man. Salah recognize as Selah, rt ! eternity ! FORever ! but ask a Saudi what Liberation of the Soul, salah al-nafs means in context of the Liberation of the Body (that done in Being Amongst--part of the herd; "social living is the best" says Winston Rodney--Burning Spear) called salah al-badan, he said this like clarity of the sensual body...just purity. The Saudi's word was Purity. (so I think) Perfection. As at once time place community--I & I & I. Reconciled that we are the first out the door, and at the peak of empirical Shores.
^^SPOKE WITH A FELLOW from Eritrea. Sometimes the auspices of that quality of "otherness" is rather encumbering, acquistive in my composure because of how my thought language adduces the hole I'm down in. Rather than the freed up existential ...throes I am impelled through, I am prone and almost impacted by the "strange"... AND enduring less of the common aeries of free association. Notice the passport functionaries of folks and one would see when he or she must resign themselves to our loss of face: the translator face of human awakenings, is quite looking back in the mind's breeding consoling healing, but without the attributable conscious prop. Stealthy I gather of him, he imagines not much is going on--whereas the fruits of hearing is the purchase of a silent nod East and a heart dub of Africa's utility of the bridge toward awareness... No doubt his biological demeanor is a radical survival and victory as opposed to more or less convalescence I & I was steered through in my incarnations and channels from my ancestry. Humility is the only answer to most of an irreconcilable potential!!!
^^Before huge windows--about the 3rd floor at the Lex Downtown Library, looking out toward Main St. I'm sitting scanning embowering from the prism of ideation w/meditation portents viewable in the sly look of some Buddhist practitioner. He looks way out--in the serene context captured in this Indian Artbook--seized as upon the distance & simultaneity, his Forward-I Revolution is definitely behind the sincere homunculus mask, translator-face ...translating unknown primordial first thoughts!! In gradations I'm here at the pivot: his ebb like the ground at his feet is gathering throngs of gem shaped leaves, but (this place) wholly possessed by him since my floe denies his distance-covered in sharp-eyed veils LIFTED to demonstrate what is equally assumed--that his eyes are eased into looks closer to something cosmic and within me within him--just a glance toward the journey Inside! World-view is not actual, it is instead political and manipulation of them asses, can't be cultivated, bares not fruit, a consciousness leaden but emergent from the Material Void, stagnates the promise of inner-journeys strung... Light like a feather as if he has wings-- and concommitantly, if you have legs, you know you are on the Ground--are good aphorisms for taking my leave from unredemptive world's demise expectorated from Media -- all but fiction, all truth but none of it prone to my interests!!
-----IT is my attempt only to have someone imagine themselves as BEfore the big windows at the library--wide open pleroma, the spirit of the blue dome giving me up to urban supra-mundane...
Now, please, I am not trying get past people's usual vernacular--but there are a couple of points of entry. Just imagine a Buddha whose face is either strongly at attention--really taking in a sense of vastness; Or a Buddha who appears to be looking way deep behind his/her serene austere mask of Compassion... Are we inner journeying, or are we Moving into Relationship i.e. consciousness that is without!??
^^It seems really obvious that since the mind demands order--and is frontier bound due to it, that even the confusions and complexities we deal with will get adroitly placed into stocked shelves, libraries of thought furniture, and this is all a presumption of the Supra-Mundane Laws of the Proofs of Being: LAWS. My friend--the archeologist, gave me a definition sounding much like a Greek version, and etymological bearing of my last name, Lakes. Legas (and lagos is lakes in Spanish). But the name is quite like the word for Law. I had a conversation/seance few moments w/our mutual friend the night before, I said, If only I could begin again to dream all that litigical self-assertion, and threshold mythos that of expectations as hotly sincere...!! Certainly martyred language, what we call ourselves, what it feels like to have the mummer of self-referencial thrum of silent intervals in mantra's comforts is Illegal, but Permitted....and is the best way to sanction doing whatever we want with the book of rules in our season's thought event!!
^^The purchase of that jingle jangle morning paid for thru a life surfaced of all my changes, is Resources namely like money ina pocket...and still money me a bloodclot. Glad I could spend all the existential worth: I'm here withal, a new dawn. But why ask the angels if you are starting to bleed, if bleeding me was done to save my life? JUST wake up--Ok I submit. Feeling like mind is a cumbersome 3 oranges, 1rst pacing in someplace abbreviated, then throttling their splendor across my pillow, past my head pulling the "ancient rosy colors behind my eyelids" *Kerouac, to their fate and onto dolomite-florid tile floors. I spent valuable salutory days and I can't go back. Meanwhile to quote Elias Khoury *Palestinian author I register, " I can't get the sad man to stand up in my eyes."
^^My good man at work--he used to sit in intimate park crowds and listen to Krishnamurti. In time, maybe unsettled throes corrupting sublime notions makes sowing active orthopraxy get him to the fray Unchecked now. Iconclast nicely iced anarchism leaves supreme doors just vacuous. Still, at least anyone can say therein lies the intermediary: this or that observer--in the vacous. I know its dross of mind to court certain audition impulses, but to be true to anything we can say - & every word viable stabled irreducible - the worst sense can only be the smote day of language concommitant w/ vain 2 dimensional proxy deserted road... Not just why do I have to divulge the decisor, but who am I to swallow Folly-Wholly of the unparturitioned horizon.
^^The Anointed, take your pick (Avalokiteshvara--an incarnation of Compassion, object of Attention--lyrical ever+astute, promiser Enough of Becoming outside of self), was a fisher of men=the ole soul distinguished in giving back the prodigy of self-possession. The purity of the soul is oft-physical & actionable, more usually when noted in Biblacy. It's called *salah al-nafs*--the physical soul. In Aramaic, our language bridge from Semitic language to Indo-European, has this letter in nafs, the nun an N which does mean "fish." The telling of Hasidic lore thru antecedents - folk mysterion (propitiation), way more liberating in time's yawn, hopes down from up above TO the fish whose soul likely cannot incarnate. Jesus is a Fisher of Man. Salah recognize as Selah, rt ! eternity ! FORever ! but ask a Saudi what Liberation of the Soul, salah al-nafs means in context of the Liberation of the Body (that done in Being Amongst--part of the herd; "social living is the best" says Winston Rodney--Burning Spear) called salah al-badan, he said this like clarity of the sensual body...just purity. The Saudi's word was Purity. (so I think) Perfection. As at once time place community--I & I & I. Reconciled that we are the first out the door, and at the peak of empirical Shores.
^^SPOKE WITH A FELLOW from Eritrea. Sometimes the auspices of that quality of "otherness" is rather encumbering, acquistive in my composure because of how my thought language adduces the hole I'm down in. Rather than the freed up existential ...throes I am impelled through, I am prone and almost impacted by the "strange"... AND enduring less of the common aeries of free association. Notice the passport functionaries of folks and one would see when he or she must resign themselves to our loss of face: the translator face of human awakenings, is quite looking back in the mind's breeding consoling healing, but without the attributable conscious prop. Stealthy I gather of him, he imagines not much is going on--whereas the fruits of hearing is the purchase of a silent nod East and a heart dub of Africa's utility of the bridge toward awareness... No doubt his biological demeanor is a radical survival and victory as opposed to more or less convalescence I & I was steered through in my incarnations and channels from my ancestry. Humility is the only answer to most of an irreconcilable potential!!!
Friday, March 04, 2011
Pacing myself like I live next to a river, No water can put this Fire out
**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.
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.
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.
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