ALL my THEISM is an AS IF!!

In the Synagogue back as a young person, I'd commence toward creative moments, geometric ploys in an understanding that the walls & halls of the synagogue--Ohavay Zion, the Lovers of Zion, had perimeters I was not opting to go beyond. I knew what it felt like in strange environs, to want to get beyond thresholds, & a house of worship is a reprieve from the frenetic world because it blankets our coveting externalities/ dims our alighting toward the material reality. I could look down the corridor of classrooms & the walls & floor seemed to bend in a circumambulation around gravid G-d thoughts. When else was I ever so mindful of an I & Thou scenario, or Greater Being? I can narrow it down to a breath. The arbor had a secular manifold--unshakeable, because Lexington can be tasted in the domains of the outdoors away from mysterious ritual/ nothing mysterious about play--in reality a stamp of liberty in childhood certainty of the skies above, leaves us off without placating Abraham Our Father, a consort of G-d... naturally we were designed to digest absolutes (in this subjective way--is that possible?), & no authority beyond those reaches had us absorb epicurean sensitivity to the outside world. **I borrowed this idea of geometry as a portal to a creative mind from the Islamic instance; it applies--Peace!!

RASKOLNIKOV via my underground

I felt sensitive, like all the incidental sounds arriving cut through me like a wooden bat swung against a leather couch. Someone showed up... as I neared the convalescence of hermit-like existence, finding opportunity in it. Why haven't you done anything today? were the words unmistakeable w/out movement in his guffaw, but drawing me out to the color blue, my floor, which I had only seen as black & white 'til then. I had an architecture drawing table, a cheap one, in the middle of my small room. & he slammed some piece of industrial metal, I found out in the garage, on its corner & broke a piece off. I felt it was a fist's report across my face. I see what Jimmy meant by saying the lights turn blue tomorrow: my eyes only looked inward, felt glazey, & I made the outward fact a center whose perimeter was infinite--I just looked like I haunted myself. I drew little abstract images on a journal then, felt rushed like each idea was kindling my intensity to prevent a fading away. There was a fire in my brain, but my cup runneth over w/loss, & time was being broadcasted from everything I railed against. To compound those "images" I read distinguished Flavius Josephus histories as if this book proffered the concolor of my effort with "road"signs, only I could read, & would make this strife personal & not derivative. The signs or symbols were the archaic projection of this 19th century book translated from the original Greek, & somehow still embossed with a truth from an ancient time, while defeating the relevance of immediacy. I took it out towards the airport, into a cornfield, sitting in the autumnal cool, the sun still high above, I needed space. I G-d damned my life in those moments--I g-d damned the lack of portals into the mundane awakenings I expected just through heated conditions of forced thought scenarios. I needed to taste shapes & to hear colors. the Muse:"Doest thou love the fog?" the Self: "I fear it!" the Muse: "If you fear it, you hate it..., if you hate it, you LOVE it!" (Evgenii Zamyatin)

Lay My Hands across the BURNING Sands

You know that limb we are taken to from reading? The passive exertion leaving our minds to contend w/ a more meditative "hold" or contraction from all the elemental residual torpor our day usually embellishes into our psyche, creates a darkened corridor into which we are no longer content to trod. I see the "gravitation" draw into the confines of that little center of contention, but now I wonder about being in the throes of that blanked out space, now I won't dismiss it, now I want all my space back. (Instead of being backed in a corner from moving around conceptually, & then staying there, I want to consume space.) I begin to scurry across images of the book, in a precise alluding towards my take on the author's intent. I begin to project motive like this--a little logical flurrying to get ahead in the book, making information now to seem more accessible. We may assume the fancy to maintain an interest, but actually indentifying having gotten lifted solidly, & becoming that movement, one becomes incredulous at the adaptive mind. And that is a prone moment, readied & established. I want something like a half-thought, so I won't answer back, then it's on me--the thing that I am a cause-apparition on the burning dunes. Is this an explanate reality enough? I know it is analytical, but really it is a simple idea!!

The man who fell to EARTH

Sometimes I feel like the man who fell to earth. Everything I can say or do is exceptionally homeward. If I think I have a link of reprisal to what is happening to me, it only spurs me on (sometimes) making me resolved to it--solutioned. Nothing to be helped. In Israel, in Petah Tikvah, I was staying with a Sefardic family (non-European, Iraqi-Morrocan in fact), very modern convenient situation. And to get out one afternoon to stretch my legs, maybe walk down to the beach was a way of LOOSING a BORN feeling of walking the PROUD land. (As opposed to a reasoned, weathered appeasement that hill & dale was gainful in my intensity toward it.) I got down the street & felt overcome w/thresholds & loss. Had I gone further, it was plain to me in those few moments I would have been lost & helpless to find my way back--Mediterranean neighborhood in all its modernity; I was desperate to rebound from the little sandy path leading me towards the unknown back to the apt. block & condo where they lived=homeward, no other choice. At this moment I felt like I had stretched to the limits of a starry cosmos, but a thousand points of lights (excuse the origin of those last words, seriously..., I read the same thing in "The Jew in the Lotus.") had me gathered all along with no way to get outside the box!! This is wholly symbolic of the Brahmanic reality, where there is nothing outside the known, & to think yourself outside the box leaves what is manifest only that much more the goal of what you seek. We are Positivists.

ATZ chaim OR da'ath/ the tree of life OR knowledge

This morning I have conceptualized time, which is always a good sign. It has to do with the quantity of input as greater than the expiating of what I have read. I like lying fallow, at least if I can keep this pattern in mind. As ideas come up in this book that would suggest a familiarity with the environs of Jerusalem (yes), I go to these images instead, as if I know... which the consummate effect of having been there is one thing, but looking into those images without that advantage is basically the same--it's all the immediacy of my bubble of experience, as that is just what IS before me. I know better than to spread the thick sedative of god images into an intercessing human reality, though the eschatological psychology has gone the way of cosmic man, rather than a Church, or Mecca surrounding our fervor. I.e. I'd rather call it a tree, as perhaps the one where chaos & mercy mutually arise.

GIVE your more, to receive your LESS

Think about whence comes perspective. If it is the floor & dregs of consciousness, though the grounding affect is realistic--it would take one longer to find the equinox where shared experience emanates, that of light-heartedness which is middling, where most others (other people) can be found. Do we sacrifice this ambience? Life takes sensitivity to its game because everything we can say about it falls short, thus the impetus to embrace the floor of our sphere of influence (whatever we can do to penetrate the bubble of experience surrounding others)--It is all allegory, but we have one desire, to touch a nerve!! What about deciding on your angst as the thing that makes you emote: that is sometimes all that we are, a dot of angst. If we pry ourselves open & leave us vulnerable to this deficit in thought I'm talking about, we could fill up with loneliness. I want to be born each moment until I see people's heads rolling at my feet in hysteria, ecstatic hysteria!! Look at them full of themselves. There is nothing funnier than that. Pride made them look at you that way. Soon we will be completely objective about it.

A RECORDED event, static in the life of the ETERNAL mind

The possibilities of seeing more in the half-light, is enduring the third option of something in between consciousness & the sub-conscious. A fictive reality is as conclusive as a doctrine of truth, but rationalism is not the last thing the mind wallows in, in truth. Desire is all-knowing transparency, even if it is the desire to speak the truth--ego is nevertheless the order of the day. Truth on the ground for me, is in terms of relationship, of course, & that being the extenuating biblacy of Abraham of Ur (or Uruk) into the facts of my Grandfather--Abraham, his vibrating on (if only in my mind), & my cognizance of that. We're all maneuvering through a complacent life, gathering our waiting as if we'd have a greater belief in its trial. Looking at the white fire of concept purported on the open book, I begin to see lettering in intangible symbols, maybe Greek in the Origen or Philo Judaization. Something w/ progressive possibilities, yet almost 2000 yrs. old--& is old & new at once. Something seems to eclipse my bono vox, and becomes decisive as the vital revenue of self-actualization thru Zadie's (grandfather's) voice. So now I think, as if brought by cognitive forces & mysterions that he has been recorded in the life of the mind & ever will be.

Misr-Mizraim-Egypt

Timelessness goes up on trial in the abandoned synagogue of Fustat (Cairo), standing in there (unless our guide has lied, we could of been in some other ruins) with nothing to be seen. Brittle pasts, shards of consciousness leave me exhausting dust motes creeping out of the attic, at one time having contained genizah documents of the Jewish communities' of the last 800yrs, in Afro-Asia. Like stale consecrated bread (matzoh), aged asceticism is the same mourn, whether or not a more perfect history/utopia (to jump from) suffices in one's self-actualization, OR the fight is lost on us to carry the exploded tear of Job on those who'd wince at such empathy. It is all given up to the Most-I, the One who intercedes before I'm received in any confederate way to my peers--like a house maiden who slips a coaster under my hotter-bottle (which gets hotter each time it is reached for), so it can never actually reach the table. And when the tables are turned, I can't believe its just a diminutive me I'm looking at--or maybe a macro-me? A gazelle-attribute, as is applied in the West to actresses is apropos for the mottled-schemed worshippers & slaves on the walls of various after-life pharisaic digs: the Sun seemingly stifling the contours of the adherents with its radiance. The Sun of Akhenaton. ......there has been Talmudic claims as well as from the Qu'ran that Job was from Egypt, in the company of Balaam, the gentile prophet.

The SAHARA of confinement

Say we use the image, the lit projection of our imaginative faculty. as stark as a message we glean from a passing cloud, or conclusive as the Muslim madrassah students writing in the sand of Niger or Chad or Tunisia, to define the thing recitation illuminates. I reflected on the blue light coming in my window, NPR playing, sounds coming alive & dancing around on my floor before me in an alliterative resolve. I would think my gravid thoughts were distinguished from symbols like the patterns of vocal-capacity, communicating knowledge without an embellishing image, on one hand--and just thinking that the life extinguishing the constancy of the last few moments trolling away was me flipping through a life-book, ever advancing, on the other. I knew it was two things in brief interludes with the present. The floor in its exudation of shadows was my memoir, soon enough I'd get to a pen. On my new futon I'd lie down early unresponsive to a night ardor, but listening to a phone call up the stairs & in the kitchen between my Mother and Aunt. I would fill in the gaps--intervallic silence with a lexicon of peronal history, mostly though just with abstraction. This was more truthful communication than I could then do otherwise: I wanted to object to images, therein lay my confusion. (Now doing more with advancing waywardness had its rewards.) Meaning it was not my communique' that was going on, until I so decided. However, in the end books & images were my deliverance.

Walking the dog on a rebel rd.

The filter of lights through limbs is tendrils of thoughts bidden in & out of my eyes, like a fountainhead or saint to cover my back.
The most feeling I could ever covet thru relationship (the I & I perspective) is me & the trees.
Not because they are sentient-reflective as if my life is conjured, but because I am (sentient).
Though you have established the drama, whose actors (you & I) are destined to leave the script by & by for only brief moments, otherwise our finesse is left to that which cannot speak back to us, and in this silence is where we find self-actualization.
The gray of night, painted spiritually true, muffles the contours of trees making them black scaffolds, with flutters of wings playing tricks on us,
as if the architecture of vista-scape would be policed by lights shed only from activity we conceive in the natural day of interplay,
shadows obfuscated into the density of grasses, urban animals abound, including us, breathing the better air--our eyes have turned to plants!!

ASANA (position) to Pranayama--prana=breath, yama=prohibit

I have a poison head-ache but feel alright--it's like night time is contiguous w/ dark symbolic thoughts of construed mysterions/mystic identification. In the tension I get a body conscious sense like it corresponds to lucid moments when walls have come down around me--almost imperceptible at the moment, but I've committed it to a self-understanding. The sounds arrive from without & I have co-ordinate thoughts policed by torpor. Torpor constructive as full-up senses yield to it from prohibitive breathing. It is all compassion and an appeal to the desire for my reckoning, however it may come. No hope. Only a stretch of path, made plain as if the Metatron drags my carcass to Higher Ground: Metatron proscribes & manifests the Greater Will--think Thoth in terms of Will.
For a story in truth see "Bug day... (gloom chic)." -- the March entry

Shem/JAPHET & their issuance

If time spent from point A., people in conversation around me w/ interests varying about Semitic studies, to point B., now when I entertain these ideas & unfortunately exposed to a bookish sensitivity to it--then there is a vessel with a kind of transient content in it from which is poured into an awaiting paradigm: the things of my experience, making them representative of this interest. (Though I can construct very little else to give me a basis of more of the same.) *** You know I get used to seeing some of the same ideas! al-Lah, as in El; Sanskrit as being the Hindu divine language--Greek & Latin, supposedly not reaching that level--(but why? just because of the vibe of self-actualization Hindi imparts??) Hebrew & Arabic do reach that level. Arabicized ideal of the Unapproachable, suggesting a similarity to our (Jewish) view, but lacking the collusion the Jewish ONe emotes of suffering as we know it. Other stuff stands out like I have been dropped in a foreseen plan. And if you link yourself by saying there is reason enough to know, then that is a broad step towards erudition.

RED river GORGE--HERE IN KY.

Deftly upon a rock I sit down on my haunches without using my hands, a couple of miles into a trail at the Gorge, by myself. I am matriculating with buzzing noise--a noise I always waned at my control at its emanation. I have a peanut-butter sandwich with me, which I eat though I am w/out any hunger to drive away. Up on Coomer's Ridge the forest floor descends before and after on either of its sides of its more determined peak, at the center. I am at the after part. Kerouac's Big Sur is my companion, & only if, if I could close the circle as to why the enclosing woods stands between me & its rescuing peace, I'd get a glance at omniscience--the bloodsport of meditation Kerouac leaves off unrealized by him & absorbed by us, his confidante. His wilderness is a tabernacle of loss; this sound pulsing in my ear gives to me my ineffective solitude, warranted in achieving pace wandering in Daniel Boone's woods. Widening eyes is his descript wakened moment up on some mountain, out West, in another one of his books. The appearance of the eyes, we countenance because the bubble of experience then, made measured words sussing out our kith & kin & friends alike--& they all (those eyes) are before me, like him, readied-explanate, but going away in a breath. (One would have to seek the unresponsive self to understand, as in Big SUR. -or just assume!!)

HERBAL remedy

Over at Howie's, he & I smoked a legal substance, a kind of sage called Salvia divinorum. The only sage plant having hypnotic properties, though ours was standard, one could still get 10x, 20x, 40x, etc.
Lou Reed seems to call OUT the crowd, its intimate persona, by saying heads were rolling on the floor, making him resigned to affability or whatever. I think it is more his having served up his head, like on a plate to those present with a sign in his expression saying, "enter here." The lull due to the herb was moody, not final, not strong, but condusive to subtlety because the sitar music w/ Ry Cooder's country-blues accompaniment made me look to box-in the headiness, which I did & it was gone, except for a dull solitarian night-time thereafter. I'll listen to these ole guys, Dylanesque in vibe (admittedly not exactly like him), and my inner-voice sometimes rails for that activity, saying, "don't leave." I have come or gone at these moments, in an awakening--it's the same thing--I know it is a departure, from what though? Dyaln's wizened, lazy head from his profile (like on that one blue G. Hits album), hid from me the translator-face-- I knew I was being introduced to a master (speaking of adolescence) still would give me no propriety, but wonderment. But this was the talking-head as a placebo, only I could determine thence its expectant mood, I was the drug, now with the other one gone, flushed out--I'm placated with seeking his, or do I just gather the momentum of departure?

Time IS what we NEED

Say in one way reading flow of consciousness type descriptive writing means to you only what the author derives. That can take you as far as enthusiasm allows, but how ever long that is will not suffice. But then take a look around you! There is a measure of ULTIMATE restraint the formidable time & place leaves off diminishing any prescriptive illustration for which you'd want to gain expression. Restraint. Now one would have to break these bounds--& only by actively, mistakenly, & dryly w/ half thoughts proclaim: I AM. For instance, bridging the gap to give security in your disconnect due to your condition. We want unity, and equality is outside of us. (The embellishing psyche always prevails, equality is not a state of mind.) We are enough alike to believe in this illusion (of equality) that your compassion is motivated from the same principles as another. It seemed others held for me the condition of my asceticism: "the rosy-colored mourn of old women" (Kerouac) holding court in the synagogue, & I half expected living in a valley of tongues i.e. under the spell of Aaron's blessing, as he was the one unswayed by miraculous events in this life's report, perhaps in sounds-arriving which I would illustrate, & they collude in a half expected half vainly pursued theophany.---The NOISE of Language. Time & place is a very odd thing (think restraint, again), at a certain point we see people who no longer vibrate on, they may not even define a path for themselves: they fall behind the threshold of time, they become late. These people then yield to & confuse the time element w/ place. They appear in YOUR world as reflections of you, & as individuals (?) who cannot be commiserate with doors in the Unity of mind-space, which have now been blown open. I drove down a treed avenue, a young fellow seemed squeezed out of pain, & therefore come to a peninsula of averages, my reflecting upon-him. Not that one could not observe MORE benignly, but then Aaron was the face looking back at me, and I said to myself, "Aaron," a station I toe-hold just like when I had a paper-route in Cardinal Valley & I walked the streets dreaming-alive the boy asleep back at home with no clue that he'd only be projections of others & cease to make his own gravity. We are in fact all judged with the comprehension of a one-organism consciousness. A black couple now walking behind me, whose feet I noticed stirred nothing on the terra-cognita (my word), had just touched the earth (descending), where I waited with my plans to live up, to be beyond exploiting my body-temple as a tool--...simple animals don't behave like spiritless machines, or if we do we become wisps behind greater ephemeral & AWAKENED BEINGS whose places act as guiding stars, which puncture one's experience had we deigned to ignore its quality.

Concealment

hiddenreceived== apocrypha/kabbalah--now you know! Due to my concealment I am able to bury my heart in the earth of otherness...

UTOPIA is in the doing

Kerouac lying on his back at the edge of the clearing, with Mt. Hozomeen in the backdrop & Kerouac on the incline leading down the ridge, upon which sits his ranger station he occupied by himself for about 2 1/2 - 3 months---thinks about solvency to his struggle for Higher Ground / his cntr. that being accrued by ascendency of Avalokiteshvara laying his diamond hand upon his subject, so that he might think himself outside the box. ...as close as I could get to the skies shared with the ones blanketing Israel before my trip there was to begin, was having climbed out my second floor window, in the house I grew up in, onto the motor home, then to the roof of the house, & over to the porch where I'd sit beneath the tree hovering above its roof limiting the cool prevailing winds in the early morning hrs. As I looked through the limbs like windows out a door of perception, to that of a sky I could only wistfully conjecture at its delimited space temporally: I knew I had legs, and I felt I was on the ground, like B. Marley numinously prevails upon us.

Sitting on the Back porch steps

Reading "What is G-d?" --Karen Armstrong's book, left me off less concerned with any spiritual headway at first, though I wanted it. I wanted to be concerned. The ideation of worship doesn't cause offense in that I can't be mistaken for leaving my salvation at the foot of any church. Knowing we impugn the outward fact in our respective worlds, the object worthy of worship developed of its own momentum. The SUN is rife with adherents for this reason, so with circumspection I just assumed I should take it in therapeutically as if it would suffice only for obvious reasons, my dissipation. But why not immerse whenever, wherever into its fullness? Never identifying with it was never plain to me, just that it was our gravest resource and life-giver excused it from a life thriving in minutiae (namely mine), and beyond its healing. I'm managing from page to page in the book wanting to compliment the Ultimate Reality with a glance into the yard, or skyward, and then I get to an exegesis from a Sufi poem. Something with the SUN mentioned in it and I felt NOW, then, and if my thoughts were intervallic with a lesser attention as I get sometimes, this kind of formidable moment yields to a vastness, creating a story and always a pattern to get back to.

On the Backporch Steps

Reading "What is G-d?"--Karen Armstrong's book, left me off less concerned with any spiritual headway at first, though I wanted it. I wanted to be concerned. The ideation of worship doesn't cause any offense in that I can't be mistaken for leaving my salvation at the foot of any church. Knowing we impugn the outward fact in our respective worlds, the object worthy of worship developed of its own momentum. The SUN is rife w/ adherents for this reason, so with circumspection I just assumed I should take it in therapeutically as if it would suffice only for obvious reasons, my dissaption. But why not immerse whenever, wherever into its fullness? Never identifying with it was never plain to me, just that it was our gravest resource and life-giver excused it from a life thriving in minutiae (namely mine), & beyond its healing. I'm managing from page to page in the book wanting to compliment the Ultimate Reality with a glance into the yard, or skyward, and then I get to an exegesis from a Sufi poem. Something with the sun mentioned in it and I felt NOW, then, and if my thoughts were intervallic w/ a lesser attention as I get sometimes, this kind of formidable moment yields to a vastness, creating a story & always a pattern to get back to.
(The Gospel of Thomas found out in the Sinia desert, in some cave, I think, says look within, this is the light of the LOrd--whereas the Gospel that made it into the canon says, look to the church, this is the light of salvation... so remaining beyond the reaches of any church theological conflict, which, I'm suggesting here, WHY wouldn't we? then how can anyone doubt the relevence of pseudepigrapha, though of course one would not thusly call it such!!)

I'm cold Lampin' -- Glimmer on the lamp

I keep honing down to the light source at the end of the proverbial tunnel. Disregarding all reflections that tend to distract or worse like Dostoevskii, himself or his characters, find themselves at the bottom of a well (figuratively) more likely to grant the source of light, but losing expectation of ever joining it. If consciousness is a gem in a field of gems, say, at any one moment the sun illuminates them all with an equal refractory. But light is what sets off his mystical theophany. Couldn't this be as if rather than the sun the outward fact is just a flashlight's light and the refraction is begun by encumbering one gem, & therefore has limited affect on the rest? I'm exposed, posturing towards hope, something creeps up on me--a poison headache, or more solvent really than that, but I feel alright: like a bridge it's the physicality of knowing, corporeal, because the dot of angst is enough for me to pursue the heart of balancing you & what delivers me. In his books the protagonist may say at some point, "Now you know everything!" If we were to assume there is nothing outside of the known, we are in fact the story unfolding & his/her companion to whom the statement is made really is the model for expectation, & yet we lounge by the river of sight thru the eyes of the one divulged.