DANGLING man--I'm in PROGRESSION

The day unique to the freedom I've inherited, from whom I don't know, is distinguishable in a few old thoughts: the betterment of the general malaise around here. I think the eros of lies telling me I could PROVOKE my INTELLECT w/beauty, via androgyne, thus honor relationship with impulsivity, has everything to do with FREUD, though I can understand him only superficially: And of course what else should it take--we are driven to extremes in most emotions, but sorrow is largely, but evenly compromised. These guys? who said never police your own thoughts, left me unstaged as a youth, so I looked to postpone tangible successes of which "others" pretended to be so fond. I can think someone here & now, but why should I if they are only a step in the right direction. I grew weary of the thought, "I was on my way." No one could collaborate assessing my diminutive self, until what became relevant was static. And it was clear that there was no going back in time---there is no recluse moment of nostalgia in my head, but I had to say I'm not going anywhere! You proved IT, as all relationship is in EXILE.

Today's interplay w/ constant SORROW

Winter's air gathers my expectant mood in a failing resolve that I have lost something in a dark alley & then as if I find myself out under a street-light for reprieve, like it would be there for some reason. The coolness is sterile, & a free-fall thru its void leaves attachments unnecessary: No work, no time concerns, but maybe only a burnishing nostalgia. The residue of last night's foray into a somewhat sublime course thru my evening is an open playing field today. I am dying to put things at my center. At my most meditative moment researching, admittedly w/ calm non-indulgent practice, from a book Howie gave me belonging to his Mother, Russian Thinkers, I felt to be the convergent of all the nows: the book, the TV in the other room, the pulse of the shop in a particular generality (which is possible)--& this was like breaths whose report was the traffic noise outside of this front room. The immersion was complete. And then my brother says from his office, "That was nothing of what we're going to have to deal with." At the core I live in interpretive moods--NOW I think I start with nothing, & that was a place of murmured space in the back of my head, & this is what I use to step out into the fray of constant energy without it ever evaporating--a winter's trial. I could be a gallows's bird looking at the hush hush around some personalities, & the assetiveness around others. Why do we do this silent measure of affability?--we are pinballs shocked from the report of the bell's peal hammered submission from boring neon characters: it's excessive, we have to break the silence.

Running TOWARD midnight, backwards

The imagery behind this scenario is the kind-of-event I felt occurring to me down in the basement apt at the old house on Rebel rd. Like an uncarved block showing its potential, because i was insignificant in a way that I, alone, understood/ part of a greater whole no matter how far from relationship I became. In the half-light of chimerical mornings, before getting up & after the light of morning trapped my eyes from leaving their dormancy, I'd dream of the immediate, perhaps of the room in which I lain. Once I thought I actually laid my hand upon the steppin' razor of blood images from Granny (my Dad's Mom) emerging from my heart.... If we begin to set the plates for the mind sore of characters that occupy our world, particularly when it is strictly UN-realism, in the end it impels us to design the realistic.

The Tea-maker's CHIA-NIK!!

At a certain point I decide everything is game; not quite Do what thou wilt. I look at my cousin's sofer(scribe) husband and imagine he would determine something about his green-youth, unless he became mossed over w/ ritual. Even he would skewer insects in the formidable exuding floor of suffering for NO-g-d if THE G-d declaimed a world w/o the nomenclature of ritual & he'd have to live that way--so why do we (I) choose?. Following my mom from the recesses of my enthusiasm for the Old-World made recognizable (not the obvious one of E. Europe, but the Mediterranean one of Seferad=think Zohar, the Book of Splendor), while sitting under the shed awning or near-by under the apple tree (in the garden). I got up one time, all heady w/ colors w/o names for me embellished. An image of my mom walking to the backdoor comes to me in this strictly non-ellipses, no preliminary alarm-like humid summer's day. So like a duckling I was following suit & home in my head, like old brown tucked underneath my bed of acquiescence, then I pick a wall-flower from her shoulder. We may be blooms of poppies & the only religion is homeward rituals/our opiates. The most we can hope for is the finding of the pattern when the mind is rife w/ our hollow breathing. We absorb more, thus we are more acutely aware when we breathe in: the mind tells us the world doesn't know shit about the air, like we do... Now it's ritual--breathe in the black smoke exhale the white!! Black is the absence of color, so it must be the compassionate void.

Aimed toward Ahhhs/ Amos Oz, in fact!!

I seek myself in the moments in which I tarry. I was surprised to watch my mind float in & out of a surface of endeavor, whatever that may be. Getting a plate set to pile on the crapulence of fluid thought--unyielding time--spatial queries--shadowy persistence, I knew at once the dawning of articulated dreams when darkened lids like cinema screens lay desirous of relevance. All I wanted to prove is potential. If I knew that THAT was there, a restive self would be sundered into stimulated ideation/ NOWHERE to go but UP!!

I'M TALKING ABOUT 2 CONVERSATIONS

Say for instance there is an ensuing dialogue--you, however are attentive, conscious of the foci which is administered by, say, a posture of confidence, & IS HEART-felt. But rather your mind is floating on a myriad of conversations imagined & one that is realistic. Now your spirit is divided. And perhaps your head wins the battle, as the awkward silences demonstrate to you an awakening--a minor one, the one that always accompanies your daily travails. The only hint, literally, that suggests something has taken place is footsteps pattering in ascension, rather than the reality some one individual is going away but in descending steps. But a hint nevertheless: the following of the collusion of sounds arriving.

On Parkers Mill, near Airport rd.

A sweaty ride through that aromatic countryside, wind blowing into me... objectifying temporal thought in angst that my life was of some other place & another time. There I push off from worries, & the wind is hitting my face; I feel like congratulating it, she cries happy tears, my sweat. I'm still in my beak, hollering inside, "All this shit of self-deprecation doesn't move me anymore--just my heart full of blood & legs pulsing..." Rhythm: purple sticker thistles' smells; fields in their expanse; a car whirring by=no worries, I'm not going back so quickly; the solstice of June air; alone! I even ask myself why am I out there, as if I needed a reason one last time--leaving me prone & irksome: the diminutive self wanting to get out. I'm riding our neighbors Schwinn 10 speed, an old one, it looks like it has a gooseneck made of nickle, still not sure. There is an old raggedy home to the side of the road after Airport rd., which is all ahead of me on my way back. Then BLAM, a serious boom & I thought I was being shot at. I instantly surmise that some ole redneck from the porch of that house had to be the culprit--but nobody is around, there is no gun. But then I realize, too much air in the front tire made it explode from the hot pavement. So I get off the bike & walk the 3 miles home.

X-mas day--A Jew resides in his thoughts

What is it that speaks to us whilst we focus on experiencing just anything and something DIVULGING our insight gets to our cognitive BLAH BLAH? Like nothing stands out on one show we're watching, and then the presence of some one actor seems absolutely palpable. Obviously we get beyond the calling that life is imitated and we perceive absolute realism. I could paraphrase Camus-- He says that in order for the cognitive faculty of the mind to be in a healthy state a certain amount of dormancy is required. Watching an actor in a role, say live action or otherwise even, lets us on to a reality their respective identity imparts... & maybe if we are distracted and unfocused this (moment) can be delusional, recorded nevertheless thru our persistence, or not, and if not why do we not have the necessary down-time for our mind solvency (finding that identity) to occur (to us). If we are suicidal, something has brought us to the (in)capable moment of discordance and the ambiguity felt in whether we can go on. I say capable at once, because perforce we can never know what we could or would do. (Capable also could imply that we objectify death i.e. our ally and we can go on to the waiting now w/ the tool called impermanence -- only if we are in the known of transcendence!)

CHAPTER 1--REVISITED, AN ANSWER

Below in chapt.1 I take an idea of dying a 1000 deaths (from sitting in a particular chair amongst your families dwelling as in Kerouac's emphasis) and give it a more literal sense. The old samyasa (religious-wanderer to use a Hindi term) so to speak takes liberty from knowing the bible's characters are not quite present in this dispensation (i.e. only the morals, homilies etc. are available) as to say people have come before us and left graves and grave attributes to be memorialized (as he would choose)--& also personally for him, a man on the fringe of a more prosperous world, he has taken blows & heard the death-knell too many times FROM adopting the bigger picture: the secular world has opportunity but it remains abstract. You can look at it two ways in the day & age: (1) the opportunities are purposely not meant for him, he is left out, or (2) if a religious person is a literalist they excuse themselves rather than avail themselves of the "bigger picture" --(like the advantages in science/health/medicine, which is a commentary on the fight for a god, whatever that may be between those who cling to belief & those who see it as bunk.)

DYLAN----CHAPT. 1

People moving through this unestablicshed reward=life, seems his focus. He names names throughout. I see him 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, 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, but again the world is out of balance & we are still younger than yesterday--think history!! 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!"

I know I know, why bother!!

Our minds demand order, order is in simplicity, & simplicity is in the statement our memory makes that something is feasible to THINK. So say we have a divisive moment, nothing to do with that one statement but to admit we'd go about our day w/o dwelling upon it, this one time. Now when I'm facing losing out on certain imagery, & only those occasions when that static quality to thought demands a blunder of space to deal with, I know I'm not going to pursue the "thinking" just for release. I refuse to consider my experience as if it could be any better or worse just from the influence of thought. Resultant imagery now remains accessible=that space is inside (vast), & not obviated in a way where time controls me.

beit (hebrew)=HOUSE; EIN SOF= G-d as the ETERNAL

The house is the symbol of the receptivity of the Infinite; & gives it a place, w/o negating & creating a sense that in another place Ein Sof wouldn't belong. I dreamt of a sidewalk flush up against a yard in a neighborhood of houses. But the sidewalk was a rushing stream, and to cross it was my prerogative. I saw it for what it is--the gap that contains me from imposing on an-other the just abstractions, incoherencies, & quasi-social thoughts in a half-light, was all within a fence (this stream) of mental imagery, and spanned only in expectation that the ulterior self, on the side of the house, will receive me. If energy comes from other planets, in the sense of scenarios we've built-up & made affable, home-like, like a job, a coffee shop, shopping cntr., an apartment et cetera, we gain solace REVISITING our instincts that made us make those places a part of us. The imagery is energy, in other words. And a planet is like the greater world now contained in OUR smaller world.

Walking to the BANK the other afternoon

I think it is kind of strange how we have an impulse to hone down a sensory moment. The wind was coolish and I was emptied of thoughts in intellectual pursuit (which is a good sign, because at those moments I'm wailing back to find its application) & I wanted to embellish the consciousness of that sensitivity with the desire for more of it--quantifying, that's all. I was at the peak of the deep, and I wanted to get it behind me: truly in this case hindsight was going to be 20/20. That is the instrument to my success--having felt presumptuous, if at a point of endurance from no longer being the spectator (observer) of the realistic--but of only illusion: my perception. & more than that not an intellectualization (like this) but rather an insensed moment *as an actor would speak of: the observation of neuro-activity, like that of a winter's day as a kind of competing for its profit (the existential thing-ism).

HEARING the conversation in the OTHER room

So the lolls are really riffs, a hesitation & expectation. When everybody knows the general course the conversation will take, someone grabs the floor & tries to give entrance to his peers--but loudly. It is like a bubble someone tries to blow up & take a gander at, just to create an edifice & lend to its demise. It really has stereotypical qualities I personally try to excise from my principled dialogue w/ others: kill the pattern!

I am ANTINOMIAN

The general malaise of purpose unites us all in polite contentment & seeing, in this case, Asian Indians, say, at the Univ. Library I find myself in a salutation deliberation, because well he/she treats me the same. The American Wasp is somehow different: perhaps I don't seek his purpose--in the CONSERVATIVE trend. I call going to an ethnic restaurant or foreign market something in line w/ the thinking of my bro Mark, or looking to a pluralist individual like YOU. I get there and look for clues as to what about this place suggests you all would be a part of it. You are me, we're blood, & I learn from the comparison/contrasting. But then like the annihilation of the ego I don't sense identification w/ the pack anymore, instead I am a stranger in a strange land. (or am I just merging w/ the whole?) --& my bros cannot brandish an understanding that this one world village contains me. I've surfaced. So now I want to claim the old way (that may be the affable self, & somewhat ineffective). I'm assuring myself until, yeah, that is gone too, thus the antinomian conceptuality=calling it what I fancy to perceive, while the reality on the ground, the logoi, is what I find at the surface, to which I cling--still w/o a sense of seperateness, allowing me to yield to the strange. The radiance of perception burns away the contours of mischief I'm apt to learn from in identifying this thing through your eyes.

It is a SNOWY KY. morning

I went out to Natural Bridge a few years ago, early Fall. I knew that it sustains more brisk air in the forest, than elsewhere. (It had snowed on me one March Spring break, there in Daniel Boone National Forest.) This one time Valerie was w/ me, and the cold on my face made it hard to talk. Now the obstacle I naturally impose thru communicating was obverted into something really now beyond my control. And since we absorb a modicum of absolutes, and endure them similarly, I projected into relationship that I am understood from incredulity: she's cold, I'm cold et cetera. This morning the weather eclipses my way as I am refreshed from the norm of it all--expecting harmony of spirit asunder. There is a silence, Im apophatic--9/10ths of everything is submerged like I am buffered from one day running into the next, this dispensation is not not-eternal. This day's angst is in the shadow of the SUN, it is cool & approachable...

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.