RED FLY NATION, dispensational

The new dawn faded, thither I followed the descending sun, while living in downtown Lexington. The band was inspiring, but not for me to do things supporting it, but rather as a cause-accompli in my reaction to the world, my fait. No one has regrets, least of all anyone knowing those times in distant cognizance, however something was unsettled. I needed only to turn corners, those being dusty & worn, unremarkable, but nuanced enough to say I had forward thinking. The 3rd st. house we lived together in, the 6 of us, had me undetermined where I'd remain--if only to get the ball rolling, a current taking me into the bounds in which my then girl-friend vested her critique of our relationship, to which the plain suggestion to me was get-on-board. Literally I walked out of the house(apt) toward the settling evening air, out across the st. from Lex. cemetery, & sat under a tree in the parking lot. Still enough sun was gleaming for an allowance of alliterative resolve--my esoteric book defied the lack of patterns I'd forsaken, & given me something at stake. (I think the author was Madam Blavatskii, her mysticism-something book I stole from Sqecial Media, which considering the beneficence of the place I felt almost blasphemous.) If the coffers of the compassionate void grants us a powerspot now & again, I knew it wasn't for the moment instructive to bide those places AMONGST--(too bad, I know). But I prized the connections in relationship as something to get back to, if only... & for me that was clearly defined in the stands of trees which rustled w/ otherness, & in which I sensed the impending thunder (which we all heard), & yet I was left naked w/o a rain dance.

Met a Ma-mun (Muslim) in my DREAM last night

WE were down over by campus (UK), specifically some place either where Two Keys is now, or right there across the street at Casmir Restaurant, but inside had a kind of Student cntr feel to it. The Muslim didn't know I was a Jew, but outed me as an Infidel anyways--though I began to rally him that the world outside of Islam is not the Dar al-Harb, world of war (this sense may be part of fiqh--a kind of jurisprudence, the institution of jihad). In otherwords my dreamt self was someone purporting a reckoning of what fear & paranoia, if dissolved, could then sanction. This thing unique to our quality of life is probably a sense that we are not impelled by others toward the happenstance of any religion (think biblebelt here, and beyond!)--simply put secular ideas let lighted streets take us to a pluralist understanding of you & me. And the street is the revealed sort of powerspot, this particular area, I have dreamt of many times. Rt by what use to be White Mt Creamery--which I glanced at it while it was established--yrs ago, coming out of my old girl-friend's apt for the last time, above Two Keys, made me think I was at the foot of some fantastic obstacle, a figurative "mt," which broke the thread connecting me to a past I can never go back to. Personality can be cult-like, to stretch the metaphor, whether it is a taste of how your own has lent to a dis-ease, or if someone or something has a kind of control over you.

THE gray-ce of MOTIVE

Looking off to a corner of the room, not really in digression of what is on TV, or enthusiasm thereof, but some message reeled in thru the nature of complacency & my visual from escaping it--I feel this visual though only in inaugurating the immediate, still-solutions an on-going effort. All this effort is a cognizance of a kind of stammer--a shutter like the mortal coil announces its residing atmosphere which cannot easily be transitioned. But obviously an observation gets me thru a door.
Just today walking back from the bank I had a California moment. In CA perturbed masses in movement can be objectified because I am only there--just there, I'm not participating. Here, I smell the diesel, hear the car tires--their adjustment upon the pavement and suddenly I'm earthbound rather than KY-homeward. I've gotten beneath the firmament of time & place to a graver atmosphere, the nerve core of civilization in ad absurdum transition. I think we would agree that ideas & ideals are on a collision-course w/ experimentation & normalcy to its pinnacle there - maybe elsewhere.

KRISHNAMURTI

kRISHNAMURTI name may seem to imply new age perhaps or cult-like reverberations, but his essays are not ritual-abiding blah at all, nor are they neo-traditionalisms via Hindu study like a reformer who is ever so MORE conservative in his own approach would be apt, or religious to any degree. He takes a point like his exacting departure from the Theosophical Society, an Orientalist group, founded by Madame Blavatsky (who happened to come from the same town as my Grandmother, but in her parents time=Ekatrinaslav, Russia): Truth is a pathless land, and shows thru an exercise of conversation where we generally are left holding on to visualization of some bit of rationalization in how we cohere our response to our condition. He cajoles his reader to self-scrutiny--and one might react like having martyred a sense of relevance held closest to the vest due to his sheer plain affect. I find his writing writings highly UN-radicalized, to the effect that all else seems excessive & over-wrought.

On Fallon rd. near Beaumont Pk.

That cat who lain on the road, down 'round the corner from my house, on the oldest street in the neighborhood, struck a note of empathy in me in a very finite way==It was dead, of course, but its spirit floated close by. I entered the soul of the compassionate void, maybe ITS DIMINUTIVE space its vitality once conjured. I was touching something & I thought of my hands in that moment, on the wet road, Spring am. A black cat crossing my path, w/ a bleat in a spiritual heart I knew was manifest in every dreamy sanctioned day of my growing up there--seeing these locals' critters meander around this place. This cat meant that. Its one eye appeared as a kind of extremity, sticking out as a protuberance demanding one last visual of the road of its neighborhood life. I was as dead as it, and as alive. Marley's "Running Away" ran thru my mind--"you can't run away from yourself!" & I acquiesced to a struggle right then, at least in that moment I wasn't running, so I only had me to deal with & why not RIGHT then. If Rimbaud could lean next to a Prussian soldier in a field adjacent to his village at his final peace, and decide he could know everything now, similarly we are the convergence of tremendum & fascinans & could identify w/ a complete sense of motive.

Opting for TORPOR

The meditative moments Saturday night had one of the things I put on-the-BACK-burner as being the thing that would typically impel me to construe a night ardor. This being torpidity, thence made realization a struggle but no less a pay-off toward now of course though I paid for this feeling then. It seemed all I could do was a vertiginous pose and all I wanted was a babe-on-the-lawn seeking the brighter atmosphere. I looked at my hands for what really is a conciliatory image, not unlike a geometric-ploy of a Mohammedan in their tantric response to a world of over-bearing images: scripture as pictorial design conveying the adherent out of the cosmic to the conveyance of that & Other things. Images symbolic of sound e.g. the language of G-d's mind, are just as UNIQUE as my hands as IF they were pug marks on a path in the Wilderness and explanate of an instinct to be consoled in the distances we achieve to consume an objective cause. This would be a spiritual exercise, if not for linear thought bringing me out of the angst of LOSS of inner-attention. Inner-attention is always a godsend, but as that Higher Ground is what it is--some OTHER place, I am typically deliberating on the exudation of some Lower Order of things. --a trifling ordeal, and the simplest to contemplate.

LUXOR, MISR==REVISITED, part II

When there is no consciousness or abstraction to grapple with, one would feel entirely compelled to finish the "waiting." --(speeding thru life's current) Like how I felt out by the Titi pension, in Luxor--only the balance between being utterly away from typical amenities/comforts into a situation where we would make do, made me feel any kind of gravity. It was totally momentary--I couldn't tote it around in a wheelbarrow. I declaimed my will to move forward by jumping laterally all the time, circling the castle so to speak, I was interested in torpor & categorically ill-considered its partner=silence. Named IT as I confided in the presumed atmosphere of my last mood/struck by this and affective discontent was thusly achieved. Walking around the Temple of Luxor, the stark Middle-Eastern brightness gave no deviating shadows--I felt like taking my shoes off, though the quality of its antiquity was unfathomable. This is where tourists were killed THIS millenium. My sense of unity & goal becomes fragmented as these places disappear over the horizon, my impermanence suggestive as it courses thru people's demise yon & hither. The Nile waking thru the village's edge (right next to the Temple), I would scan its civilized banks to find a perch just to view it for awhile--but anything as presumptuous enough of being a beautiful vista was wrestled to the dust by vendors, boat rentals, or appeared too close to traffic anyway. I thought of riots as having no potential, but crowds unbarred from their willfulness wanting to climb the walls of the old British neighborhood dwellings walled around w/ shards of glass acting as barbs seized into the cement at their tops.

LUXOR--THE bank was more likely "du Caire!"

hiddenreceived

LUXOR, EGYPT

To the extent that we were using hashish &/or tobacco together or separately, one might assume there were periods when we lived in a thick dullness abiding the intensity from our brand of liberty, to its other extreme--a void, whence the harsh Arabesque sun of Ifriqqa shone past the CLARITY and into the mishap of confused reflections e.g. at the Tea House, presuming as I was, some dot of angst would color an otherwise unhealthy unknowing.*** There is a boulevard stretching toward the trainstation, our admittance to this village-town, & to the other side our pension, which we'd hoof down away from every day wondering at what non-paying wonders we would have divulged to us in our hikes around the village. It had a Banque Leumi (sp?) (wrong fact here, THIS bank happens to be Israeli--whoops!! ...everything else is as it was.) there on it, at which one Sunday we had our travelers cheques cashed. Everything seemed off from the current of modern access, as 80% of all you could see was submerged, but seethed. Toward my freedom of youth I'd admonish myself that big fish authorial entities would in fact show me how little they cared what sensitivities I contained in the contra-bearing for others in my path. Like the governmentally controlled bank we passed each day. The mosque on the other side of the side of the village where we stayed was another such place. A Midnight Express scenario played out in my mind, as much as I could think about it, while considering entering the mosque, which we did--& formidably w/SHOES. We actually looked around for some object to pilfer from it, however there was nothing within and still I would not have gone thru w/ it. By the coffee/tea house before the boulevard & closer to our youth hostel, the Titi Pension, the place was called Television-Cofe, Mahmud the owner told us that Jimmy Carter had been right by his place one day only a few yrs before, & then commenced to scatter a few glasses full of water out into the sand-ridden road? to keep? the dust down. Far from re-allaying a sense that this was memorialized space, it seemed as if this little African man looked to the promise of an immense cosmic polity which would help people & lift them up--and this was part & parcel the powerspot we sought & could sanction (merely his humanity, that is, not the content of his beneficent agitation--"Wow, J. Carter!" --I don't think so.) Power spot. No longer wearing his jelabiyah, Mahmud in his suit about the same day we were to leave, he was off to Cairo toward the granting of a loan. His securing a future was in his eyes, a certainty beyond the correspondence w/ us that was neither here nor there toward his ends... He was comfortable in his own skin & was beating the odds. We left Luxor w/ hope for him.

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.