If you fear it, you hate It--if you hate it, You Love It!!

You said it just the way you saw it= it was clearer to you than you thought: watch what you see! The mind always looks at what stands out, so patterns aren't always that obvious; meaning the mind just wants the slope of momentum--so tell it You mean it...there is nothing rhetorical in the mind. You can't just note the experience around you & assume it was then & only then. There is Nothing to turn off, for all our intents & purposes. Say the mantra of What-Is, & your memory will give you a path--if you want it. The whole issue rests, that of my last entry, on one illustrative point: the caricature of white noise as low energy Is just as auctorial (think "actor") as the glitter & spectacle of A-type personalities, like some person booming in your face that the answer is plain, when in fact it may not be, whether they emanate from our ecstaticism & life's fire Or simply we characterize ephemeral moods & subtlety. This is our Out. Thusly, sometimes we observe and barely channel a swath of some vista, so why not be availled of this as our ground-of-Being. I did something & thank whatever Proof was immediate & evocative... I used to wonder at the emotive regrets I'd have & knew that it was only time-developing thru real relationships that could answer for it--it is all existential & the way to fight that fire is thru "masakah"==lighting a fire!! Constant revolution (Ye. Zamyatin) / every breath counts. The revolution will not be televised (the Last Poets)!! This word in quotes is Hebrew--I saw in reference to the Jewish Enlightenment, which could merely be a sea-change, in the human-totality/ Jews watching their worlds disappear (the diminutive implication of sea-change Now might be concentrated to the report of the Whole Ocean's devastating proportions On one people) & deciding they'd better get to the Intellectual & cultural truths of the matter. Enduring from the 1700s til early 20th century, probably unto most Jewish European communities' last= WW II. ** The subject Title is from Zamyatin's book WE, early 20th century.

Here's the ill tip, called Vision

Recently, I reinvigorated my stark motive to maintain On my psychotropic meds. The interval of not taking as much left some creative encumbrance to the presence I defend thru manufactured motive: this is all any one can wish for, in my book. I lept to a limb of extremity Thought, because these absent, confused, reckoning that somehow I'm just not being reached, & definitely existential moments as captive audience amongst these folks I see daily--were the lapses in my reality. Knowing I scramble for answers forth-coming in the natural course of things--is the last thing my mind records before the dark alley gives me fair warning. If stark reality Is to be equalled at all it is in the strangeness of my meditations of youth. I remember being up in that church steeple, close to home, One afternoon, saying to myself, "f*&^ jesus...I'm all about It-- there is no threat-down; Jesus is just alright w/me!" There should have been, in fact, a calm w/the notion that no-fire need be stoked that Yeah, I'm up on a church--others tend to superficial faiths, Mine is now & ain't all this drama. But...! Something said to me then: Go, Learn, then dismiss the peasants--til now Thoughts Rt. as rain as proof seemed to grant (that calm should be ensued), are without the humilty of experience. So, to appeal toward the empirical was to introduce myself to that conflict=merely a blue image, like a face hoping (as in hope) down from up above; an impending caricature of white noise, rather an auctorial moment/ I was on the stage of indifferent chorus' of an indefinite audience, me a millionth of a million souls--had to merge. If its social disfunction, by way of making it worse from LSD, as I did in my 20s, then the ego attenuating this socialism by now is getting old. I'm tired of seeing the protagonist heading for the light. Wu-hsin in the Tao, is No-mind & truth is a pathless land, so I'm convinced that feeling that there is no-where to go IS Rt. action (=wu-wei). Back in my palimpcest days, erasing what is beneath--for instance the focus I graduated toward, whiling meditating on No one thing in particular, was intensional (tabla Rasa). Meditate on nothing, & nothing is the solvency...no thing to answer for, or less in effect. Like 4 corners you call your own, & then being drawn into its concealment when Otherness expands into the Sentient-Greed at once the usual & natural reckoning people thrive-On, became the formula I couldn't answer for--15 yrs later, the story is different.

Numbers add up to nothing, but there IS nothing outside the Known

Compartmentalizing, creating order is the demand & natural condition of the mind. In a self-counseling moment to be in proximity of some conversation in another adjacent room can be, at once, the peak of the egocentric sense of that event. Yeh, perhaps you'd be the subject. In some mind, mine--a schizophrenic mind, I'll necessarily translate one subject of one's input as putative & correlary toward referencing its advantage Now, as compared to his/her intent really being unsubjective. A voice. Speaking to me, & not to the shared intended object of our consternation. The last time I saw Mat, before last night, was yrs back, driving around Lexington looking at the fallen electrical wires from the latest storm. It seems, he said--enveloped in the obtuse sheen of the street we're coming upon, "I'm already there, hooked around at the top." It was as if the traveler became the road & bearing down on his load, was in effect wholly a responsibility in cartage of each other's psychic assumption. So, channeling is all the pt of this, but reckoning it in a view of IT, just as I sit before you. This thing that, we use the narrative of one another used to drive me into ridiculous corners, as palpable as it may be, ensuing conversation, I thought was observable in marginalizing it, tho' as far as I could get was what Elie Wiesel called talk-embarassment. Everyone gets to the intuitive crescendo, & rather than toppling the affect, I'd be the aweful identifiable static moment. These days necessarily in contact w/certain RFL folks--left me dependent for rides sometimes--Sean, Jack k., Jim O., & others once or twice in the waning days. Otherwise I'd walk--from the Stupid Cntr to rt here off of Southland dr. to Rebel rd. Those late night walks in & out of shadows--not much traffic--we're weary moments to make amends in perspective. Consciousness is afforded only thru the gate of epiphenomenal stimulation--so I'd begin to wonder, as time getting home becomes reductive, just what evidence I could be granted That the Tabla rasa wasn't going to beget Nothingness. If we dream, thereby we must exist=the ground of being Of its staging may imply a maker! And this was my hope, because the langour I prided in the effort-of-my-Mind-sore, to wail up & give evidence for some reason of the night's strife (physical & otherwise) ... left me wanting.

Compared to Wallace Stevens... identity Framed!!

I looked him up--& will indulge his words the more, but this is what stood out to me, as it was a determinant feeling I share. He said, "rise liquidly, in liquid lingering, like watery words awash." Paul K lyric'd on his rare Cycles album, that he wishes he could jump from your water. And as if the bubble of experience--in my view, as aura, like a pleroma of some stately Being the first & last thing of presence we receive from each other--like the surfaceable union of gravid streams, these cyclical bodies, to me is like experiencing Jimi's belly-button window thru which we see each other. I'd drink milk=poisonous milk--I'm allergic--& recite "whiskey" in mind, as if a narcosis was to be beheld, & now I believe this was just the Merciful attribute of water I was trying to get at. A tripartite regimen, standing at the proffering goods in the refrigerator back home: booze as cultural leverage, water as asceticism, milk as body consciousness. Mark it, as the years turned & pushed me up upon banks of experienced-norms & boredom, I'd create symbolic universes & that was an antinomian resolve. Milk WAS whiskey, but rather body consciousness, in truth. The refrigerator was reprieve & was the cultural embellishment of family-Life, I in fact called Man-On-the-Street--the arc of the Familial, perhaps.

Beatniks' long lonesome by-way (figurative)

These colours of your dreams you speak of, known only to one's self, are identifiable somehow when a guy like Kerouac describes his night-visions in a kaleidoscope, carnival-esque perception, an I & We syndrome, w/dancing lights, though the Observer stands in solitarian repose to it all. He says, "big floats take notice,"--this gravid cntr of attention (the ground of Being) away from preoccupied birds-eye view to something in the Water=Perhaps, danger & longing/ only still waters drown their victims. And his down-by-the-river watery consolation that he knows his limits, in an impermanent recourse to the airy-philosophical point in self-actualization that we may indeed be saved, in the end...is where we all see ourselves: an action in paces=Time getting by like a flowing river. He knows better but is ever deserving of a greater hope.

The Apples In Stereo referenced here...my neighbor

*A day in the life well-lived: Cold house this am., now I'm rt across the street at work (MCAinc.) doing my usual Saturday clean-up, 'round here. Misty am. the weather is sweet...to note Marley's lyrics. I was in some half-light last night--I had just put down a book called The Closing of the Western Mind, by Charles Freeman. It'll drive home some Church teachings into the abyss of time--deservedly its terminus, which is just a visual context, say, a 2000yr old box & then some. I'll look at one pg & the facing pg developes little symbols, always reminding me of Greek letters...like picking up on flourishes & looping paths of letters, tho' abstractly because the apophatic fact is found in silent corners at my periphery & reduced down to some visual in counsil of Greek irony, the language of whom I've never studied. So, there it is I was in a zone. I've been reading f*&^ing abundantly. Last night was some weird liquid sky few moments. The report of just that one piece of the void I chip away to alight my awakened silence toward the Uncarved Block (me, rt?), left me in a sort of langour. Really, kind of confused. I dig the struggle, but these intervallic muddles from a studying effort must necessarily have some goal in the end--I gotta believe that...if only a feeling of encumbered night. Just listened to the first 3 songs of the Apples in Stereo probably latest plate (CD), dude himself gave me, R. Schneider. ...& the World is Made of Energy, very nice. Reminded me of Cornershop (in its positive iration, to borrow a term, not from them.), but better musicianship here. I asked dude who was that Brit yelling out about the feed-back? In Oxford when I did an intensive study there one summer, actually before Jamaal Roy Valentine was to meet me in Israel, the cats I mingled with live up to the stereotype they try to capture=urban M Fs, man--but not as sinsiter as that, I know. Give me purple thistles of Summertime over big city types any day--"cosmopolitans!!" Marley's Concrete Jungle, In & Of the street lights reflecting in the eyes of one sweet woman one lonely night yrs back, had my norm of explanate wonder What business the Shitty-city could ever give me solace Again. Aahhh the Exhaust!!

DESCARTES & nothing better to think On

The human context is about this big: I'm pressing my thumb against my pointing finger. We know our dialogue with one another, here in the West, is derivative of an impetus begun 2000 yrs ago and then some--& therein lies reality for most who don't look outside the corral of belief in ritual=their security, into the human totality i.e. they don't look East. Maimonides, however, speaks the Orientalist vocabulary (I know that term is dated--anyways!) when he said G-d is Reality & there is nothing that we can know that isn't Real. Hindus by the same measure say Brahma manifests Everything that is, & there is Nothing outside the Known. The old man--former owner of the local Chinese restaurant, stirs the energy in the room, kind of like a tourbillon, the Wind of Dreams. Each moment proffering an advent of encumbered step or fall toward whatever relationship you tend to make whole, is none other than a Cycle (a sense of what Descartes illustrates). The air is something we all know quite a lot about. We circumambulate from someone showing us distance-as-their-device for the current norm. I mention to the old man "sunyata" & distance becomes relationship: Jews & Muslims have their High G-d, El or Allah respectively... similarly, the Conscious-Void=Sunyata is somewhat conventional 'til ethereally it is developed into the Higher Ground of Compassion contained in his pervading glance, while putting substance into what no longer seems empty. Distance is Relationship--and presence is defined by motive. In The Jew & the Lotus s(h)unyata is shown its comparative qualities with the Jewish "Received" or rather Mystic tradition=kabbalah, use of the word for G-d going from the Cosmic here & Now to the Objective Ineffable & back again. The term is Ein-Sof=All or Nothing. This word packs the biggest punch than any other reference to the Ultimate reality, in the Jewish tradition. Had I said Ein-Sof to an adept Jew rather than sunyata to Buddhist adherent the effect is exactly the same, we are all borne of an Eternity, and mostly we are ineffective answering the Consciousness illumined from our participation OF it.

Mdm. Blavatskii & Our Anthropos

Madame Blavatskii, founder of the Theosophical Society, which Krishnamurti inherited their helm, & subsequently-& rightly relinquished it--rejecting a kind of authority-toward the search for self-realization--(Mdm. B.) had discussions on root races, in her Esoteric Writings, that some meta-physical formidable spiritual content to the archetypes we understand of the variety to which humankind is composed. We know of the traditions somewhat, but when the Anthropo-Observer-student looks at presence beyond obvious stereotypes & sorts out the project of his/her own worth, the stranger amongst typically equals that effort, & we learn... **Something, yeah, was on NPR--& is in their archives, I checked out a couple of months ago, I guess. The Clash featuring Strummer's direction thru & beyond. Now-today on Utube, his version of Redemption Song, I have to say, leaves something yet to be desired. At first I didn't sit thru it all--but damn is It as f*&^ed up as he sounds, thru-out? By way of disclaimer, Bob Marley's theme'd "concrete jungle" assuages my attempt at marginalization of an urban-dirt type twang, via Strummer,=his vox. Still, those boys are very political, & unless the pain of suffering world-wide is graduated to me in one sedate glimpse into a face, then I can't translate the effort so easily. Not to say there is No face here--only that it is Harder to look into some settings. Let's just say Strummer is rt, et al, tho' I contrast this thing. Bob Marley, however, had a presumption of Funk, & I determined the black man veiled in earth-bound treatises, puppeteering some soul-happening in & of the temporal kingdom in which I am imprisoned... just as I do, seeing women (moving the boundaries of what we speak of in terms of a Race: our multiplicity has individualized identities!) as keepers of the elegant throes of some covenant I must dance for, because she is earth & I am heaven-bound trying to find my legs. Like Marley says, if you have legs, you know you are on the ground. Root Races, for all its false decor, seems to be the struggle for relativity--on going=subjective to cosmic; general to personal.

In & Around Bluegrass Airport/ gentrification not availing us yet, on Parkers Mill ln.

Coffee-water colored, next to the median-way/fields between the back-roads & THAT stream, we sussed out between rocks & spiderwebs looking for beercans...later to be washed & dipped into oxalic acid to remove the rust that never sleeps. Corruption of REMs, which this rust made-up oF the dreamt repose of those hilly-country roads, lying across fields of corn, horse meadows--I saw paths only proffered under-foot in nighttime vision yawning ahead just as my feet sought its hold--as the unveiling dream flowed forward in undulating ambulations like I have never left these things I sought=beercans, Country-air w/purple thistle stickers corn-flower smells, & exertions from distances on trodded roads. On Frogtown ln. a farmhouse settling ever deeper into the firmament, invited us to explore in our stealth: timelessness for One, & a buena vista social-club (to coin a phrase) in its patience for our membership once removed from the harsh light of schooldays then encumbering our world. We'd eat peanut-butter sandwiches on roman-meal bread & drink warm sodas, if we had them, all carried in our backpacks, or tied in Kroger bags onto our handlebars--A day in the life from restless youthful consciousness.

Apropos of an actionable Academician

Wandering images on campus, upstairs, into hallways--transmogrifying into a squirrel--then defying physical categories, becoming the usual shapeless mass & a book-of-rules, again. By saying again, I mean a coherence of a shapeless-mass=a body consciousness w/full attention say upon the elements of outward fact. It is a derivative idea, originally implying something not of my assertion. This would be in opposition w/some fragment of self-image competing w/my better intentions. If I had not been a sh.-mass, self-image would obviously have been frustrating/derivative, in the dream. All too busy of a dream-scape was my presentiment of an interlocuttor who hadn't the time to address me. I begin to fumble w/some writ, symbols on paper which avail my eyes only whence the eyes focus upon the opposite pg. "Forest of life underfoot" (Patti Smith) as I get to the perimeter of campus into My own--a Chinese man comes across the POT square w/the Red sun at his back. He's on his bike coming my direction, so I climb atop the (now gone) fountain, & take in distances academia has yet defined for me. The day is coldCool, steam coming from vents in places, but the bldgs are locked & rather it is the final day or days before the M.I. KING library would close for good (on the Univ of Ky's campus). Assuming some thoughtless Asana pose, my book called Pilgrims w/Dalai Lama's wordsAmongstimages--R. Gere's thing, tells of nirvana & refusing it to lasting resignation on earth--my telling of it. The posture could be colluded in the yogiclike practice of Abraham Abulafia--13th ce Seferad (Espana). My eyes' recused vision of ancient times always seeks Hebrew symbols, letters, especially as the lazy mind becomes delivered of the dearest cryptic scenario, where the heart lies. Nirvana may just be that chamberOFwisdom, hekhalot, that presumes an advantage in intercession in the form of the community we identify w/most, OR that crowd we channel that may not be an organism of One-mind (like gems refracting from the illumination of a flashlight, rather than the burnishing of the ultimate Solar-disc)!--as opposed to the zeitgeist of the media driven world. So there I find myself, a khalutzim, pioneer or pilgrim, on the way to the temporal kingdom. Only to find patterns of language, the way we constitute the onlyAttributes of G-d we may otherwise have no way of articulating. The Glory, as Gershom Sholem relates. 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 question is this: 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,...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, assumed in "the tea-maker's pose" -P. Smith, again)--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.

The way they use you, live big today--tomorrow you're buried in a casket

George Harrison says, in some interview about self-realization--this interlude within the context of more topical stuff, "one has to sift thru the grains of sand to get to the sugar...." I like getting my mysticism from other arabias, rubbing out symbolic thought while finding that stark monad in some immense void--(a Kerouac-ism, in terms of ARABIAs), & this is thoughts on why there is no imminence front. What all is the fuss about? The very real constituent activity I undertake daily IS knowing what I'm leaving behind. But, not acting in its stead. There is definitely radical forces--institutional entities that creep into our thinking. --Lying on my bed, back in the house I grew up in, then in the 1990s, Bionic Rats was playing on my turn table, reggae, --I knew that the one effort that informed my mind w/o cessation was weeding out improbable notions THAT I had a certain amount of control over just what was now before me...! "...in the garden..." (lyric'd theme commonly heard in Rasta music, think Iraq now--war, war & rumors of war then as now--& only a desire for "Certain-skies"--Arthur Rimbaud) meant just that spiritual on-set of victory over any supposed responsibility to deliver myself upon the threshold of common zeitgeist gnawing at the corners of the emptiness I maintained--in my concealment. The churning riddims of Lee "Scratch" Perry's Open the Gate, did this for me. A field of light WAS as casual as glances beyond this kaleidoscope in front of me, but for the moment the gaze into shadows w/florescent animicules, like a varicolored veil, kept my concealment from advancing. No longer would I seep further into empty chambers; everything now would be a constant departure. Hard to understand, I know. Just imagine white noise & vibratory properties as a visual. Exuding frenetic energy, turning upon smaller & smaller experienced forms, I was quickly turning off and tuning in. (this thing I projected was visible) Utterly indescribable isolation, those days, my condition was everything just short of monkhood--minus the doctrine, though it would come. Turning off everything I could, 'til the zealous projection of light energy was all a contagion before me.

Masr or Mitzraim to the Ostyuden disambiguation

Dylan's Mr. Tambourine Man, though conditionally not theist bent, brings me into the fold of memories about a tambourine man, an Arab, Muslim as much as one would consider any one body sentient within Arab lands (...that includes animals--according to the Qu'ran, and the characterization of the T. Man==More, animals, as I've read, have already "submitted"--define "islam" here, but Man must take upon himself the Shariah, therefore identifying himself as an adherent--I think the word "witness" is appropriate, here, in his forebearance). But to expand upon the poetic nature of confliction over theism, tremendum and fascinans, the adult playing the tambourine down the butcher's street, on the way to the train station--in Luxor Egypt--Just his giving voice and weird credence to the pity borne of ritual/religion--his music, like mine: vanquished! -- animated the dust coloured walls to chaotic fly-ridden meat (halal-!)--laterally his domains--into tacit moments otherwise not warranting this Westerner to get all that close. The man was clearly transcendent (the local masjid in vicinity, by the way, its door let out upon that dirt road) to typify his insanity (=majnoon in Arabic, one posessed by a demon, a jinn), probably not to the nether regions, but more closely toward disease & propriety in his next breath. Now we see the Mumin's or Musselmanner's treatment of his kithe & kin or my misunderstanding of it, along w/whatever we'd see in the following. (Muslim detractors called Muhammed majnoon, inappropriately--I reflected on this word working construction in Southern Israel, amongst the other Palestinian laborers, unknowingly, & got punched hard in the shoulder over & over again for my indisgression. I had only thought of its similarity to the Hebrew word Meshugga=same meaning--words aren't cheap to some!!)--Covering all bases, to continue: In Visions of Joanna, Dylan uses the lyrics about the empty sheet that now corrodes, the Fiddler who walks to the road, says everything is returned that is old, & Dylan's conscience explodes as the back of the Fish truck loads. In what seems to be his telling of unique histories, the fiddler is he--the so-called fiddler of E. Europe, On the Roof...it has to be. And the whole Judeo-Christian ethic, New Jerusalem (from maybe the Jerusalem of the east--think Litvak) on trial--is of One product, as he tells it from its report, meaning his conscience exploding--the fish is emblematic, Rt? If anything I'd bid his perspective at the equilateral-ness of the monotheists. It wouldn't be conceptually, except in some very essential ways, but definitely socially/politically--as Downpressors? (a Marley-ism). We could take the whole context time-line of the last 2000yrs & brandish its beginning as a deliverable context in itself. Called the Axial age, we now see, and the impetus of the degrading human condition thereafter. **See Unripe Walnuts below for schizophrenic allusions--my take on the supra-normal, short & sweet.

Once intimidated, twice Intimated

Standing out on the log pile in our half-acre backyard, just a yard away from farmland & more bluegrass, off the wet ground--a balance from the tethered past 'til that purple night--all a handshake w/the homewardness I'm leaving... The stocked kindling used to be over at the front side of the house, & there had been a couple of bouts chipping away at dull wood w/hand on an axe blade & no handle--just because! Toil, I guess had to be equated--mind to languor in the late night hrs. A yellow breeze from long ends of the days puts yet another attenuated sense between me & the Ky star-lit sky. I'd come back from Cinci earlier that evening & thought about the midnight sky as something to be excused from the Will its path conjured, because I foundered on the dialogue w/it thru its impermenance now solving the crisis I'd be heard by those vast distances. A young fellow had been belched out of the smog & din of Bogarts frequenters, I asked him for that ride, which stretched in a kind of asking throughout the ride home, conjoling him I'm not too far from downtown Lexington. I'm tired of looking at the antiquated biblical familial nods, but this just-out-of-h. school dude looked like my older bro, 1970s & all, in h.s. in Texas--I'd call it beatnik, or more wholly--vital & beat, like Kerouac would say. The late in the am. hrs out around the neighborhood, w/my bestfriend yrs earlier, had heavy skies throttling my composure, as if we were at a kind of bottom layer of atmosphere, walking into the field enclosing the church. & for a moment backing off--in recalcitrance, I sought my friend, wondering if he too felt burro-ish...? Our primary regard for what we had become, midnight ravers, meant ignoring an escalating sky & committed us to groundlings: some strange headless sense, just part & parcel Of the arbors' flat earth in the burbs--sunken. That is why the voice I heard, mired in solace up outside of Bogarts, struck me as entirely appropriate. "I'll see you up here, tonight," to which some bird-song crow-vox informed me I'd be arisen from what was a kind of opposite rung of, rather, people's lightened load.

The DISTANCE strung,the THOUGHTS traveled

In Cairo there was a sweet decadence in a day where at one moment I felt I was unlimited, & I gained a reverence for the immensity of experiences travel had to offer. Vast & eternal because I was somewhat ill-received these faithless days & yet stood beleaguered by the profundity of distances & finality of that. I would have to say that smoking herb there in Egypt sealed the deal, but more importantly I was solidly assured that my liberation was at hand & no water (or High Sun) could put out that fire, ...meaning indulgences like smoking. I can't sit here & promote marijuana use & say it is a means to an end, but whilst we contently articulated a day's consignment of these meager illusionary moments--in repose of those Dec. days in Cairo, I remember some thing in my eyes which made me subject & audience of my own independent means to get Born under circumstances=having gotten away from the constraints of time & place e.g.hometown so remote & automatically assumed in its pressures, however abstract they may get. I carried this idea all week now, & thence I dreamt of an ex-patriot accord, w/an old head I know here from work. ==In this domicile we found ourselves in, I kept promoting reflection on the advantages of setting up camp there--Valerie now in the picture & here & there responsibility on making her comfortable--but my wandering mendicant of a friend wouldn't yield to me & was dubious throughout. This made the dream & its mundane possibilities that much more a recess I had to indulge in: I wasn't going to leave behind this place & reject the illuminating conjuration of New-bounds Unseen. Captivated. All domiciles (in my dreams) have the portents of a forested corridor as the people are the trees & I am destined to wander or trod. Even the illustrations in mind of my wakened moments there in Egypt--this unwooded Afro-Asian desert--leave me off at a quake of protective boughs.

The Climate of the Bee-Catcher=The Will of Higher Ground

I saw a passive environment there in Ontario, Iron Bridge, next door to Neil Young's hometown Blind River--we actually went by his sister's house, we thought. Though the feel was dormant/slow-like, it didn't have the pretense of winter coming on though it is. Now in the stale office air, looking out to the road trafficking students & associated agents of this town's school yr arising, the humid winds (of Aug/Sept) sweeping past in gray skies look awefully Autumnal from here. Here's the rain now in a new shower from only 15 mins ago & it actually looks bright out. The seasons are kept in a deep well pocket of mine, & now I elicit the respect from lone days spent as if I have some kind of will tied into a climate of change/& the greater Will. I remember going to Mark's--my oldest bro, & summery heat of an apt this casual no central air was at least bearable & mostly just where one would want to visit to think of the emanations of headiness of healthy foods & soaps & incense. That is the times-in-between, & the identification of a fixed state of mind to make it jumping-off pts, & leaving the negligible responsibilities to the moments when I'd do THAT too--it just wasn't THEN.... This is when one sees a sort of composite of unyielding time just out of reach--he or she would claim that crystaline air as effortlessness--a karmic resolve. You'd think one would get the "news" peripherally indefinitely. Accurate force of what we reckon we need to be hit with, IS found a 100 pgs into a book when you're ready to put it down for good. Still , one's back pgs is the acquisition of persons' manner we're more easily going to antiquate. Those 4 corners in some room decorated w/projections of whomever would understand you/ we will never know--not really... but I throw dust on images of self-reflection until I see that nothing looks back. AND then the whole winter solace is ahead of me: one man one plain; nothing derivative.

Call it biblacy, but this read was New yet Old

This is probably my first book, besides a Beatles bio, which I had never thumbed thru--this book is called The Rastafarians. (ras=rosh; tafari=tiferet goes from translating the Arabic to Hebrew=head (of) the creator/ Ras tifari+ but I'm no adherent.) I importune a feeling of complacent lounging on my bed or floor in the rooms I grew-up in, as I looked upon this book in my bookcase. It is literally an edifice of those moments, remonstrating perfection in contentment & clarity, though unachieved, claims me as an adherent--toward a noumenon. I intended a vista through walls coming down from there in my solitude into the shelves at Sqecial Media, yes sQecial, where I bought it. It is the advantage in identifying space as a power spot, just as in Don Juan's, A Yaqui Way of Knowledge: It seemed someone had led me to my room & said find where you belong in it. I composed myself until I broke the recluse bounds & tore off pieces of titles languishing in repose, there for my assessment. The BLACK abstraction that was an emanation of word beginnings imparted by Mom, is just that sort of gathering of concepts as my gaze moved around the room & landed upon maybe in OTHER cases, like Gershom Scholem's writings. I am mystic, I am fistic, I am hiss-tic.

The Smell of Unripe Walnut Rinds on Your Hands...

Hill & dale down the walnut tree'd main rd into & between my neighborhood (Beaumont park area) toward suburban ubiquitous devolution behind the local shopping cntr (Gardenside), I'd sometimes walk in the wee hrs, maybe for a juice up at the market. My schizophrenia full-blown at the time, at least, remained laughable to me--even in the seriousness of mind-sore imagery, in this case an auditory hallucination. Literally, dormant interiors to people's secluded rests faltered the broad-scape visual (behind well-kept yards) I sensed...anticipating my own respite, while only being the convergence of their's. Like a whine, patterned from row upon row of houses, I thought the thing I heard was nocturnal communication= people in dialogue in order to sustain a dream state. (I was privy to...) And this (dream state) included the path's vistas I carried forward upon wondering if the language would translate into maybe a morning that this time wouldn't get away from me.

A hobo got to hide--Williamsburg rd. for 27 yrs

First, to step rt into the deep, I saw a chasm of ams, just as many do--seeing active pursuant thoughts that defer us to relationship-social amiable distraction. I'd get up & the meager earnings I accumulated for my lax communication w/others had me question why one would be so willing to be filled up w/such surface affability. I knew that a man who had wrenched his senses thru either his own faults or ultimate suffering had only the blue empyrean to thank, a tree, the smell of breakfasts, the laundry smells wafting thru the suburban-scape--had no abiding & gave no thanks to streams of social interaction, which could no longer suffice for his longing. 2nd, to evade relationship is neither here nor there, relationship IS regardless if the dynamic is presented or as in my case the projection of personas becoming as real as the object reasoned WILL to find an intercessor for my longing (a potential, Yes?). I guess at this pt I might as well admit that I had hallucinated. From the front door of the house One would step out & the grand ash tree of my growing up held the promise of achieving rootedness as nothing else could. People I knew sometimes flew into my wonder, & I sought the fulfillment of imagination, kind of instructing the sense we are ALL present in the threshold of the day, at that very moment. The thing I felt I saw, at once, was ephemeral imagery of my dad, but only in that something that was taking place under the tree. I imagined an elliptical hand-held mirror, kind of hovering as if it was held before a face allowing for a look into what was behind the statement of my projection=me walking by the appended identity of my father.

In Eilot, Israel==Autumnal couple of days

We'd come back from Dahab only hrs before, showered--I extricated the hidden hashish from my ass, & felt a little lost in a homeward-kind of present. I wanted to feel linked up w/complacent reflections of the Danish girls there in the apt. They, at least 2 of the 3, were hooking...flowery still, something nice. I went out to the deck (in the dark desert sky), we were upstairs, laid my head back on the cool rain swept tile & tried to lure a Fall relevance to distance traveled & a back home revelry. The others, my friend Rob (of Red Fly Nation) from here in Lexington, our comrade a British cat about our age, & those women, were all sitting around drinking beer & wine, which didn't interest me, fever was coming on. One really striking chic from Denmark, unusually darker than the others, & I went for a walk the next day--I wanted to go by these solitarian picnic tables & watch traffic, across from the airport near the Red Sea (Yam Suf--actually the Reed Sea). I had earlier in the week seen a morbidly obese wanderer--some woman w/splitting wounds running down her ripped stockinged legs, sitting there mayhem-like. Life had motion, just being w/the Danish chic, however--there was clarity in her attention of me, presuming there was a there there. I fancied Yes, but in reality, I merely thought this out of distraction. Back the night before one of the girls--her--came up on me & pointed out my anti-sociality, then threw a pot of cold water in my face, laughed, and left me alone.

THere's nothin' really, nothin' really to turn Off

Keenan Lawler said from his Myspace, frustration or anger leads One beyond the traditional. (& in the view of the Reviewer, his was a third alternative) TicTOCteac (Lee Perry) thanx G-d for making him mad. We always conjure Order (making a distiction from those things our focus becomes delimited). We see a freshly mown lawn & say, I want it to go like That. But it is like that. But again, I want it to go like that--still it is like that!! (suburban death, is quite another idea) A child whose energy which convalesces in the mundane outside his/her provenance seems wholly possible. And maybe we all projected energy from other planets (...VU's electricity comes from other planets recognized here) Lee Scratch says the Spiritual man IS mad. But I'm certain the MF (namely reprehensible conservative jips) detailing me how he'll make my monies work for me, is as mad as a reckoning of some Absolute will make some One. And yet I am on the front lines of a battle I wage to compete w/Ego...it's all ego, yeah, but when I let go I observe just that deficit in awareness, rather than fill up w/some kind of social status--