Yeah, that Other World

People living in contradistinction of ourselves: The characterization of our old neighborhood had everything to do w/the surface viability of the known. That being I felt ever maintained that people constructed themselves thru appearances & the motility of their recourses around me as assurances they were in comfortable cognizance, all terribly assumed. Then when I spiraled into a solitarian lapse from the crowd, not only was being becoming reductive, but life's entirety became eventful in constant yet more disparate notions. A desert or void of Non-being, maybe spirit world w/only a few evidenciary facts. This narrative is One. = I have sought keys to opening up dormant chambers of the vital norm: meaning, those who live at our periphery--sometimes--see us as mere shadows. And as a shadow I've had the reality of a spirit world open up to me w/out being in the currency of the norm we typically attenuate. My nephews were out pitching baseball. The arc of the ball went barely over my head, & yet they didn't cease or acknowledge me coming between them--more, as I walked past, it was apparent our varied autonomy would not be breached at all. I got to the edge of the yard where they stood, into the neighbor's drive, placed my hands as if upon a ledge, & hefted myself into the air--while a dozen hands across this transparent surface countermanded my repose. I was conscious of the fact that I COULD stand upon this "ledge" & walk up into the adjacent tree...but from there, there was a sense of no-return. So simply, the momentary mid-air posture wasn't acknowledged by the boys, thence I jumped down walking past them again & back into the house. Just like the last few pieces of a puzzle, before I had stepped out of the house initially, I had known that my presence was in somekind of existential pocket. The look into some Cosmic niche first was just the purveyance I could assume from the details of wall decor to the wall's blemishes: obstacles as conduits into broader spatial reality. Distances as vast as a continuum intervening in-place of the immediate physicality, now was hinting at something portending to be bridgeable. & Full-On I wanted to beckon the spiritual nomenclature as I knew only a few other times would access be solvent. Figuratively, I just want to Bomb-Atomic until the next load. But that begs the question, what kind of factors in my environment will offer themselves up to my lowly existence, that I may breach the autonomy this mystically concealed reality has me chained to. Ignorance is concealment, but meanwhile we see that quality of our unknowing as a deficit to fill w/substance. Most people's problem is to fill it up w/self-preservation at the expense of being prone to transition & impermanence. Things go away, so we equal it by assuaging release, & feeling all the better that we hadn't clamored for consciousness. I got news for the unawake, consciousness is there to be won. And the death of one's spirit by dulling down DIFFERENCES that give life this wonderful path, is ridicule of this One World, defrauded by complexity & stress & consumate pain from desire. Truth is In the World, it is an answer outside of us...meaning we have to seek it. UNtil we make observations that consciousness is as much a satellite on our way from point A birth to point B rebirth, we will see ourselves one against the Outward fact. We visit consciousness just as we visit the post office or anywhere else that makes up the pattern of the music we call life in its myriad alliterative path. Consciousness is Outside of us. We scale this Cosmc House--this edifice that is our ever-goal to clothe our souls within.

The Hearth & Dragon at my first Home--some dream

In light of studying--its provenance--I can read Hebrew characters (masoretic), know some vocabulary, but to the point, have thought & meditated on Arabic, just as if it were on the table of scholarship as one imagines Bernard Lewis perhaps going thru evolutions & even convolutions til he saw this language as just as necessary as the Aramaic & Hebrew he'd already acceded-to in proficiency. I dreamt of my cousin's husband, she is a rebbitzen therefore he is a rabbi. He'd begun intently only recently at the time to study Aramaic. In the dream, we stood in my brother's room adjacent to the family room containing the fireplace. As if the ashes were subject to the outdoors, bricks were removed from the back of the grill & cool winter winds mingled thru our basement. Mark's Esher-esque mural in its conveyance dominating the psychic-theme of my early morning vision. I'd presumed it was a Sefardi Jew upon the flying carpet in its eternal loftiness & his view thru a window as out of a wall in a castle, but instead placed in a fold of the carpet. A dragon (leviathan?) to one side of him with maybe a terminating lotus-hand gesture. And to his otherside , the sprawl of a tree, like an axis mundi of the painter himself--I easily imbibe. The rabbi says to me, "read from your siddur (prayer book)!!" Well, it is regularly my motivation to do this--this is perhaps that interval in a few month period when I pick it up. So looking at the script, it may be kufic, but I don't know any Arabic characters, of course. Plainly his nod meant that seeking a teacher to diminish the worry that Judaic thought would lessen if only in my mind--needed a symbol that in fact it wouldn't. Admittedly consciously, I never felt disloyal to things-Jewish if only to study Islamic civilization. (I had one class at the Univ. of Ky, & continue with Goitein, Bernard Lewis, Edward Said *some*, Norman Stillman, Joseph Guttman etc.) But to personify the ideal, was to have some sense of a melamed as the FIRE that I've drawn ever closer toward. It all should be. I don't think that my solitarian home-life is a Promise= these kind of dreams emanating from this refuge--and then fulfilment=the kind of hindsight that I've gotten somewhere with an ideal in finding my mystics in another Arabia, as Kerouac puts it. In that its enormity is become reductive to me in a moment seeing in my mind's eye THe Tiamat, or the Arabian Tiamah cleaved into two=the void now making up a horizon beginning w/the sky above me & the earth at my feet. Marduk had done the cleaving with his great knife, perhaps. Tiamat is to the Hebrew tehom, as this tale is proto-semitic becoming our myth in Genesis (Bereshit). Or in this case a wilderness in a babel of lost tongues with only the language ladder of self-educated presentiments.

From Kerouac, to Afro-Asia, & then dreaming Burroughs

In Kerouac's book Big Sur, Kerouac had walked down to the beach & tried to become conveyed by the ebb & flow & splash. He's coming off the mt. figuratively & momentarily in this intellectually enterprising solitude--meaning the Noumenon that is the source of Our intellectual prowess is going to carry him until his demise. This occurred when walking back from the ocean on a path that passes a stand of trees in which he particularly like to meditate. He sits & waits for instruction that surely is his-only as one's loneliness allows. But there he sees the "ancient rosy colours" behind his eye-lids & w/out its portents--look what has done that to him. If our self-realization was orthodoxy we'd be turning toward something rather than away. The void within sought to obliterate itself. On the other hand, I really think I got the "time" on this thing that Jack Kerouac proffered in On the Road. He says, "for just a moment I had reached the pt. of ecstacy that I always wanted to reach, which was the complete step across chronological time into timeless shadows, & wonderment in the bleakness of the mortal realm, & the sensation of death kicking at my heels to move on, w/a phantom dogging its own heels, & myself hurrying to a plank where all the angels dove off & flew into the holy void of uncreated emptiness, the potent & inconceivable radiancies shining in bright mind essense.... I was too young to know what happened." In view of the mystic approach--my experience was Gershom Scholem's texts on the Kabbalah. I've deliberated upon them since I was 15, I turned 42 a few days ago. I remember lying on the floor, trying to gather the imminent FACT as if sounds-arriving--traffic close by, house settling, birds...whatever would convey me to what Now seems to be What Then I was illustrating in my mind as ascendant chambers, called hekhalot. This is what we might call HigherGround & I'd say every excellently translated Rumi poem draws our attention to these particulars, meaning we are at once temporally grounded--moments later, perhaps, we find that we can reflect What-Is=the experienced-Forms, or in the Jewish Mystic sense, energies called seferot. A weird mental apostacy--run for the exit type existence or fantastic illumined escape, because better-Now than-Ever occurred to me in Fustat looking at what I was told was the oldest synagogue in Cairo. Ravens appearing on my shoulders in my convalescense around the ancient histories of an ent het enheh belief (the castle of my Eternity, in Egyptian), like it was parallel to what I solemnly try to be objective about. So rather than assume our unique history, I wanted to be in the presence of it--the Geniza (domestic memory store) referenced Jews since 1200 yrs ago. This new cultural Roof was an African Sun from white heat to roseate, & leaving fly-ridden langour in our minds as if we were equally as ubiquitous & yet expendable, trying to land on noble purposes for the puzzle of a meritable adventure to lend expression. Burroughs seems to be my cosmogony as Egypt is to an alchemically mindful protagonist dealing with mortality. His book Exterminator has 1 story w/the use of pyretheum--an insect agent used in woman's house whose son had died some yrs before. These introductory moments has his (Burroughs') character sit in the son's very chair where perhaps a 1000 of his lives have passed on. The tweezed out lives in filth-real or in mind, like bugs skewered for consumption, figuratively, filters into images of the 6th floor hostel I stayed in in Cairo. Woolen-filled mattresses, no shuttered window--just a door size opening to the oily air of a city riven of dust & desert. Looking down to the street below, we watched a young man in modern attire chase a weasel down down the street whomping it like a futbol. Malaria was a threat we wondered about, as if our shots would fail & yield to the fantastic universe a world apart from any 1rst world preparations. The muezzin hollarin' & throaty incantations we could tune into on the jam box--all a language whose lexicon was as real as the eliminated solace of our motherTongue in reprimand of our American passport functionaries (etiquette)--seems to be something thrown rt. out the door. The internationalism we assumed 'til then had pathos graffitti'd in roughShod ways across this society at the pains of over-population--should have ethnic definitions apropos for this N. African country just how Linton Kwesi Johnson means it saying that it is the chocolate hr of the red bulb, a stain in the brain & the blood flow. The dreamt Burroughs, was my seeing what striving scenario my sub-conscious comes up with, as we were discussing my book--it was that ephemeral. The thing that took my undivided attention was the whiling away moments looking at the 2 opened pgs which had like-colored balloons with scratched writing in them. They said things like G-d is in Prison; G-d is in Exile; G-d spoke & two things I have heard; & if G-d is On-High then every other place is left vacant. Some had lengthier things said in them, but it was hard to digest as everything--see this--everything was in flux. A subjective view of G-d had been a particular persuasion of Weisel's, imparted to me & the impression was made. So toward the notion of mystic endeavors as dreamscapes in self-security, in conclusion, the imminent G-d is actionable thru "the breaking of the vessels," a Kabbalistic notion where G-d recedes from his-self making room for the Godhead=Adam Kadmon/ primordial man, & the ultimate recipient of "this expression"--humanKind. A word anthem for an alliterative trek.

REd Flying past contentment

Surmising the plain hearth, I gathered the concept of having sought release with the musicians I ran with, now yrs ago. The mayhem tree (as such I dubbed) down on campus seemed to be transition in place, of place, allowing me to yield to the CURRENCY of norm, which I now objectify for its strangeness--it's all good, I feel--nothing to prove. Now there is nothing outside of me, drug or otherwise which has a distance strung toward the box Others fill with contentment, that I can't do myself with the florid hyperstatic way my life flows now. I am movement, life's grand reward, a positivist's momentum. Why I sense my concealment at all, as it has never changed, is almost beyond realization: I could be scaling the exterior of this life's edifice--a house, wanting to get in--or already confined to some "bamot" (immemorial worshipped space) w/expectations on par w/the cosmic. Either way I am buffered by exaltation. Lit nerves of floods raising the proximal to mere reference points that used to be so distant invents the psyche as the appearance of yet another satellite. If I only had the advantage of goal orientation, the conscious map I miss out on is all the past langour 'til now the ever present. It seems thru real focus if I intentionally takes my eyes off the ball for only a moment, then all the stimulation around me, like the hum of traffic, the fans of my computer, noises countered off of the immoveable= all go through me at light speed. But I'm looking off still, so my wave of thought is still body conscious of slo-fi. When kabbalists are acceding to higher chambers of belief & knowledge, it is due to their concealment that they can bury the heart of the "other-side"--the sitra arkha. I am the convergence of wanting in & getting Out. I know that a man who had his senses wrenched thru either his own fault or ultimate suffering, had only the blue empyrean to thank, or 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 not suffice for his longing. If the ulterior self is the "house" on the otherSide, to revisit it is done in the sense of scenarios we've build up & made affable, like a job, coffee shop, shopping cntr, apartment--et cetera! People I have known sometimes fly into my wonder, & I seek 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 by the house I grewUp in, was ephemeral imaginary of my dad, but only in that that something was taking place under the frontYard 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 an appended identity of my father.

A stain in the brain, & the blood flow. Electric lights consoling

The title is borrowed lyrics from Linton Kwesi Johnson. Niggun is the Hebrew term meaning the intonation of prayer-speak...it is the "chocolate hour of the red-bulb." (LKJ)
This essay below is all the assessment from the convolutions of my manOwar attitude even unto going right up & steeling consciousness back from the side of me hiding in meditations. Babylon, the word, means "gate of the gods." Babilui is a more accurate transcription. Had that there was a mean where I live from its grasp, this much I know, that the cool waters of consciousness is WithOut. That is where it "falls." The feeling that comes to a meet & greet of the struggle to maintain within its grasp is the heat of thought coming to my eyes as I seek to reconcile the view outside my window framing the days past. The beginning to my effort, as beginnings go--some strange motive seemed allied & possible. In effect that I could look at my limbo appearance. The first mystery availing the existence I scrutinized thru some Hindu-query of body consciousness beneath the the rung or limb I was then pinned on, was a multi-armed self ambulating as if I had maneuvered to maintain surface affability. I meditate on Lee Perry's reggae electronica primitive beats & lyricism. I had noticed a clef in my brow, a first visual=just a visual of shadowy self, which fortunately I was aware that images would transition & only up until the point of observation/assessment. It was & is just creating a sense of fluid movement casual non-compliance w/a set way of administering to a day's embrace, or its lack of embrace...! It isn't any formal understanding of posture, visualization, mantra et cetera: eg Aum would have been a lack of embrace, no observation of release so, I decided on Aum tic Sat toc Tot teac. Thinking that soon I'll do something creative has immediacy written all over it. In fact by thinking it, I'm not even in process. Just to conceptualize "wanting" to be in good presence of mind becomes incindiary, as in the words book or mysterion, which sits on the floor of consciousness & I have to admit I'm merely a potential. Hebrew got heavy like this. I had already sped thru the silence of a few Hebrew prayers, which were typified as Un-Eastern (which they're kinda not un-Eastern), & unfortunately ungravid from a kind of refuted familiarity. As of now I believe in liquid skies and expect a sad man to stand up in my eyes.

Saturday indicating the MusicScene's Embrace=WRFL

Monk-like in the final yrs in the house where I lived for 27 yrs, growing up was a Mutual Arising of the look of self supernally--but rarely if only on this one occasion. Now writing this, the hr seems late. Wakeful dreams, but nothing special, just a feeling in my eyes as if the room is in a mirror in my eyes--& this may be all the look of Higher Self I am permissed. I recorded a session of bongoPlaying primitively & laughable, but the measure of the pt. was to grasp the affable look into certain recesses of the day that had otherwise eluded me. If Babylon was falling, I met it at the door, there in my room radiating light in my concealment, with my weight leaving impressions in the blue carpet from the 60s beneath me. My concern was that the peak of a solitarian day made observable--the very crescendo like an arc of the Sun we screw, & thus being not late for it. The patternic bongo beats telegraphed in a conversation I wanted to hear. I wanted to hear what I might otherwise say if only to be neither the habit of self, but recognizable as an ally in time. This claim to division of self was what the crowd enjoined me to grasp the solitude again now with them as one-Body. (April 26th 2008) I could have stood there all night, but alas at 42--as of next month, the recreated intensity all dithery toward the mundane & the norm of weariness is refocused seeing Tony Briggs in the crowd. (& I had thought & meditated on his person(ality) some days before, & now glad to see him.) History of the musicScene real &/or ephemeral gets claimed as just the same conversation (=dread & beat) -- actionable but tilted into my subjective cause now=the hr spat it had gotten late. If not for me, then definitely for him--or it would seem--but regretting this summation. Rob & I met him yrs ago & it's not me that I think the rub of acknowledgement was his glance & stride past me as I stood prone to the message makers--these down folks whose scan across the crowd is a conscious-party, whereas I yield to a jumping off point the first time words were exchanged. Tony was at this gathering over by UK's campus--near the fireHouse, & people were milling about in & out of openDoors & plateauing Minds. There was probably 2 yard bags full of herb on the kitchen floor... I said to Rob,"dude, this guy is pivotal in the creative energy in Lexington's musicScene." My oldest brother's words figured prominently. So, Rob & I went & introduced ourselved out front/asking him what he thought of our own bag of shake--would anybody want this stuff? Still all day unto what was called down watching The Apples in Stereo playing wallFlowered auditive power: I thought, "yes me friend we take the streets again." --from B Marley & the Wailers' Burnin' album. In the ethereal way the Rastas interpret urbanTrascendence, like what The Ethiopians sing: One Day We'll Walk the Streets Forever, it is verily idealistic & antithetical that we would & should defy impermanence.

Repeat of some imagery, but I had to mention Crowley this time

Aleister Crowley painted in red letters--in Up-state NY upon a cliff (@ the turn of last century, thereabout)--Do what Thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law. (&-granted, he is no example of humility) This would apply had someone made a solemn sacrifice: some grandiose measure of self which we could relinquish because it had become a less than humble factor. Bob Marley said, My Head is My Home. We stand tall wanting the puzzle of thought to complete the experential picture. Krishnamurti calls us out--on this--with a practical sense definition that Thought is Fear. If your rule is Thought as Reprieve, then the "valley of indecision" (somewhat derivative Marley-ism) is around you & you have no Higher Ground!! Sacrifice thought, this side of yourself, if it is a means to your security. The answer is outside of Us...there is no autonomy. A noumenon started with Zadie, as if he were a recipient of long ends of my days spilling headFilled ideas of life back at our original** home. He *had* lived in Up-state Ny & as if life "is one big road w/lots of signs" (B.Marley), then the image of Crowley having put his graffiti up, had Zadie written all over it. If only to bare the sense of accumulated & drab of mind drive there, like at its peak, was all a granted finish to the anticipation the Native American land could wash across my epiphenomenal convalescence in the North. (the point being that the episteme--how we know thought--is only in that we do it!!) Also, the map of being on top of something creates a suspension of Will, & yet the energy of thought was more actionable, than the slow-Fi days wiling away all ahead of me (just hanging, no different than the tangible skies & roof of back home). The narcotic effect-as a heirophant of edenic philosophy, had the glossiness in the obstacles making up my day make me fall into dross matter, as if the corporeal body, this physical soul of mine, had to gesture at an ever wider berth of its langour. Up-state Ny--treed & obsolete in my mind, like boughs of protective limbs in corridors of paths thru woods, was a green uniformity of streams whose surfaces I broke & into the first tentative breath of air in vapors, made breathing seem washed because the integrated moment was vital & fresh. Words complicating, even implicating identity are necessarily limited. As an attribute of Higher Ground, my subjective cause, asking who is the atman self--like Our Maker, is querying an indefatigable question...no end in sight. At the home of my growing up**, I see the ground of being around the house reeled into the leveling out of intellectual effort as I proceed back into repose within (the domecile). The brownstones mentioned in Alfred Kazin's A Walk in the City, a Jew in his environs, lent to me from Wiesel's eponymous Williamsburg NY--as if, & also the name of my street, were the nationalities we'd expect symbolized by one structure then the next--just as my neighborhood grew personalities & prying eyes reflecting my scrutiny, therein ever more.

Mind made-up of a dream-dump

Made reference to Louis Jorge Borges' short story in a dream post, recently. How there is intermediary space, just as his character lies proximal to the forested mantles, but within an ampitheater, in the middle of the gradins progressing outwardly. His intent is to dream a personification of his archetypal self--himself as his own son, I think--maybe in a story called the Circular Ruins...! I'm conjuring this all to suppose just how the psychic strife in night vision avails life's path, but only at the point of convalescense--say from exiting a room, across a threshold--outside of it into a bigger pallet. Somehow toward gaining our strain of objectivity from the loam of mind where in fact we become limited from imagination now arguably the colorless space of marginalized sentient greed--in dream imagery! The point here is that you are still every characterization of time & place, & the beauty of it is that that negative space looses its anthropos conjecture. You've become vibrant properties of sensory activity, say "white noise" --torpidity rather than ambivalence. So, all thru the mischief of three conversations the day before this all hit me, I felt I owed a debt of intensity to some better creative explanate moment==thought battling!!! And then after some reading & the cognitive resources having been once-jettisoned now all in memory reflection & at the ready, I got back to full effect.

Farmland a street over

Thoughts started with Zadie, as if he was a recipient of long ends of my days spilling headFilled ideas of life back at our original home. Frequently I was going down to the creek or out into our backyard to read in seclusion. I see the paradisiacal Ground-of-Being around the house reeled into the leveling-out of intellectual effort as I proceed back for my repose within (the domecile). Sitting on the tiled floor in my unwell-lit room, I attached some significance to thinking formulaically, which left me wondering how vital Wakefulness was. And again, how few the words are in my mind to maintain a sense of this beginning. All beginnings necessarily suggest everything is possible. But for the fear that the new dawn fades is also a beginning, to a din of restraint. I held a Marcus Aurelius book, its covers in shreds, in my desk drawer--my feeling of resigned "fate" to the exudation of these peeling tiles, probably not the stoicism a solitarian existant slacker could call covenantial. Had I looked out of my basement window & felt my way back the day before, it would have been a gathering of the concept of a Yiddish exercise book & hymnal. The standard for its care was my dream: I saw some thought-image of self go to Mom's bookcase & rip the pages from the crease outward. The intention was to dare the watery materiel to come together back from its opposite=this dis/ease. Only one other floor--stone like Israeli architecture demanded (in Petah Tikvah), but cold in the proximal Mediterranean environs, had seized me & moulded a perspective as tangible as a feeling in my eyes that something Jewish, Sefardic, would herald in time-well-spent of the future coming to pass. The furthest reaches of reflection on todays climate--this air, all a thread til then--MaKiNg sense of headwaters in Zadie as concept toward identity he granted me, a hierophant to edenic philosophy! Down by Kenton's Blue Hole, a natural spring, sometimes in tentative breaths I can imagine Now, it was as if I'd just surfaced in a body of water...& into the first breath of air-in vapors that seemed washed because I Was, & the integrated moment is fresh, vital... The narcotic effect of the glossiness in the obstacles making up my day had me fall into dross matter as if the corporeal body, this physical soul of mine, had to gesture at an ever widening berth of its langour. The "brownstones" mentioned in A. Kazin's A Walk in the City,... a Jew in his environs, lent? to me from Elie Wiesel's eponymous Williamsburg, N.Y., the name also of the street I grew up on, were full of the nationalities we'd expect symbolized by one structure then the next--just as my neighborhood grew personalities & prying eyes reflecting my scrutiny, therein evermore.

The Blue Slumber of the Moon-soaked Shade**

If only someone said Now You know everything... This idea comes to me late in the night sometimes--even now trying to reproduce this seems endless & hopeless at the same time. The zeigeist & formalism that heralded the Eastern philo to the West--I suppose--was the interpretation of the triad force of soul in the idea of Body Mind & Expression... usually til this read, what I'm referencing, I had seen that Spirit was in place of Expression. So, it ensued that a correlative was somehow there, but not implied. That in its (this triad) similar use in Jewish Mysticism, RuaKh is used in terms of Spirit, or Emotion & Soul. But, now I've learned it is also the word for Wind--like what swept the world before Light was created ex nihilo. Expression of Taoism fits nicely w/Emotion in the Kabbalistic sense. The climb to limit the langour of Feeling, to transcend it, is learnt from now knowing the Cntr of your awareness is a span of Outward fact beginning w/that illustration in mind that has to be set free. Just to note, what gives me context is that personification--these Western ascetics--somehow are interpreting all the while, making me look askew at something w/manifold truth, but colored in Traditional language/western lexicon--I end up making Amends that the liturgy would be obsolete in the force of its original intent (a Chinese language), so I'd have to play this game of trailing the ecstaticism while demanding a quieter Mind...
**the title from Artur Rimbaud

Before the gate, upon the the door's rib

Seeing how I or anyone gets caught-up in the fray of gratification giving-up to their on-line due, I can't but hit a wall with absolutely no contours...if I want to turn away from it & toward more encumbent Thought in a read from a book. It's like the nemesis of the ubermensch on the boardwalk--he sees the man w/purpose & faces himself momentarily to proove something to him Or not= all & all his motive is bland, but his infirmary is evident because of his desire to run into the ubermensch & stop his momentum. One Sunday am., going to the in-laws for breakfast, the car I follow across the burbs has the sense on offer that he was off into the horizon, into the roseate rising sun, an overt direction meaning multiply. For whatever reason, possibly thru our dissipation, it may occur to us that we at least want a motive--& it is all too clear it manifests looking toward others, because we don't!!--at least it can start there. The abject reflections are a solarity whose sheen contains us but had just set that other car free. And an Otherness-purpose left my manic rumble taking up the rear while embalmed w/the houses at the periphery, confirming my hypostasis. This am. I reach to the cats, in play, & sense I have a varicolored day ahead. Visiting this one image, back on Transylvania ave (a Univ. of Ky's neighborhood, heavily treed, long wide median)--I'm over for a cup of Red Zinger. My brother looks at me, it's concise his bearing is tethered to academia & the filter of my irresponsibility is perhaps this wall w/so few contours: it just takes a glance from the bookish toil he's used to, to gather the simplicity implicit when we (him & now I) have the wisdom of so much of that effort. And leaving that mt-top is rather having our backs to the peak in hesitant moments looking at others or Something that suggests slack reigns. There is something recognizable about finding our footing in Purpose that we-the nemesis of the ubermensch, call our cntr, but now from withOut.

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.