LAW of ATTRACTION or Future INSIGHT...
So, consider the best thing we'd ever realize is a mutual arising. Like usually that "Other" does her thing, has a silent holy path, not unlike yours, maybe unillustrated, yet yes we know she did--it's there. So, if we were comfortable with ego's decisive consolation that we are not alone... If If, then we see her before she pierced you w/the offering of identity credibly identity that we sound out as our intuition they'd be met. I dream of folks before meeting them, for one thing, it may be my intention, but I didn't will it, but they did. Or something numinous over both of us did.
...because I'm certain ad absurdum reigns, I don't control the climate of the greater will! I like the Hindu prescription for Brahman. He can only manifest what is, and there is nothing outside the known. So, Nothing IS. I'm certain not much is going on around here. Most folks would agree. War War & rumors of war. Not much I can do about it. (a whole lotta of nothing, boohoo!) I'm certainly not going to dream my insight into a POlitical animal's mind. That may mean it would get in the way by imagining, like in the Song of Songs, this Orchard (think paradisiacal new day) where beauty is courted was instead abridged by Authorial fuckers. "This place comes to be a ghost town til the government comes along and pushes it down." *Marley. Ghost equals spirit, and my spirit is in the material, I can't control the material void. It controls me. If the white man is destined to wander the forest alone, and the "People" are the trees, I have to thank G^d I ain't that white man. Just an endless cycle of tree birth, a total product of sweet sun, the extinquishing hush of fires, air, and water's mercy.
In Israel met up with Ellister, this man from Sud Afrique who had fought in the South African army fighting Cubans in Angola. He told us a story that'd be bleak if not for his stout delivery, incorruptable--deliberative as Saharan wastes and our reprieve. I think about his mention of interogations, but the prescient moment is actually the "terrorist's" self-scrutiny and my window on it was irrespective of Ellister's intent, perhaps, yet to actively say honor someone's own personal struggle--I give him all due credit.
An African man is bathing in a stream--this "terrorist" in fact. He could've been certain the sky is the limit, so much more space his developing world would then on out graduate to. In the stream thoughts like tarrying stones are engrossed by a surface struggle, shimmering awhile like his lucidity, he is seeing flotsum as if the overstanding sky would still be obfuscated by distance.
This flotsum coalesces around his guffaw, a smile recorded as if, but the sky-line now so apparent on the plastic surface of cool stream, is close, very close--the imminent threat was almost known, the world squeezing in on him now. Violence will ensue, no time for familial goals to make his head the event of the season. My impulse is to lash out, and languishing motives to compare my compassion and its warrant to spread something convalescent around has never been as negotiable as this thing making Ellister's struggle more apart of the real world--awe was self-defeating...
Just above me, and I seem to only look before me, yet something so liminal--a conscious satellite, intermediary space, nobody On-High, I reckon I need a roof, as Rastas theosophize... I want to paint on it. I thought to draw from eternality, not from veils & maya/illusion. I thought dim recesses would make my occupied-room have sky-boundaried limits, yet only just above is the last thing I can reach!
Because it is just language til we're extinguishing the last thing drowning in dross matter--truth at its depths, language would be a ladder til expression means precisely the One, & the one thing right past symbolic living (our only key) is that which suffocates vivification in Truth. (meaning I & I live, but only thru the definition of impermanence, as opposed to defining to Live--'cause I can't...) And truth redeems, but denies us the valley of indecision, where happily we while away to endure all our values in the horde of truths meaning a devastating weapon against stimulation from the exhaustive answers, with no query concommitant. I taste my broken tiled basement floor, a sheen on it defying the ever sleep-inducing aloof attribute that somehow I can step lightly and not awaken anew a responsibility for this floor of consciousness. Window sometimes at my back, while I meditate & look at the projection of radiating season's day, what comes on top is going on down--just surmising the backyard like I was turned to it, and yet I drew thoughts into the radon enthused fore.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Thursday, September 09, 2010
Seen, like darshana, the dust off my feet never washed
Thinking about Art Shaw, Dave Brubeck... jazz w/such exultation that my thanks and praises now get its parallel canticle if only in my sole ululation of the word peace going thru my mind. Wrote a letter to my baby today. She's lept to the recesses waiting for the loading to begin, her pollution hiding should have been keenly understood by me soliciting quiet. The pregnant moments is say Coltrane's sounds arriving, is definitely a "silent" accord, because now in listening and receiving his art, it is so subtle something akin to quietude is the fulmination.
All that lash of transparency collected her troubled-cycle and self-denial, and I have to wonder when is our ethical standard mimicking beauty as we see it, just as in the music we listen to... Doesn't want to be seen like that (in her transperancy), wants to persist answering for malaise. "Old Brown" as in Marley's cultural nuance is baby's symbol for the rat race she runs now. He says Old Brown was my Bed Last Night. It's a terrible lament I feeel thinking about this. All I've seen in my view, is my shoes getting more proud land to trod, yet environs change as people deliver themselves an anitiquated pedestrian path. There's is no where to go if you decide on appearances over reality--I need this veil of our existing's illusion as nothing short of an Orchard where civilty bred peace from order, eudaemonia, the sought after nirvana's predeased last hurrah, and a fountain that I so badly want to approach. A fountain is a resource, coming from message music, and the conscious message received is rarely with language having an understood meaning behind it, but rather has form like bird song. Birds of Paradise brings on DReams, and dreams are made of our call & response with chaos placed in context as in mind-vessels so that our senses can be oh so subtley stroked and forgiven for having made us over-wrought...
~~What are the dimensions concerning I-tal (vital) living? A bridge to awareness. Beauty too, like a deep well, but too short of a rope to gather it, so it remains mere emanations. Beyond that some river, river in sight, suggests One thing's better because it's prolific, unreserved, continuous, bisecting the world until the ocean is full. Walk to its edge, feel the report of the whole, but we cannot enter. Seemingly the passing away of things necessarily has proof that we exist. I dreamt about an astrolabe. If we dream, thereby we Exist. Objectivity about impermanence ensued. Hypothetically, friends say he's amiss, expiring like his lovedONE. If only for a moment, the rotation of our time instrument left me aloft: looking at it, sun graduated then found its terrestrial berth, the moon spiritually true turned my glimpse to the blue of the dome. My friend there is only now.
~~I try to lie near in supplication. I throw coffers in the river for propitiation. I render my G^d unto the earth's evolution. I stand clear of the digression of revolution. I'm lighting a fire from my humiliation. I rent my mind, like wu hsin in Dao philosophization. I burned every bridge looking for substanciation, denied all institutionalization. I ended this fight with a conflagration. Losing our inhibitions only sometimes tarnishes the filter... ~~I'm so not trying to make friends just to be congratulated that I'm expiring just like he or she. But as much, I love anyone in the herd. If you live you love, & giving away light-provoked days I never imagined would pass, conflagrations. Like reading in Beaumont prk I was received so much later than when I let go. The sky & trees colluded, I'm sitting in snow, & the world took its stale libations. Just watching the auditive Universe like a splash & plurb in the event of our minds. I really get a sense of waking up in a dream. Sometimes diminutively, minutely, but awakened IS the feeling. My nephew watched Ravi play and thought it was a strange feeling like he wanted to merge w/the beatific sounds. It was like his heart opened up, he said. We want to find the objective reality so bad, that we are ultimately inundated w/the voidant conscious concern...drowned and saved at once.
~~Step into 1 part of the ocean, & feel the report of the whole: an allegory to The Book of Ethics, Talmud. Under the shade, across the road from the blueberry patch, I'd sit and rifle thru some of these ancient scribings. I was up in the Catskills mts, sand at my feet, the Other Shore seems apropriate in light of the temporal yet spectral space I attended to, languidly furthering the alliterative path. As here, similarly, when I bent over to wipe the plum off in the grass, a thousand lives spent went thru my head. My brother and I sharing blueberries up in the Catskills, or sharing at least those environs--many lives spent and relived. Definitely eating prickley pear fruit from the cacti in Boynton canyon, near Sedona is becoming a constant narrative. I never realize til I'm there, but the utility of nature worship is my sole reason to be and to become an example of a good student of life.
In Jewish thought no fantasy, angel, person, or saint can intercede in our need to enter into dialogue with the Transcendent. If meditation or theoria = contemplation! is the ends of man, then "lament" to whatever it is to that which is greater than yourself, thus not of your assertions about the World, now IS the World's assertion over You.
Imagine a circle within a circle. In the middle is G^d, in the one surrounding is Jesus. X-tians would freely ambulate, relate and coalesce between the two--so that there would be no obstacle, or need for supposing thresholds like intercessors anew. Jews, as with anyone's Free Will, may choose to remain within the inner-circle. Does that make sense?
**Mind furniture in array, and nowhere to sit: if our numinous selves demanded order, feng shui would indicate the imminent door toward oblivion, but no direction home is the norm. My head is a jungle anyway--and dreams are the animal denizens. The likelyhood that I find cool waters to sit by, is when stones tarry, like thoughts on the surface glad and reflecting.
All that lash of transparency collected her troubled-cycle and self-denial, and I have to wonder when is our ethical standard mimicking beauty as we see it, just as in the music we listen to... Doesn't want to be seen like that (in her transperancy), wants to persist answering for malaise. "Old Brown" as in Marley's cultural nuance is baby's symbol for the rat race she runs now. He says Old Brown was my Bed Last Night. It's a terrible lament I feeel thinking about this. All I've seen in my view, is my shoes getting more proud land to trod, yet environs change as people deliver themselves an anitiquated pedestrian path. There's is no where to go if you decide on appearances over reality--I need this veil of our existing's illusion as nothing short of an Orchard where civilty bred peace from order, eudaemonia, the sought after nirvana's predeased last hurrah, and a fountain that I so badly want to approach. A fountain is a resource, coming from message music, and the conscious message received is rarely with language having an understood meaning behind it, but rather has form like bird song. Birds of Paradise brings on DReams, and dreams are made of our call & response with chaos placed in context as in mind-vessels so that our senses can be oh so subtley stroked and forgiven for having made us over-wrought...
~~What are the dimensions concerning I-tal (vital) living? A bridge to awareness. Beauty too, like a deep well, but too short of a rope to gather it, so it remains mere emanations. Beyond that some river, river in sight, suggests One thing's better because it's prolific, unreserved, continuous, bisecting the world until the ocean is full. Walk to its edge, feel the report of the whole, but we cannot enter. Seemingly the passing away of things necessarily has proof that we exist. I dreamt about an astrolabe. If we dream, thereby we Exist. Objectivity about impermanence ensued. Hypothetically, friends say he's amiss, expiring like his lovedONE. If only for a moment, the rotation of our time instrument left me aloft: looking at it, sun graduated then found its terrestrial berth, the moon spiritually true turned my glimpse to the blue of the dome. My friend there is only now.
~~I try to lie near in supplication. I throw coffers in the river for propitiation. I render my G^d unto the earth's evolution. I stand clear of the digression of revolution. I'm lighting a fire from my humiliation. I rent my mind, like wu hsin in Dao philosophization. I burned every bridge looking for substanciation, denied all institutionalization. I ended this fight with a conflagration. Losing our inhibitions only sometimes tarnishes the filter... ~~I'm so not trying to make friends just to be congratulated that I'm expiring just like he or she. But as much, I love anyone in the herd. If you live you love, & giving away light-provoked days I never imagined would pass, conflagrations. Like reading in Beaumont prk I was received so much later than when I let go. The sky & trees colluded, I'm sitting in snow, & the world took its stale libations. Just watching the auditive Universe like a splash & plurb in the event of our minds. I really get a sense of waking up in a dream. Sometimes diminutively, minutely, but awakened IS the feeling. My nephew watched Ravi play and thought it was a strange feeling like he wanted to merge w/the beatific sounds. It was like his heart opened up, he said. We want to find the objective reality so bad, that we are ultimately inundated w/the voidant conscious concern...drowned and saved at once.
~~Step into 1 part of the ocean, & feel the report of the whole: an allegory to The Book of Ethics, Talmud. Under the shade, across the road from the blueberry patch, I'd sit and rifle thru some of these ancient scribings. I was up in the Catskills mts, sand at my feet, the Other Shore seems apropriate in light of the temporal yet spectral space I attended to, languidly furthering the alliterative path. As here, similarly, when I bent over to wipe the plum off in the grass, a thousand lives spent went thru my head. My brother and I sharing blueberries up in the Catskills, or sharing at least those environs--many lives spent and relived. Definitely eating prickley pear fruit from the cacti in Boynton canyon, near Sedona is becoming a constant narrative. I never realize til I'm there, but the utility of nature worship is my sole reason to be and to become an example of a good student of life.
In Jewish thought no fantasy, angel, person, or saint can intercede in our need to enter into dialogue with the Transcendent. If meditation or theoria = contemplation! is the ends of man, then "lament" to whatever it is to that which is greater than yourself, thus not of your assertions about the World, now IS the World's assertion over You.
Imagine a circle within a circle. In the middle is G^d, in the one surrounding is Jesus. X-tians would freely ambulate, relate and coalesce between the two--so that there would be no obstacle, or need for supposing thresholds like intercessors anew. Jews, as with anyone's Free Will, may choose to remain within the inner-circle. Does that make sense?
**Mind furniture in array, and nowhere to sit: if our numinous selves demanded order, feng shui would indicate the imminent door toward oblivion, but no direction home is the norm. My head is a jungle anyway--and dreams are the animal denizens. The likelyhood that I find cool waters to sit by, is when stones tarry, like thoughts on the surface glad and reflecting.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Backyard view in my contentment's collapse
Humans get that we are other--there are Others. At any point in the day I think
that someone also resolved existential crisis as I just did. The lower animals
jump from the cosmic plank into the abysmal empirical momentum of its life
force, never just following the subjective self unto the Objective Other.
This youth--I say youth, I was yet 21-22 yrs old then, while we worked as extras on a movie set in Israel (It was called Riding the Edge.), had been abusing the stereotypical recalcitrant mule--there riding him into the encampment where we all stood dressed as bedouine. This part of my trip to Israel and Egypt, was the Israel leg after the magic of secreting away hashish up my bum and bringing it into Eilot Israel. Turns out they didn't search our stuff anyway.
~~But the high (Winter's) sun of Egypt was fully embraced precisely during the day of the trip to Luxor, outa Cairo. Night of the red-bulb seemed below the surface. On the train, this young boy stared at me--eyes searing, from the fore for the handful of hours it took to meet the Valley of Kings' and Queens' destination. Off the train, in Luxor, my life assessed in some surface moment--palimpsest, no controling Americana vibe, the desert skies shared with me, but I was clouded with little apprehension of my trodding. I'm hidden while there--but the sky is the limit.
If one were to realize the negligence of memory, maybe as an animal quickly loses the impulse of mistrust had it started out that way, when DO you experience the perfect MIND? A tree in its sprawl, like architecture over-coming the skyline? Wu hsin, no-mind, is mind enough, like the Daoists? Like an artist's profile demurred, preoccupied, effortless? IN Neil Young's MIND, a fine mind, as he lyricked? When do you sense your condition, and at its peak?
Seeing the lighted field of all the impressions folks have made on me, and reducing those ideal circumstance of perchance a meet and greet again toward just that image of light as high as my lifted chin, just before me, as I peered to my forgiving backyard out of my bedroom on the second floor, it's clear Hell isn't half as bad as what it took to get there. But dude--I am clear in mind when I tell you--It is______& I have been there.
Turning off and tuning in, something monastic, sitting sitting in lament controls me. Seems that spirits unabiding laugh that in my loss of religion or culture--or something about self-realization, I forget to laugh with them. Still, my purpose is stalwart and bidden.
"Sitting" in the meditational sense is a Retreat--experiencing it for moments sometimes yrs. This Rabbi takes my ridicule of herioc's past--wars and rumors of wars, and says that 25yrs in a cave was to thwart the Romans authorial destructive body. If he was threatened at all--the heights he will have obtained in scribing The Book of Splendor (Zohar--the primary and seminal book of Jewish mysticism) was man clearly desolved into and elation within social poverty. I want to be all about that. No mind, wu hsin in Dao Thought, means no norm, no request of me to die in a river of sight, til absurdum makes my head the event of the season...all I see is ancient rosy colors behind eyelids, and image is language enough.
~*When ASked about Religious Affliation, a good FRiend said Love above All!!*~
"Love above all?" Ok. But I have a thought: Amidst some sense that all results, like the thoughts, feelings, and actions--all these allegories to higher ground, may be sensed and draw us into saying I am. So "I am" can be rent from that center of awareness when LOVE starts its career into me being responsible for someone when IN THAT moment they can't be other (it's the movement of your emotion!); other than the thoughtful RESULT of mind dealing with what Hannah Arendt denotes as semblances. Just dealing with symbols--which would be our only statement about TRanscendence, just that it isn't transcendence (maybe)/or even love, but just BEING... In Jewish thought, no fantasy, angel, person, or saint can intercede in our need to enter into dialogue with the Transcendent. If meditation or theoria = contemplation! is the ends of man, then lament to whatever it is that would be that which is greater than yourself, thus not of your assertions about the World, but the World's assertion over You.
~Our mind, like an ambulating wheel on an endless track is potent, truly but merely a potential, and only when it is exercised from the little trouble of our self-worth do we know that we've been indicated in an I & I sense of relationship. That is love in its peak moment, but more than that, all attributes are called off when the Candle is Blown Out.
that someone also resolved existential crisis as I just did. The lower animals
jump from the cosmic plank into the abysmal empirical momentum of its life
force, never just following the subjective self unto the Objective Other.
This youth--I say youth, I was yet 21-22 yrs old then, while we worked as extras on a movie set in Israel (It was called Riding the Edge.), had been abusing the stereotypical recalcitrant mule--there riding him into the encampment where we all stood dressed as bedouine. This part of my trip to Israel and Egypt, was the Israel leg after the magic of secreting away hashish up my bum and bringing it into Eilot Israel. Turns out they didn't search our stuff anyway.
~~But the high (Winter's) sun of Egypt was fully embraced precisely during the day of the trip to Luxor, outa Cairo. Night of the red-bulb seemed below the surface. On the train, this young boy stared at me--eyes searing, from the fore for the handful of hours it took to meet the Valley of Kings' and Queens' destination. Off the train, in Luxor, my life assessed in some surface moment--palimpsest, no controling Americana vibe, the desert skies shared with me, but I was clouded with little apprehension of my trodding. I'm hidden while there--but the sky is the limit.
If one were to realize the negligence of memory, maybe as an animal quickly loses the impulse of mistrust had it started out that way, when DO you experience the perfect MIND? A tree in its sprawl, like architecture over-coming the skyline? Wu hsin, no-mind, is mind enough, like the Daoists? Like an artist's profile demurred, preoccupied, effortless? IN Neil Young's MIND, a fine mind, as he lyricked? When do you sense your condition, and at its peak?
Seeing the lighted field of all the impressions folks have made on me, and reducing those ideal circumstance of perchance a meet and greet again toward just that image of light as high as my lifted chin, just before me, as I peered to my forgiving backyard out of my bedroom on the second floor, it's clear Hell isn't half as bad as what it took to get there. But dude--I am clear in mind when I tell you--It is______& I have been there.
Turning off and tuning in, something monastic, sitting sitting in lament controls me. Seems that spirits unabiding laugh that in my loss of religion or culture--or something about self-realization, I forget to laugh with them. Still, my purpose is stalwart and bidden.
"Sitting" in the meditational sense is a Retreat--experiencing it for moments sometimes yrs. This Rabbi takes my ridicule of herioc's past--wars and rumors of wars, and says that 25yrs in a cave was to thwart the Romans authorial destructive body. If he was threatened at all--the heights he will have obtained in scribing The Book of Splendor (Zohar--the primary and seminal book of Jewish mysticism) was man clearly desolved into and elation within social poverty. I want to be all about that. No mind, wu hsin in Dao Thought, means no norm, no request of me to die in a river of sight, til absurdum makes my head the event of the season...all I see is ancient rosy colors behind eyelids, and image is language enough.
~*When ASked about Religious Affliation, a good FRiend said Love above All!!*~
"Love above all?" Ok. But I have a thought: Amidst some sense that all results, like the thoughts, feelings, and actions--all these allegories to higher ground, may be sensed and draw us into saying I am. So "I am" can be rent from that center of awareness when LOVE starts its career into me being responsible for someone when IN THAT moment they can't be other (it's the movement of your emotion!); other than the thoughtful RESULT of mind dealing with what Hannah Arendt denotes as semblances. Just dealing with symbols--which would be our only statement about TRanscendence, just that it isn't transcendence (maybe)/or even love, but just BEING... In Jewish thought, no fantasy, angel, person, or saint can intercede in our need to enter into dialogue with the Transcendent. If meditation or theoria = contemplation! is the ends of man, then lament to whatever it is that would be that which is greater than yourself, thus not of your assertions about the World, but the World's assertion over You.
~Our mind, like an ambulating wheel on an endless track is potent, truly but merely a potential, and only when it is exercised from the little trouble of our self-worth do we know that we've been indicated in an I & I sense of relationship. That is love in its peak moment, but more than that, all attributes are called off when the Candle is Blown Out.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
The Flow into my Unknown: ending w/ the Reed Sea here.
The place of all my changes: In my sabbatical from the world, in the throes of schizophrenia social disaffection, I hoofed it around that neighborhood a lot. I'd go down to the church rightt there to the right of the end of Lane Allen Rd. and on Parkers Mill Rd., sit or lie under a one of the pine trees in the parking lot and read. Did so in spittles of rain--it was vehemently the best thing I could've been doing for myself at the time. My heart is at the very center of my being imagining my education in those moments of reprieve. Pines all around, woodchucks scrabbling into the hillock, upon whose peak I was lying in repose.
I'd also go to Beaumont park, to the pit--a sinkhole, and sit within the confines of the fencing, to read and meditate. I was seeking a backdoor to get find a way into a social requiem that had normalcy's vantage point--and clearly ascetic, historical studies were my venue!! ...for me, it worked!
Like Kerouac's rendevous in a stand of trees on the way to the shore's edge,
Ancient rosy colors in my eyes (using Kerouac's imagery), as I sit in theoria repose, has me realize all my power-spots have been well-worn, and now I am trying to find the eye of the needle, so that I may compound what necessarily is my advantage --the need for results.
Lee Scratch Perry is very instrumental in redefining where like the sands blowing over me from Salvador Dali's The Broken Bridge and the Dream, tent-poles of consciousness are the prodigy of self-possession, in pillaresque and unbroken shadows throughout morning's arrival on a desert plain. The desert was the blanketing atmosphere, and reduced characterizations I could ever imagine in a glance at the somehow dynamic "me!"
Papillion's hell, makes heat (in this desert's life) the demon, and the coolness of dreams is still the lure of his agni-mind, whilst skewering insects to dine on: this stark circumstance, pained and monk-like abbreviates an on-going memory reflection I have when I felt this dynamic selflessness was my loosing personae...slowly reduced to more subtle soft-machine "bodies," and less able to be borne unto anything that could show me an exercise in self-worth. There is no woe worth my lament now, I think.
But here's what Anselm of Cantebury said a thousand yrs ago. One can conceive of a being that which nothing greater can be conceived. Eternity maybe, yet I am emanating that quality of Our awareness...OK? So, that which nothing greater can be conceived is the end-game: Impermanence is the rule, for every quality of these 10,000 things we enjoin, if not now, maybe not ever--evidently we can know as much!
My good friend says in a raga ryddim (sic) that of 10 or more dimensions of which we can't SPEAK, but that we KNOW of, makes me respond as follows: The caged monkey is my interpretation of that; the mind which keeps us in the throes unknowns, doesn't necessarily indicate realities, just semblances.
**Meditation upon nothingness, is merely DOING something about Nothing--giving substance to what otherwise was the result of our SENSE of emptiness, beautiful vast emptiness. My interlocuttor seemed to support an awareness on Nothingness, yet then turn around and say it's tedious, uncomfortable. I am not saying meditating on nothing is anything but a result--space the "final" frontier where things go away or not. But once we develop what at once is the absolute, the all or nothing PrinciPAL, we then can reduce our presumptious, strenuously fulminate/foolish selves, that ecstatic mind and soul of ours, in a way for answering for LESS OF it. Less of our life's fulmination, the mischievious mind... THe best way to be. Remember the Use of the Word, Absolute--it is the most supreme value in our vain symbolic language that we'd use to call G^D, Ayn-sof...the Endless, Eternal. But pivoting upon awareness, always a KNown, never an Unknown.
**I know when I have/am conscious of half-thoughts, or have a whole idea. I'm fully aware of deficits in my "education" over the Transcendent...so I'm merely defining what it is to Question, rather than assume there's an Answer in relishing an Unknown.
~~I can tell you the other day sitting in the public square reading intently I looked up and felt subscribed to a real silence. Then I realized from whence it came...inside of me, the very object and nomenclature of impulse in my mind. It was a bit of a warning, like don't chime away with it until I've overcome its effect--you'll need this. Yet sweeter than that, you know.
~~Churchill said, "giants are bowed in anxious thought." On the filth ridden Egyptian shore of the Yam Suf, Reed Sea--we know as the Red one, without comparing my fractious life to tethered-huge-political-events as government industries have made all the world's govs complicit in the advancement in war-winning, sitting at the feet of giants makes it laughable that it could be anything other the celestial events. Not being a positivist means precisely that, that my refrain from some social vehicle is mission enough to ruin any authorities' measure of me. Had it been convenient to do that, truth wouldn't have been found in a pathless arising--my arising, never comfortable saying it was Meant, thru the triune of memoria, intellectus, and voluntas. The ultimate symbol seems inwardly available if having allowed for some folly, that I have eternity fooled. The ultimate symbol for the self is NOT.
In Dahab, on its shore we stayed in a cement hut, I believed clearly in a pleroma to meet was that evening's midnight sky as we were doddling twigs in embers on the perimeter of the bedouin village there. The peopled pantheon of these crossroads were comfortable steps to rejoin. And if anything I wanted to think myself into this world as meditations dissolved the unfair line between dream and reality. There is a seam between me and the outward fact, but I'll never meet it and only just all this sTuFf that may be the climate of this room, in its silent corners. Waiting for any call, nothings seems so dear, I can't say I'm anything other than what I can't control anyway. The showroom quality of stiff agents in the pharoah's chamber, is more my castle of eternity. Nothing to plead in defense of having been captured in emptiness, sweet nothing, on these streets a ghost-town lastly "til the government comes along and pushes it down." Marley's language.
I'd also go to Beaumont park, to the pit--a sinkhole, and sit within the confines of the fencing, to read and meditate. I was seeking a backdoor to get find a way into a social requiem that had normalcy's vantage point--and clearly ascetic, historical studies were my venue!! ...for me, it worked!
Like Kerouac's rendevous in a stand of trees on the way to the shore's edge,
Ancient rosy colors in my eyes (using Kerouac's imagery), as I sit in theoria repose, has me realize all my power-spots have been well-worn, and now I am trying to find the eye of the needle, so that I may compound what necessarily is my advantage --the need for results.
Lee Scratch Perry is very instrumental in redefining where like the sands blowing over me from Salvador Dali's The Broken Bridge and the Dream, tent-poles of consciousness are the prodigy of self-possession, in pillaresque and unbroken shadows throughout morning's arrival on a desert plain. The desert was the blanketing atmosphere, and reduced characterizations I could ever imagine in a glance at the somehow dynamic "me!"
Papillion's hell, makes heat (in this desert's life) the demon, and the coolness of dreams is still the lure of his agni-mind, whilst skewering insects to dine on: this stark circumstance, pained and monk-like abbreviates an on-going memory reflection I have when I felt this dynamic selflessness was my loosing personae...slowly reduced to more subtle soft-machine "bodies," and less able to be borne unto anything that could show me an exercise in self-worth. There is no woe worth my lament now, I think.
But here's what Anselm of Cantebury said a thousand yrs ago. One can conceive of a being that which nothing greater can be conceived. Eternity maybe, yet I am emanating that quality of Our awareness...OK? So, that which nothing greater can be conceived is the end-game: Impermanence is the rule, for every quality of these 10,000 things we enjoin, if not now, maybe not ever--evidently we can know as much!
My good friend says in a raga ryddim (sic) that of 10 or more dimensions of which we can't SPEAK, but that we KNOW of, makes me respond as follows: The caged monkey is my interpretation of that; the mind which keeps us in the throes unknowns, doesn't necessarily indicate realities, just semblances.
**Meditation upon nothingness, is merely DOING something about Nothing--giving substance to what otherwise was the result of our SENSE of emptiness, beautiful vast emptiness. My interlocuttor seemed to support an awareness on Nothingness, yet then turn around and say it's tedious, uncomfortable. I am not saying meditating on nothing is anything but a result--space the "final" frontier where things go away or not. But once we develop what at once is the absolute, the all or nothing PrinciPAL, we then can reduce our presumptious, strenuously fulminate/foolish selves, that ecstatic mind and soul of ours, in a way for answering for LESS OF it. Less of our life's fulmination, the mischievious mind... THe best way to be. Remember the Use of the Word, Absolute--it is the most supreme value in our vain symbolic language that we'd use to call G^D, Ayn-sof...the Endless, Eternal. But pivoting upon awareness, always a KNown, never an Unknown.
**I know when I have/am conscious of half-thoughts, or have a whole idea. I'm fully aware of deficits in my "education" over the Transcendent...so I'm merely defining what it is to Question, rather than assume there's an Answer in relishing an Unknown.
~~I can tell you the other day sitting in the public square reading intently I looked up and felt subscribed to a real silence. Then I realized from whence it came...inside of me, the very object and nomenclature of impulse in my mind. It was a bit of a warning, like don't chime away with it until I've overcome its effect--you'll need this. Yet sweeter than that, you know.
~~Churchill said, "giants are bowed in anxious thought." On the filth ridden Egyptian shore of the Yam Suf, Reed Sea--we know as the Red one, without comparing my fractious life to tethered-huge-political-events as government industries have made all the world's govs complicit in the advancement in war-winning, sitting at the feet of giants makes it laughable that it could be anything other the celestial events. Not being a positivist means precisely that, that my refrain from some social vehicle is mission enough to ruin any authorities' measure of me. Had it been convenient to do that, truth wouldn't have been found in a pathless arising--my arising, never comfortable saying it was Meant, thru the triune of memoria, intellectus, and voluntas. The ultimate symbol seems inwardly available if having allowed for some folly, that I have eternity fooled. The ultimate symbol for the self is NOT.
In Dahab, on its shore we stayed in a cement hut, I believed clearly in a pleroma to meet was that evening's midnight sky as we were doddling twigs in embers on the perimeter of the bedouin village there. The peopled pantheon of these crossroads were comfortable steps to rejoin. And if anything I wanted to think myself into this world as meditations dissolved the unfair line between dream and reality. There is a seam between me and the outward fact, but I'll never meet it and only just all this sTuFf that may be the climate of this room, in its silent corners. Waiting for any call, nothings seems so dear, I can't say I'm anything other than what I can't control anyway. The showroom quality of stiff agents in the pharoah's chamber, is more my castle of eternity. Nothing to plead in defense of having been captured in emptiness, sweet nothing, on these streets a ghost-town lastly "til the government comes along and pushes it down." Marley's language.
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
**^^^Spare me on to Another YEAR^^^**
Yellow matter custard in the pup's last look. Down by the creek, I was 6--like NOW looking back, coulda been Dharma, Arjuna's dog. Yet IT had already met its peace, and mine still eludes me! I throttled the continiuity that meant momentum and I'd grow old. All we will ever know is One World, can't be defined by anything but what is. I'd wander Quail Creek in Austin Texas, go to its liminal point, next to the field and what we called the Ant Tree, because of those hordes of ants that inhabited it. Looking off to the savannah tall grasses and treed area out in the blue of the unknown--I was you know pre-teen--I thought about just that feeling of not seeing imminently as far as I wanted. I took this as entirely an image in the vocabulary of spirituality--feeding my spirit, this much I knew! ****
This remembrance is as vivid in my mind as sitting in front of my 800pg book called The Hindus, last night. I was certain that consciousness was barely me, and actually MORE of what I'd consort with in vast swathes of impressions, spectacle, and spectral shore-like. I thought G^d where is its furthest reaches. No doubt!
Saw where my friend from H.S. Rob's Mom put a pic up for his bro Sean. I'm telling you, I see that boy "remaining in light" so to speak. I hear his laugh. He wanted to beat me up the last time I saw him--I was wayward then, knowing, just knowing I'd never see those folks again--but Sean was the foci of those thoughts although Rob and family were in the tell-tale in spirit of MY leaving their hearth and home behind. This is as I saw things deeply with a lot of situations then in my life. A kind of You can never go Home again thing, that I was intuiting. And well had I not thought it, it would have been unusual that Sean's passing has soooo poignantly and sadly made us resigned, only to live up and for his memory, as for others of course.
Told my brother, Dreamt about Zadie recently. We were over to what WAS the Russian House on Aylesford one DREAM before, which I want to figure out. He dropped keys in the tall grass standing past the frontporch. I found 'em. His posture was just like a picture I drew of myself of the old man I would be. We have an outstretched hand, we are, but in my representative image I was letting a bird take flight. I feel I am ever looking for the right question to ask 'em. Usually in dreams I have no conversation imparted, this one was only me kind of in awe, and trying to be casual because well obviously his presence isn't on this normative physical plain. The death and dying of man, man--this is our impermanent record, these words this life and its rich pageant.
THE ADVANTAGE OF LIGHTNING THOUGHTS:
I've worked myself into a credible weird sadness as if I were at the depths of good-byes to my family. Seemed so believable, I thought I had a reason to cry except for the fact it was over myself... Then I was, well "I'd never know, selah." The project of my self-worth is sometimes only in light of immense generalizations these patterns saying communication is imminent. It is almost non-anthropos except for the fact that iconography of our minds is of course entirely self-mythologized. So, when I say I am in proximity to Us, self-understanding is captured.
I dated this really buxom generation-next or X woman, and she all but punched my cigarette, a really demanding woman. Getting out of her car not long before I lived in this what was to me like a bungalow, but actually was a treehouse, I was then living with three of my closest family members. In this dispensation I just was at a disadvantage from telling everyone why I was trying to cultivate something else. I looked to move around enough that a sense of responsibility would have been obvious to me, while mitigating these expectant employers--like staying at Pizza Hut very much longer or any job. My girl, then, is giving me a ride home after some late night thing after work. So, looking at some Kessil the Fool in the sky--the Jewish name for the stars Orion, not even close enough to precipitate some Hebraic like-like light at the end of this condiut room earth tabernacle, the astrology had no value but just my body as THAT--some starry night, and no mind but some anxiety that is a blanket draping the heaven, only just above me. Inclined toward Sisyphus, in that I can't quite find my feet any more than boughs proffer Sabbath--while tikkun, restoration is clarified from without, the limbs almost reach...yet did not. I suppose this was some kind of karmic death, and indeed I am merely a block away from this vision's loci, and the pleroma of something we call liminal and sky-bound is as encumbering and beckoning now as it will ever be... Then dusk will be dawn, and the new day will be the green of space fading in my dream-scape, turning thoughts to reality.
This remembrance is as vivid in my mind as sitting in front of my 800pg book called The Hindus, last night. I was certain that consciousness was barely me, and actually MORE of what I'd consort with in vast swathes of impressions, spectacle, and spectral shore-like. I thought G^d where is its furthest reaches. No doubt!
Saw where my friend from H.S. Rob's Mom put a pic up for his bro Sean. I'm telling you, I see that boy "remaining in light" so to speak. I hear his laugh. He wanted to beat me up the last time I saw him--I was wayward then, knowing, just knowing I'd never see those folks again--but Sean was the foci of those thoughts although Rob and family were in the tell-tale in spirit of MY leaving their hearth and home behind. This is as I saw things deeply with a lot of situations then in my life. A kind of You can never go Home again thing, that I was intuiting. And well had I not thought it, it would have been unusual that Sean's passing has soooo poignantly and sadly made us resigned, only to live up and for his memory, as for others of course.
Told my brother, Dreamt about Zadie recently. We were over to what WAS the Russian House on Aylesford one DREAM before, which I want to figure out. He dropped keys in the tall grass standing past the frontporch. I found 'em. His posture was just like a picture I drew of myself of the old man I would be. We have an outstretched hand, we are, but in my representative image I was letting a bird take flight. I feel I am ever looking for the right question to ask 'em. Usually in dreams I have no conversation imparted, this one was only me kind of in awe, and trying to be casual because well obviously his presence isn't on this normative physical plain. The death and dying of man, man--this is our impermanent record, these words this life and its rich pageant.
THE ADVANTAGE OF LIGHTNING THOUGHTS:
I've worked myself into a credible weird sadness as if I were at the depths of good-byes to my family. Seemed so believable, I thought I had a reason to cry except for the fact it was over myself... Then I was, well "I'd never know, selah." The project of my self-worth is sometimes only in light of immense generalizations these patterns saying communication is imminent. It is almost non-anthropos except for the fact that iconography of our minds is of course entirely self-mythologized. So, when I say I am in proximity to Us, self-understanding is captured.
I dated this really buxom generation-next or X woman, and she all but punched my cigarette, a really demanding woman. Getting out of her car not long before I lived in this what was to me like a bungalow, but actually was a treehouse, I was then living with three of my closest family members. In this dispensation I just was at a disadvantage from telling everyone why I was trying to cultivate something else. I looked to move around enough that a sense of responsibility would have been obvious to me, while mitigating these expectant employers--like staying at Pizza Hut very much longer or any job. My girl, then, is giving me a ride home after some late night thing after work. So, looking at some Kessil the Fool in the sky--the Jewish name for the stars Orion, not even close enough to precipitate some Hebraic like-like light at the end of this condiut room earth tabernacle, the astrology had no value but just my body as THAT--some starry night, and no mind but some anxiety that is a blanket draping the heaven, only just above me. Inclined toward Sisyphus, in that I can't quite find my feet any more than boughs proffer Sabbath--while tikkun, restoration is clarified from without, the limbs almost reach...yet did not. I suppose this was some kind of karmic death, and indeed I am merely a block away from this vision's loci, and the pleroma of something we call liminal and sky-bound is as encumbering and beckoning now as it will ever be... Then dusk will be dawn, and the new day will be the green of space fading in my dream-scape, turning thoughts to reality.
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
My debate with a Biblical-Thumping Myopic INDIVIDUAL
Now what if I said I CAN'T GIVE my X-tian friend GOOD KARMA, because he can't receive it, as he says. Just doesn't seem right THAT I CAN'T. ANYBODY see irony in that? LIke "SORRY, don't give me your view of the compassionate edifice this LIFE portends, because I DON"T SEE IT THAT WAY. YOUR WAY. ANY OTHER WAY THAN THE CONCRETIZED MONOLITH of MY own VIEW." NOW NOW WAIT A MINUTE. IN THAT my friend BELIEVES TRULY IN ONE LOVE OF HIS SAVIOR AND OUR promise therein--on the face of it, is fine. HE SAYS HE CARES. I JUST CAN'T FIND where that has become liminal in anybody else's tradition. Sorry, I find that sad, if not misinformed to imagine that it ought to be.
WEll, I am just going with the fact that my X-tian friend would not accept alternatives to Higher Ground. Meaning, he may interpret my goal for something Transcendent as lacking the Truth/ Jesus. I mean, that is the case isn't it? He feels I for one and Dalai Lama and an extenuating list of folks all are MISSING the boat. That may be hard for him to defend and meanwhile it may seem I would be mad at you for that sense of cultural resolve, but I am just trying to be as critically aware of how it is people generally dismiss the quality of the Other's view toward Compassion. It seems he has said as much. The Dalai Lama has mISSED the boat--so to speak, I have heard him say. I just think it's misinformed about the beauty of what one could get out of his / her own trad if it is at the expense of marginalizing the mutual arising of another community. You see, I am being rational. I am using an idea you yourself have noted about the LIMITS of everyone else, til they have found Jesus. There shouldn't be any thing angry/volatile here coming across. I would never say Jesus was anything but a beautiful Path. It may not be mine, but that must be my perogative, not now the job of X-tians to start a conflagration of missionizing, because they can't accept I haven't reckoned apostasy.
So, I am asked about Sin. I think by sin he may mean behavior that is misguided: actively pursuing concupiscence--self-indulgence.
Yeah, I call that escapism. For instance assuming we have the ultimate tool for catharsis, and discovery of our failings, sin makes for suffering of self and others. But considering people want to define things impermanently by imagining there is a World Here-after, because they feel better that the instinct of one's own demise shall BE answered for, IS what I call escapism. Because Jesus didn't REALLY say (as evinced in Karen Armstrong's wisdom seeking research) to believe in him, but to have faith--the root of which is termed Initiated. And as that initiation isn't our perfection, but only gratifying, albeit strongly having become better acquainted with our World in all its myriad forms, still, the tool only portrays an approximation about Creation. SO IT'S FLAWED, as we are even in the writing of said Scripture, tho' inspired in its relevance. SO AGREE--and quit running from the POTENTIAL beauty and relevance with the Dalai Lama that his Path must be as certain,--relevance being the actionable word. Because he has as flawed a tool as the bible, and equally inspired.
Next I was asked about resurrection: Sorry I find it strange that you'd think THE QUESTION for me is whether or not Jesus was raised from the dead. Because my friend that doesn't phase me. I am not answering THRU the biblacy lens--as you do. So, you'd get no verity from my sense of the super-natural assertion of scripture. Anyway, as far as discovery of TRUTH--the way, I'd say TRUTH is a PATHLESS land.**Krishnamurti reference. Truth is an obstacle to our sense of relevance. For instance, we are certain that we are bound by time, even timelessness, yet we transition, making the case for a strong TRUTH about the impermanence of things.
***I know that people come and go, this truth suggests I may as well reckon my solitarian life and imagine that ONLY my condition has significance. But tho' this sense of eternality and its corruption thru space, ignorance and desire, is a true observation (the fragmented lives we lead!)--it takes getting over EGO to realize that other person feels just as I do.--feeling solitarian I mean. THAT's KARMA. WE both are mutually arising. Seemingly having nothing to do with each other, yet we would learn from each other--not make him or her believe as I do, but accept that their world has conditions seriously different than mine and must be given its due respect. There is nothing but disipline that would make me "give a care" about other communities' IDEAL in their struggle with Transcendence. And disipline is not merely a path--actually it is sincerely OBSERVING WE ARE ALL DIFFERENT--just observing, NOT ACTING necessarily over abstract points like pie in the sky, and a world to come. There is one world--agreed--heaven and or hell before us, why deny the fine details of our various interpretations in how to live AMONGST?
Dude, youre welcome to go with odds, why would I accept the same proposition, since X-tianity is your religious antecedent, and not mine. So by way of answering your question--I could always climb over the wall rather than run into it, or I could sit before it in contemplation of the thing liminal. The uber-mensch, as discussed in Dostoevskii's Underground Man, so to speak topples the effect of even his own reprieve if only to maintain OBJECTIVITY. Whose alternative is delusion when we become complacent and imagine we have all that material control, as well as control over spiritual resources. Which isn't ABOUT DOCTRINE singularly, or if I accept then I'll-be-saved equations. I don't give away anything I'd ever need in the end. The thing you'd ask me to give away is the sense of identity I derive, as fleeting as it is, to a political institution: pick your religion--they all are! I'll be clear about the "IDENTITY" thing. The only thing, and the most noble thing TO ggive away IS identity. But, if I do, as I wear the cloak of aphorisms in light of the X-tian Ideal, then X-tians must also seek wisdom in what otherwise is not conventional to them. Because in the end convention means NOTHING, there is no normative to which I will create a life of unvarying habit. Constant revolution--if only in thought. Laying my salvation at the foot of an institution, as the gospel of John asks one to do, is foolish--the Gospel of Thomas says the Light of the Lord is within. Why accept a church conflict about what was accepted as canon, and what ought not be, while denying access to any other wisdom religion?
WEll, I am just going with the fact that my X-tian friend would not accept alternatives to Higher Ground. Meaning, he may interpret my goal for something Transcendent as lacking the Truth/ Jesus. I mean, that is the case isn't it? He feels I for one and Dalai Lama and an extenuating list of folks all are MISSING the boat. That may be hard for him to defend and meanwhile it may seem I would be mad at you for that sense of cultural resolve, but I am just trying to be as critically aware of how it is people generally dismiss the quality of the Other's view toward Compassion. It seems he has said as much. The Dalai Lama has mISSED the boat--so to speak, I have heard him say. I just think it's misinformed about the beauty of what one could get out of his / her own trad if it is at the expense of marginalizing the mutual arising of another community. You see, I am being rational. I am using an idea you yourself have noted about the LIMITS of everyone else, til they have found Jesus. There shouldn't be any thing angry/volatile here coming across. I would never say Jesus was anything but a beautiful Path. It may not be mine, but that must be my perogative, not now the job of X-tians to start a conflagration of missionizing, because they can't accept I haven't reckoned apostasy.
So, I am asked about Sin. I think by sin he may mean behavior that is misguided: actively pursuing concupiscence--self-indulgence.
Yeah, I call that escapism. For instance assuming we have the ultimate tool for catharsis, and discovery of our failings, sin makes for suffering of self and others. But considering people want to define things impermanently by imagining there is a World Here-after, because they feel better that the instinct of one's own demise shall BE answered for, IS what I call escapism. Because Jesus didn't REALLY say (as evinced in Karen Armstrong's wisdom seeking research) to believe in him, but to have faith--the root of which is termed Initiated. And as that initiation isn't our perfection, but only gratifying, albeit strongly having become better acquainted with our World in all its myriad forms, still, the tool only portrays an approximation about Creation. SO IT'S FLAWED, as we are even in the writing of said Scripture, tho' inspired in its relevance. SO AGREE--and quit running from the POTENTIAL beauty and relevance with the Dalai Lama that his Path must be as certain,--relevance being the actionable word. Because he has as flawed a tool as the bible, and equally inspired.
Next I was asked about resurrection: Sorry I find it strange that you'd think THE QUESTION for me is whether or not Jesus was raised from the dead. Because my friend that doesn't phase me. I am not answering THRU the biblacy lens--as you do. So, you'd get no verity from my sense of the super-natural assertion of scripture. Anyway, as far as discovery of TRUTH--the way, I'd say TRUTH is a PATHLESS land.**Krishnamurti reference. Truth is an obstacle to our sense of relevance. For instance, we are certain that we are bound by time, even timelessness, yet we transition, making the case for a strong TRUTH about the impermanence of things.
***I know that people come and go, this truth suggests I may as well reckon my solitarian life and imagine that ONLY my condition has significance. But tho' this sense of eternality and its corruption thru space, ignorance and desire, is a true observation (the fragmented lives we lead!)--it takes getting over EGO to realize that other person feels just as I do.--feeling solitarian I mean. THAT's KARMA. WE both are mutually arising. Seemingly having nothing to do with each other, yet we would learn from each other--not make him or her believe as I do, but accept that their world has conditions seriously different than mine and must be given its due respect. There is nothing but disipline that would make me "give a care" about other communities' IDEAL in their struggle with Transcendence. And disipline is not merely a path--actually it is sincerely OBSERVING WE ARE ALL DIFFERENT--just observing, NOT ACTING necessarily over abstract points like pie in the sky, and a world to come. There is one world--agreed--heaven and or hell before us, why deny the fine details of our various interpretations in how to live AMONGST?
Dude, youre welcome to go with odds, why would I accept the same proposition, since X-tianity is your religious antecedent, and not mine. So by way of answering your question--I could always climb over the wall rather than run into it, or I could sit before it in contemplation of the thing liminal. The uber-mensch, as discussed in Dostoevskii's Underground Man, so to speak topples the effect of even his own reprieve if only to maintain OBJECTIVITY. Whose alternative is delusion when we become complacent and imagine we have all that material control, as well as control over spiritual resources. Which isn't ABOUT DOCTRINE singularly, or if I accept then I'll-be-saved equations. I don't give away anything I'd ever need in the end. The thing you'd ask me to give away is the sense of identity I derive, as fleeting as it is, to a political institution: pick your religion--they all are! I'll be clear about the "IDENTITY" thing. The only thing, and the most noble thing TO ggive away IS identity. But, if I do, as I wear the cloak of aphorisms in light of the X-tian Ideal, then X-tians must also seek wisdom in what otherwise is not conventional to them. Because in the end convention means NOTHING, there is no normative to which I will create a life of unvarying habit. Constant revolution--if only in thought. Laying my salvation at the foot of an institution, as the gospel of John asks one to do, is foolish--the Gospel of Thomas says the Light of the Lord is within. Why accept a church conflict about what was accepted as canon, and what ought not be, while denying access to any other wisdom religion?
Thursday, May 27, 2010
The last time I fell from Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds
The last time I did Acid I was 25yrs old. I remember thinking how well over I felt from the compunction to do that again--yet I did. It was with my buddy Jimmy. Had a dream he tried to get me to do LSD, 3 tabs. I demurred, as I saw the next 12 hrs open up like a lit valley. Things opened up as if I could intuit what small statement of presence the mind sore would elicit... upon me as objectively as say intellectual anguish would report. The house and room we occupied was in some European city, and wine and cheese was served. Just watched Albert Hoffman's Delysid product--the first commercial supposed use and product, as it was discussed in a documentary about origins of this drug, circa like 1943.
Seems from having used "A" I take some kind of recommendation from anything my mind alights to that may indicate "the organ of consciousness working with one and against itself." *To borrow Neitzsche's word for something relating to the dionysian reality. So I heard voices upon laying my head down--and this is a perfect peak observable fact. Dialogue from the day, maybe, but more like pulses, echos. Ego says I'm here, and understood, someone tells me so. Obligation to I & Thou, or We, says NO expectation, and courageously half-thoughts is become a clear first breath, 1rst step into light. I'm not obliged to relate to shadowy identity, I feel. Half-light, jettisoning self-preservation. As all belief, say in what an Other would do to make me part of the Open Crowd, is the promise of Security, so unwillingly we are driven to conceive that that goes away. The question is Why Indulge? As the ego is a surfeit of layers upon layers of compromise, to homogenous self-security: like saying, well, we do it because it has another's precedent. There's a pattern there that should be graver, is the moral of this tale. It it isn't community's ideal that we may reduce ourselves to.
For so long we've said life was hard. Now what has made you show that humilty, is this belief, that is life as we know it. And belief curries no favor. It's hard to believe in as much as it is hard to be humble before this compassion edifice. This is a lament, not anything dour.
Seems from having used "A" I take some kind of recommendation from anything my mind alights to that may indicate "the organ of consciousness working with one and against itself." *To borrow Neitzsche's word for something relating to the dionysian reality. So I heard voices upon laying my head down--and this is a perfect peak observable fact. Dialogue from the day, maybe, but more like pulses, echos. Ego says I'm here, and understood, someone tells me so. Obligation to I & Thou, or We, says NO expectation, and courageously half-thoughts is become a clear first breath, 1rst step into light. I'm not obliged to relate to shadowy identity, I feel. Half-light, jettisoning self-preservation. As all belief, say in what an Other would do to make me part of the Open Crowd, is the promise of Security, so unwillingly we are driven to conceive that that goes away. The question is Why Indulge? As the ego is a surfeit of layers upon layers of compromise, to homogenous self-security: like saying, well, we do it because it has another's precedent. There's a pattern there that should be graver, is the moral of this tale. It it isn't community's ideal that we may reduce ourselves to.
For so long we've said life was hard. Now what has made you show that humilty, is this belief, that is life as we know it. And belief curries no favor. It's hard to believe in as much as it is hard to be humble before this compassion edifice. This is a lament, not anything dour.
Monday, April 26, 2010
YAM SUF; but rowing on the Nile came later!
Our poverty was nothing like a poverty, which we saw in the then Bedouin village (Dahab) just getting its only second establishment (!?) wiTh electric. No amenities to us were the things used for the basics of ablutions performed in some kind of order these Bedouin saw fit; as in who would go to the well first, who eats first etc. Rob seemed to neglect an affinity maybe with anyone who dared to make themselves presentable, i.e. natives there, or people back home. The stylee I feel I catch too, looking at the pre-occupied countenance of just anyone=she or he so comfortable, yet unknowing they look to inner-attention--is that knowing we are fully what we want in such short spans. Spans luckily in enough of a pitch, the mask we wear betrays nothing about the tent-poles of consciousness collapsing in upon itself--upon the statement of presence having become two-dimensional, tells us the mind is the real G-d behind the praise of universal suns as its beginning as reason. Around the time the twelve year old girl showed up selling cheap scarves and us realizing she was really selling something else, Rob was squinting in a side door mirror of a car trying to shave. The reflection I imagine as my eyes' blind spot, are the paces I stepped past looking like power-spots gone awry--I want my eyes' sight to fall like a turbillion, til thru sheer momentum the world will seem to collude in our lost selves in the under-housed hot icebergs that is all this life of experienced-forms. Take don Juan's Yaqui profession, its beginning has the reader follow an ill-disposed protagonist considering a room as the microcosm. In the desert, next to an infinite Red Sea (read REd as actually its rightful name the Reed Sea.), has something less gratifying yet wholly necessary making us feel it is incumbent upon us the voidance-denizen to stand unitarian & solitarian (say, collusion supposed).
Churchill said, "giants are bowed in anxious thought." On the filth ridden Egyptian shore of the Yam Suf, Reed Sea, without comparing my fractious life to tethered-huge-political-events as government industries have made all the world's govs complicit in the advancement in war-winning, sitting at the feet of giants makes it laughable that it could be anything other the celestial events. Not being a positivist means precisely that, that my refrain from some social vehicle is mission enough to ruin any authorities' measure of me. Had it been convenient to do that, truth wouldn't have been found in a pathless arising--my arising, never comfortable saying it was Meant, thru the triune of memoria, intellectus, and voluntas. The ultimate symbol seems inwardly available if having allowed for some folly, that I have eternity fooled. The ultimate symbol for the self is NOT.
In Dahab, on its shore we stayed in a cement hut, I believed clearly in a pleroma to meet was that evening's midnight sky as we were doddling twigs in embers on the perimeter of the bedouin village there. The peopled pantheon of these crossroads were comfortable steps to rejoin. And if anything I wanted to think myself into this world as meditations dissolved the unfair line between dream and reality. There is a seam between me and the outward fact, but I'll never meet it and only just all this sTuFf that may be the climate of this room, in its silent corners. Waiting for any call, nothings seems so dear, I can't say I'm anything other than what I can't control anyway. The showroom quality of stiff agents in the pharoah's chamber, is more my castle of eternity.
**The seance like sense that we are being followed by an orb which witnesses us, is the feeling I would have had like when I was 14-15 and some connection was being made with my peers. TV may be the vain pretense to voiding more meaningful dialogue, but that language albeit over inane things, may still have a mysterion I would have felt...since it had been natural for me to imagine conscious satellites=so many people prone, laid prone, to this medium spectacle. Nothing to plead in defense of having been captured in emptiness, sweet nothing, on these streets a ghost-town lastly "til the government comes along and pushes it down." --to use Marley's language.
Churchill said, "giants are bowed in anxious thought." On the filth ridden Egyptian shore of the Yam Suf, Reed Sea, without comparing my fractious life to tethered-huge-political-events as government industries have made all the world's govs complicit in the advancement in war-winning, sitting at the feet of giants makes it laughable that it could be anything other the celestial events. Not being a positivist means precisely that, that my refrain from some social vehicle is mission enough to ruin any authorities' measure of me. Had it been convenient to do that, truth wouldn't have been found in a pathless arising--my arising, never comfortable saying it was Meant, thru the triune of memoria, intellectus, and voluntas. The ultimate symbol seems inwardly available if having allowed for some folly, that I have eternity fooled. The ultimate symbol for the self is NOT.
In Dahab, on its shore we stayed in a cement hut, I believed clearly in a pleroma to meet was that evening's midnight sky as we were doddling twigs in embers on the perimeter of the bedouin village there. The peopled pantheon of these crossroads were comfortable steps to rejoin. And if anything I wanted to think myself into this world as meditations dissolved the unfair line between dream and reality. There is a seam between me and the outward fact, but I'll never meet it and only just all this sTuFf that may be the climate of this room, in its silent corners. Waiting for any call, nothings seems so dear, I can't say I'm anything other than what I can't control anyway. The showroom quality of stiff agents in the pharoah's chamber, is more my castle of eternity.
**The seance like sense that we are being followed by an orb which witnesses us, is the feeling I would have had like when I was 14-15 and some connection was being made with my peers. TV may be the vain pretense to voiding more meaningful dialogue, but that language albeit over inane things, may still have a mysterion I would have felt...since it had been natural for me to imagine conscious satellites=so many people prone, laid prone, to this medium spectacle. Nothing to plead in defense of having been captured in emptiness, sweet nothing, on these streets a ghost-town lastly "til the government comes along and pushes it down." --to use Marley's language.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Farmland & Death: Potok and Renunciate Egoism
Walked in the park, yesterday -- Thinking about Chaim Potok's protagonist who says to his little bro over the bird's corpse, "Daddy says they just make dirt." THe kids, both pre-teens in sophisticated remonstrations of WW2 yrs, are trailing parents into a clearing/ picnic. Dad's war yrs as apposite for the family reunion--WW1, when he was a Polish partisan and names like Khemeilnitskii still burn from his misdeeds against Jews who had fought for his Nationalist cause/ Polish zenophobia, if I remember correctly in the 1600s. The protag. David sees things captured in geometrics: architectural skyline projected above canopy. Making sense of absurdum transcendental bridge to awareness, things go away. A book. A newspaper vending machine. A window, out of which his pet canary took leave. My cause in the wooded path is the loam that I easily imagine cools my ocular preoccupation. I want to look away from the confusion of gnarled tree trunks and swathes of ivy, but it also is as inviting as a blue pool...all in my spectral peak moment till I tend to alliterative inner-feuds that a book is been concluded and I was supposed to move on...and on.
A "tribe" chic was talking about sitting with her deceased mother for 6 hrs, while they waited for their brother to show. The mother passed away sitting in her easy-chair, very peaceful... I don't know why other than I am just a human cog in this wheel of transmigration, and somehow reckon this pain as my own, but I swear that image of the daughter sitting there is as real as anything I can imagine happening to me, *like* it has, and like a thousand similar impermament rich pageants this life has thown me into so prone. G^d my singularity will indeed avail, I'm smelling it--fearing it--mourning my loss as I am the youngest of 4 brothers. The Buddhist perspective is we don't suffer alone, the Jewish perpective is that our pathos is between You and Your Creator. My feeling is that, if we are in exile due to our pain, there is "light-radiant" meditation that is the emergent fact at any one moment and will subsume the vital norm with a symbol of transcendence making us better prepared for TRUTH--things going away.
There is something Public Enemy rapped called cold-lampin'. I don't have any idea what they suggest it means, but it fits perfectly if one has ever found his self looking at resonant light, as a 4 cornered room is ill-contained, and there's no place that beckons...yet something hypnotic occurs--draws him in. Sitting down by the hearth, stale moments, empty cauldron, and I have but one friend whose offer of companionship was my jumping off into solitarian days-more, than losing my way with bantor making me languish with no real direction. Smelling the ink in Nat. Geographics, appreciating the Indian tinkers & taylors occupying a shared cubby, I saw the project of my worth was coalescence around the sovereign home/ & world village--an extension of shared skies, and brightened fields from local farmland... but all reduced to back-o-wall repose next to white noise vibratory properties emanating from yellow lamp.
A "tribe" chic was talking about sitting with her deceased mother for 6 hrs, while they waited for their brother to show. The mother passed away sitting in her easy-chair, very peaceful... I don't know why other than I am just a human cog in this wheel of transmigration, and somehow reckon this pain as my own, but I swear that image of the daughter sitting there is as real as anything I can imagine happening to me, *like* it has, and like a thousand similar impermament rich pageants this life has thown me into so prone. G^d my singularity will indeed avail, I'm smelling it--fearing it--mourning my loss as I am the youngest of 4 brothers. The Buddhist perspective is we don't suffer alone, the Jewish perpective is that our pathos is between You and Your Creator. My feeling is that, if we are in exile due to our pain, there is "light-radiant" meditation that is the emergent fact at any one moment and will subsume the vital norm with a symbol of transcendence making us better prepared for TRUTH--things going away.
There is something Public Enemy rapped called cold-lampin'. I don't have any idea what they suggest it means, but it fits perfectly if one has ever found his self looking at resonant light, as a 4 cornered room is ill-contained, and there's no place that beckons...yet something hypnotic occurs--draws him in. Sitting down by the hearth, stale moments, empty cauldron, and I have but one friend whose offer of companionship was my jumping off into solitarian days-more, than losing my way with bantor making me languish with no real direction. Smelling the ink in Nat. Geographics, appreciating the Indian tinkers & taylors occupying a shared cubby, I saw the project of my worth was coalescence around the sovereign home/ & world village--an extension of shared skies, and brightened fields from local farmland... but all reduced to back-o-wall repose next to white noise vibratory properties emanating from yellow lamp.
Friday, April 09, 2010
Ways of self-annihilation, and no direction home
I always wondered what those concretized thoughts had buried underneath the institutional pages of prayer books. Like subconscious imagery had episteme dialogues, irresolute langour.
Padding an enquiring path - its semblance my mind allows for is vipassana--a visual of deep-aside that carries me thru patterns of remorseless days...just freedom transpiring. The Will is a concept whose sense in Islam, like Judaism is about the limits we place on Imagination. Musa/Moshe was a kind of philosopher in this regard. Here in Lexington, the Arboretum, taking to the proud land, sometimes has those who have embraced the outward fact all in suggestion of dancing letters--think Abraham Abulafia of Seferad, like meditation had them waiting when I emerged. My ex-sis-in-law and I out walking together, mentioned to me one time that the blank language of the Church til we've discerned it, is the exact impute any attributable term applied to Transcendence in Sanskrit and our furthering into that plateau, like construed dynamic feelings exercised just so will have that same concretized starting point. And I'd rather see it that way. In all beginnings, all things are possible. But, without getting stuck on value statements, has the human condition in a referendum of change, since the proselyte is renewed by novelty, and with no preconditions. All things are possible when you are really unable. The beginnings of things suggest emergence that brandishes awes, and awe language, that we could yet be painted by the most indescribable spectrum of values starting a trajectory into self-actualization...played out like samsara yielding/ transition manifesting.
In the Quran I use as reference, has the Arabic with the English and accompanying commentary, Nirvana is used to imagine the Absolute. Spoken of with such a nod east, that we see the value in giving up the trappings of identity because of its material ties, so as to emerge creatively as the One and Many.
A reggae artist, maybe more times than not may politically identify with Islam as one of the dearer blackman means toward redemption. Zakat in Islam, Tsedakah in Judaism: tithes giving. This corner-stone making magnificate our monotheist utility as socially so unique, has compassion manifest when dar al-harb is at bay, or another way to put it out-of-Babylon's diminution. Making what-is go-down! Thoughts, torpor... In the forms of what I prefer, like the advancing politico whose animal I don't mind. Then what I want to observe creeping in the experencial media driven world, so that it gets sent back into the nothing of irresolute, corporeal imminent fact. All goes down. Moses Go-Down; Jesus=back to your desert sojourn; Buddha to the pre Sakyamuni moment...initiation developes. Muhammed when Jibril made the Prophet's life the result of a serious requiem of change to those who'd submit to Trancendence and our responsibility to cultivate it.
My issue with some of the comments with what those who detract and indicate that we have problems with "religion" is usually because of those who practice it. Then we indicate liturgy and its failings. Well for fuck sake we can do that all day. What about what is right about it? I mean I flat don't care for the missionizing efforts of all our trads. I don't care for the Conservative trend taking such as a grip on Jewish culture. The old school Jews were Progressives. And Traditionalists like Elie Wiesel still would be considered old school. When my bro walked around the Vatican, its perimeter, he said, nuh uh, the is one Jew they ain't getting their hands on. Meaning it is huge the effects these institutions ARE DOING laying waste to human individuality, but in my view, the meditation on the Trinity is a fascinating exercise in thought... You meditate on the spirit you coalesce around the logos, of Word into Flesh. Meditate upon the INeffable, land on Essense/Spirit and its quality in our faculties. Dylan uses the lyrics about the empty sheet that now corrodes, the Fiddler or Peddlar? who walks to the road, says everything is returned that is old, & Dylan's conscience explodes as the back of the Fish truck loads. Maybe Judaism was old--and needed to be mitigated and superceded. Yet we know Dylans iconography: The ROAD--taking to IT is a mission, a meritable deed of sorts. This is not a palimpsest havoc against Jewishness to embrace Christianity. Would Dylan LEAVE anything behind? Yet he saw beauty and salvation, his freed spirit in Christian initiation. He called himself a Zionist just a few years ago in a visit to Israel too. AS ugly as this political category may get, it is also worthy of something too, when the merit of its advocacy is in the actions of spirited defense in OUR mutual arising. The moral authority--maybe in a hero of ours; Maybe being objective about thought--meaning thought can be authorial and misapprehended. But in a Cleric--yeah we all agree, hell no.
Padding an enquiring path - its semblance my mind allows for is vipassana--a visual of deep-aside that carries me thru patterns of remorseless days...just freedom transpiring. The Will is a concept whose sense in Islam, like Judaism is about the limits we place on Imagination. Musa/Moshe was a kind of philosopher in this regard. Here in Lexington, the Arboretum, taking to the proud land, sometimes has those who have embraced the outward fact all in suggestion of dancing letters--think Abraham Abulafia of Seferad, like meditation had them waiting when I emerged. My ex-sis-in-law and I out walking together, mentioned to me one time that the blank language of the Church til we've discerned it, is the exact impute any attributable term applied to Transcendence in Sanskrit and our furthering into that plateau, like construed dynamic feelings exercised just so will have that same concretized starting point. And I'd rather see it that way. In all beginnings, all things are possible. But, without getting stuck on value statements, has the human condition in a referendum of change, since the proselyte is renewed by novelty, and with no preconditions. All things are possible when you are really unable. The beginnings of things suggest emergence that brandishes awes, and awe language, that we could yet be painted by the most indescribable spectrum of values starting a trajectory into self-actualization...played out like samsara yielding/ transition manifesting.
In the Quran I use as reference, has the Arabic with the English and accompanying commentary, Nirvana is used to imagine the Absolute. Spoken of with such a nod east, that we see the value in giving up the trappings of identity because of its material ties, so as to emerge creatively as the One and Many.
A reggae artist, maybe more times than not may politically identify with Islam as one of the dearer blackman means toward redemption. Zakat in Islam, Tsedakah in Judaism: tithes giving. This corner-stone making magnificate our monotheist utility as socially so unique, has compassion manifest when dar al-harb is at bay, or another way to put it out-of-Babylon's diminution. Making what-is go-down! Thoughts, torpor... In the forms of what I prefer, like the advancing politico whose animal I don't mind. Then what I want to observe creeping in the experencial media driven world, so that it gets sent back into the nothing of irresolute, corporeal imminent fact. All goes down. Moses Go-Down; Jesus=back to your desert sojourn; Buddha to the pre Sakyamuni moment...initiation developes. Muhammed when Jibril made the Prophet's life the result of a serious requiem of change to those who'd submit to Trancendence and our responsibility to cultivate it.
My issue with some of the comments with what those who detract and indicate that we have problems with "religion" is usually because of those who practice it. Then we indicate liturgy and its failings. Well for fuck sake we can do that all day. What about what is right about it? I mean I flat don't care for the missionizing efforts of all our trads. I don't care for the Conservative trend taking such as a grip on Jewish culture. The old school Jews were Progressives. And Traditionalists like Elie Wiesel still would be considered old school. When my bro walked around the Vatican, its perimeter, he said, nuh uh, the is one Jew they ain't getting their hands on. Meaning it is huge the effects these institutions ARE DOING laying waste to human individuality, but in my view, the meditation on the Trinity is a fascinating exercise in thought... You meditate on the spirit you coalesce around the logos, of Word into Flesh. Meditate upon the INeffable, land on Essense/Spirit and its quality in our faculties. Dylan uses the lyrics about the empty sheet that now corrodes, the Fiddler or Peddlar? who walks to the road, says everything is returned that is old, & Dylan's conscience explodes as the back of the Fish truck loads. Maybe Judaism was old--and needed to be mitigated and superceded. Yet we know Dylans iconography: The ROAD--taking to IT is a mission, a meritable deed of sorts. This is not a palimpsest havoc against Jewishness to embrace Christianity. Would Dylan LEAVE anything behind? Yet he saw beauty and salvation, his freed spirit in Christian initiation. He called himself a Zionist just a few years ago in a visit to Israel too. AS ugly as this political category may get, it is also worthy of something too, when the merit of its advocacy is in the actions of spirited defense in OUR mutual arising. The moral authority--maybe in a hero of ours; Maybe being objective about thought--meaning thought can be authorial and misapprehended. But in a Cleric--yeah we all agree, hell no.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
The perimeter of the city in a Red Night and Bright Day
I like what that symbolizes and concur, my friend called herself Pinko, and another friend pointed out roseate hues from a streetlamp a few weeks ago by Maxwell Elementary. We were on our way to Lynaghs. He said this was a "holy" color evoking a certain mood--and I was just like seeing it only in the abstract. Nothing about the color pink draws me into a chimey spirit. Certainly I'm not being patrician or macho--it just doesn't lend any ambience. (I'm purposely not deriving the obvious worded PINK on the ass of many a co-ed's sweatpants. Hot? Yes. Stupid or silly? Yes.) Anyway, Isaac Babel always had strewned his Soviet-Jewish writings with dusks lending a colorfield in variants of rose. I just see the ominous Sun with this, and a landscape in transition from rebellion. Iron blades drinking life's blood at twilight--the recesses of mother night hiding the damage.
~~Nothing dreamt, a solid state orderly green vista, just sky & earth had captivated me, holding out the last rescue of the peace my old neighborhood had to offer-its extension out over by the farm on Parkers Mill not 3 mls from the airport. A walnut treed path down to it, but only after my lined street with pines at the liminal point--I am in good company feeling comfortable I'm destined to wander amongst tall trees alone, in a comely loneliness. I read there Isaac Babel's Cossack stories of deprivation, mystic churches, impoverished Jews, war. The emblems probably a 100 yrs ago and my stumble into the Soviet early days, a percussive revolution in cognizant immediacy, were perhaps a tachanka, a kind of military wagon, not unlike the zeitgeist we associate w/ the military industry as in the US: how it performs in our environment (fashion, culture, social demise), & horses, the sentience-of-promise in front of me there under a pine tree now at the perimeter of a church parking lot, looking off into their field on this ubiquitous Ky horse farm. The loom of an unknown destiny untethered then in my life, had me look closer at what was intermediate space in everyone's life in & around me & made it important to me. I called it my own, lived up to MY expectations, & gathered no more than wall flowers, but enough of a kind of inner-attention to bring it all to the table when the new day arose.
~~Nothing dreamt, a solid state orderly green vista, just sky & earth had captivated me, holding out the last rescue of the peace my old neighborhood had to offer-its extension out over by the farm on Parkers Mill not 3 mls from the airport. A walnut treed path down to it, but only after my lined street with pines at the liminal point--I am in good company feeling comfortable I'm destined to wander amongst tall trees alone, in a comely loneliness. I read there Isaac Babel's Cossack stories of deprivation, mystic churches, impoverished Jews, war. The emblems probably a 100 yrs ago and my stumble into the Soviet early days, a percussive revolution in cognizant immediacy, were perhaps a tachanka, a kind of military wagon, not unlike the zeitgeist we associate w/ the military industry as in the US: how it performs in our environment (fashion, culture, social demise), & horses, the sentience-of-promise in front of me there under a pine tree now at the perimeter of a church parking lot, looking off into their field on this ubiquitous Ky horse farm. The loom of an unknown destiny untethered then in my life, had me look closer at what was intermediate space in everyone's life in & around me & made it important to me. I called it my own, lived up to MY expectations, & gathered no more than wall flowers, but enough of a kind of inner-attention to bring it all to the table when the new day arose.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Alfred Kazin was a good find.
Beautiful air, looks rarified. One time before listening to Love is a Gas, I wanted a glimpse at something, this art, that was sorta disparate and over me in the briefest perspective into what seemed the right auditive wall to scale. That we can visual say our sauntering across a room, is to imagine where we presently lie in repose. To visualize what occurs beyond our scheme--this bubble of experience--is suggesting Everything IS (From Patriots, I know.), and is enough. I found what I was looking for.
Kazin says how Melville takes to the air. Because he exceeds all his ascetic indulgences--they're not good enough. The spirit is drawn in desertified self-possession, actually condemned to emptiness. Man's economy of the spirit is in recompence of life giving blood, but in hellion red hues. G^d only manifests what-is, ...there is nothing outside the known...and we advance upon it interminably.
...path
The last time I saw him alive I had stayed up late after everyone else crashed at his parents house, the appearance house, and listed in my head what I sought after in music's artists--badly identifying at all with some--his brother's influences/ favorites--and then particularly what Dylan and Marley had as a convergent little-trouble gotten over in a similar path... In the mostly pitch blackness, my glowering eyes seeing only a hint of orange from a couch, I think--I start populating the room. Not capturing anything but my indulging in arcs of imagery that seemed to be a call to Yeah Dylan. So if any one alterior self is availing, anybody else ought to be amongst in just considering what-is. So, the little brother tho' inevitably going away, and the dudes that heralded me, heralds him, and to the gathering crowd in my mind. So projecting into the room, clearly what I noticed WAS that he hadn't said look out for my love. Everyone else had. Soliciting the transcendent is goal, so holding the emptiness--there in the corner--in high esteem, tells me I am the Lakota's Yum (from the book The Lakota Myth), the real little brother who rides the backs of his siblings unto the 4 directions. It's just that one direction was the prodigy of self-possession, and I was missing my brother.
Reflecting on a wasted semite, me and thru the lens I imagine from Dylan's words - its conscious pocket and the homecoming like my obfuscated look into a mirror, the one in my brother's room where I was intro'd to his numious vocabulary and insite... Dylan may have come in from the cold while I lay there staring at an orange chosisme--thingism across this basement where we young men kicked it so many times before, and what was plastic (transitional) those times, are now clotted up in loss, sorrow, til I also meet light and finality and all-knowing. The words, "curly covered virility of a wasted Semite" came from Isaac Babel's writings, a Soviet-Jewish writer--early 20th century. What I want to typify is pathos, so that it is understood entirely thru images, and that this reality, that people are suffering can be as remote as KNOWLEDGE of SELF gets, has to be relegated to language as cheap as language may feel. Sad but true, but language is material, and thus is under our control. What we can't control is the fact of impermanence, but our control in its strange adventure and our emoting, we must allow to stream thru the certain vehicle of our relationship with these tools: language... You speak, I feel!
Kazin says how Melville takes to the air. Because he exceeds all his ascetic indulgences--they're not good enough. The spirit is drawn in desertified self-possession, actually condemned to emptiness. Man's economy of the spirit is in recompence of life giving blood, but in hellion red hues. G^d only manifests what-is, ...there is nothing outside the known...and we advance upon it interminably.
...path
The last time I saw him alive I had stayed up late after everyone else crashed at his parents house, the appearance house, and listed in my head what I sought after in music's artists--badly identifying at all with some--his brother's influences/ favorites--and then particularly what Dylan and Marley had as a convergent little-trouble gotten over in a similar path... In the mostly pitch blackness, my glowering eyes seeing only a hint of orange from a couch, I think--I start populating the room. Not capturing anything but my indulging in arcs of imagery that seemed to be a call to Yeah Dylan. So if any one alterior self is availing, anybody else ought to be amongst in just considering what-is. So, the little brother tho' inevitably going away, and the dudes that heralded me, heralds him, and to the gathering crowd in my mind. So projecting into the room, clearly what I noticed WAS that he hadn't said look out for my love. Everyone else had. Soliciting the transcendent is goal, so holding the emptiness--there in the corner--in high esteem, tells me I am the Lakota's Yum (from the book The Lakota Myth), the real little brother who rides the backs of his siblings unto the 4 directions. It's just that one direction was the prodigy of self-possession, and I was missing my brother.
Reflecting on a wasted semite, me and thru the lens I imagine from Dylan's words - its conscious pocket and the homecoming like my obfuscated look into a mirror, the one in my brother's room where I was intro'd to his numious vocabulary and insite... Dylan may have come in from the cold while I lay there staring at an orange chosisme--thingism across this basement where we young men kicked it so many times before, and what was plastic (transitional) those times, are now clotted up in loss, sorrow, til I also meet light and finality and all-knowing. The words, "curly covered virility of a wasted Semite" came from Isaac Babel's writings, a Soviet-Jewish writer--early 20th century. What I want to typify is pathos, so that it is understood entirely thru images, and that this reality, that people are suffering can be as remote as KNOWLEDGE of SELF gets, has to be relegated to language as cheap as language may feel. Sad but true, but language is material, and thus is under our control. What we can't control is the fact of impermanence, but our control in its strange adventure and our emoting, we must allow to stream thru the certain vehicle of our relationship with these tools: language... You speak, I feel!
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Lightning Lip: fear no evil!
I've worked myself into a credible weird sadness as if I were at the depths of good-byes to my family. Seemed so believable, I thought I had a reason to cry except for the fact it was over myself... Then I was, well "I'd never know, selah." The project of my self-worth is sometimes only in light of immense generalizations these patterns saying communication is imminent. It is almost non-anthropos except for the fact that iconography of our minds is of course entirely self-mythologized. So, when I say I am in proximity to Us, self-understanding is captured.
I dated this really buxom generation-next or X woman, and she all but punched my cigarette, a really demanding woman. Getting out of her car not long before I lived in this what was to me like a bungalow, but actually was a treehouse, I lived with three of my closest family members. That occasion I just was at a disadvantage from telling everyone why I was trying to cultivate something else. I looked to move around enough that a sense of responsiblility would have been obvious to me, while mitigating these expectant employers--more than staying at Pizza Hut very much longer or any job. My girl, then, is giving me a ride home after some late night thing after work. So, looking at some Kessil the Fool in the sky--the stars Orion, not even close enough to precipitate some Hebraic fulminate light at the end of this conduit room earth tabernacle, the astrology had no value but just my body as some starry night, and no mind but some anxiety that it is a blanket draping the heaven, but only just above me. Inclined toward Sisyphus, in that I can't quite find my feet any more than boughs proffer Sabbath--while tikkun, restoration is clarified from without, the limbs almost reach...yet did not. I suppose this was some kind of karmic death, and indeed I am merely a block away from this vision's loci, and the pleroma of something we call liminal and sky-bound is as encumbering and beckoning now as it will ever be... Then dusk will be dawn, and the new day will be the green of space fading in my dream-scape, turning thoughts to reality.
I dated this really buxom generation-next or X woman, and she all but punched my cigarette, a really demanding woman. Getting out of her car not long before I lived in this what was to me like a bungalow, but actually was a treehouse, I lived with three of my closest family members. That occasion I just was at a disadvantage from telling everyone why I was trying to cultivate something else. I looked to move around enough that a sense of responsiblility would have been obvious to me, while mitigating these expectant employers--more than staying at Pizza Hut very much longer or any job. My girl, then, is giving me a ride home after some late night thing after work. So, looking at some Kessil the Fool in the sky--the stars Orion, not even close enough to precipitate some Hebraic fulminate light at the end of this conduit room earth tabernacle, the astrology had no value but just my body as some starry night, and no mind but some anxiety that it is a blanket draping the heaven, but only just above me. Inclined toward Sisyphus, in that I can't quite find my feet any more than boughs proffer Sabbath--while tikkun, restoration is clarified from without, the limbs almost reach...yet did not. I suppose this was some kind of karmic death, and indeed I am merely a block away from this vision's loci, and the pleroma of something we call liminal and sky-bound is as encumbering and beckoning now as it will ever be... Then dusk will be dawn, and the new day will be the green of space fading in my dream-scape, turning thoughts to reality.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Books and my self-worth: I'm an acolyte of self-mythologizing
Subject: embracing the inevitable, Time is our glory
I went to a bookstore today, my friend did too, a different one. That we coalesce around a similar frequency--the emergent fact of what the essense of the respite of just these sort of places are, is known as one or just a few places where conscious props follows. The frequenting of these places, like a student cntr couch for me, and UK bookstore, and perhaps his attentive stand in front of books, is looking on toward the disbursement of knowledge, a star cluster shattered or brought into effect. Man, really it's grabbing for straws that minds meet at all, but imposing the possiblity in our condition IS attending to the fact at least, and commonly as what ought to be done rather than community relegating a mystery of otherness to loss of inner-scrutiny: THEY wouldn't ask about the mutual arising community...and I am nothing without them. The chair where I have died a thousand deaths can't be a badge of honor--the shame making me high--as in the relish I feel I can re-live past episteme solving earth crisis for ME. That I have died is indisoluable, I know I have. I look at death more or more sanctimoniously ad infinitum, it is answer to a more complete measure of these days gone by. You live alone, but you die in crowds and among the power that rids you of its responsibilty. We are One when we die, we look to be one.
This is what I have derived from reading Jalaluddin Rumi's father's writings.
Subject: thoughts as the garment of night warmed me
So the best thing we can do with experience is to equal it--as opposed to fearing that we might absorb experience and become jaded. We compartmentalize complexity and unknowing all the time. If we start projecting unknowing, and really that is only apathy, then we get thrown on the banks of our heart and its seat of awareness gets as unreal as habit and mimickry. If the heart was a ditch of blood, unrealized relationship is understood if we imagine that love's loss has us the proselytes as being thrown upon its banks.
We taste the activities in the world. Can anyone see we've participated only thru observation? The activities of contemplation and transcending or good times albeit, just that, has curtains draw from the liminal sky and the earth-body... here's where the senses say I am bound by an unconditional single phenomenon--consciousness. Hopefully Higher Ground will be in Equality and Self-consciousness at once... the little Problem.
If you see me thru the lens that I am entertaining the activities in the world, this creation, G^d's mention of his works, it is some justice we may all deliberate over that we all are in medias res of his meditation.
I went to a bookstore today, my friend did too, a different one. That we coalesce around a similar frequency--the emergent fact of what the essense of the respite of just these sort of places are, is known as one or just a few places where conscious props follows. The frequenting of these places, like a student cntr couch for me, and UK bookstore, and perhaps his attentive stand in front of books, is looking on toward the disbursement of knowledge, a star cluster shattered or brought into effect. Man, really it's grabbing for straws that minds meet at all, but imposing the possiblity in our condition IS attending to the fact at least, and commonly as what ought to be done rather than community relegating a mystery of otherness to loss of inner-scrutiny: THEY wouldn't ask about the mutual arising community...and I am nothing without them. The chair where I have died a thousand deaths can't be a badge of honor--the shame making me high--as in the relish I feel I can re-live past episteme solving earth crisis for ME. That I have died is indisoluable, I know I have. I look at death more or more sanctimoniously ad infinitum, it is answer to a more complete measure of these days gone by. You live alone, but you die in crowds and among the power that rids you of its responsibilty. We are One when we die, we look to be one.
This is what I have derived from reading Jalaluddin Rumi's father's writings.
Subject: thoughts as the garment of night warmed me
So the best thing we can do with experience is to equal it--as opposed to fearing that we might absorb experience and become jaded. We compartmentalize complexity and unknowing all the time. If we start projecting unknowing, and really that is only apathy, then we get thrown on the banks of our heart and its seat of awareness gets as unreal as habit and mimickry. If the heart was a ditch of blood, unrealized relationship is understood if we imagine that love's loss has us the proselytes as being thrown upon its banks.
We taste the activities in the world. Can anyone see we've participated only thru observation? The activities of contemplation and transcending or good times albeit, just that, has curtains draw from the liminal sky and the earth-body... here's where the senses say I am bound by an unconditional single phenomenon--consciousness. Hopefully Higher Ground will be in Equality and Self-consciousness at once... the little Problem.
If you see me thru the lens that I am entertaining the activities in the world, this creation, G^d's mention of his works, it is some justice we may all deliberate over that we all are in medias res of his meditation.
Friday, February 26, 2010
The Puja Of Valerie
I went from idealizing what I want in the future with my lady... to this "thing" in mythic proportions::::::
"...that I can't make up my mind about. It would be difficult to start a new relationship with someone--I don't know that I want to. What do you think? Dating around? But nothing serious--and hold out for each other...?" I THINK the culture you & I come from has it that folks are casual and not tied down, meaning it wouldn't necessarily be a great difficulty to stay aloof in the presence of another woman, and I would hope that you feel that way if some guy wanted to date you--that you would be casual and not get caught up with something that here in a yr or so would otherwise pull you out of the possibility that you and I would continue. Yes, I do want to continue--because I anticipate you will have made ground on many necessary responsibilities that SOOOOOO concern us right now. In other words, a lot hinges on your development. Which like I say, you are HUGE and dynamic and will feel--not to make a mean pun--like a million bucks by that time. I'm not saying I want my cake and eat it too--I am rather placing the cart before the horse, and you're the cart in one way, and in another way I am imagining that we COULD comparatively look at each other from this same "condition" tho' time will have perhaps made us THINK we have changed... Change IS necessary, but I don't for a minute think that I want to be uprooted from this tree you and I have planted... I think you get what I am hedging on and not actually saying...all I know is it's weird to think about, and I feel pretty much like a nobody til someone says I really do matter. I would tell you everything or anything if there ever is an anything... You see what I mean about if thou wert as my sister? I mean that'd be strong if I could confide in you til kingdom come, whatever this high and low road brings you and I... I'm just forewarning a possibility...and am being as up front as possible...and I think who the cap fits let him (me) or her (you) wear it--ONE size fits all. This is like a pact with you. Whadya think, sis?
Told Val this was meant for her: we have an understanding-- it'll be a year or so before the next one...(understanding, I mean)
***Perhaps it'll be An Erotic Journey from Milan to Minsk... I mean, anything smacking of porn from the seat of Rum (Italia) to Eastern Europe has my name on it. And also ever since Craig got tied up and manipulated into a relationship with basically a mailOrder bride from Russia, I thought just going downtown to get it on with Ms. Brown, may as well be Ivanovich's forbidden fruit, the lucky daughter of a mafioso Russian daddy-o as easily... You know seeing that you and I are kinship with this part of the world, "she" could be my surrogate ball & chain Hungarian lover, albeit from the Yellow Horde (think Mongolian features--yes yours) in Slavic guise as opposed to the most diverse of Eastern European views into language's ontology=Hungarian so odd, and powered by that diversity... but again either Romance language or Cyrillic/Slavic ones, have tattooed my prediliction with a Commie girl. Like really Communist, straight out of 1900 when Zadie was but a cinder in his mother's eyes, and her rebellious girl-friend, presumably who I would have known, then gotten to know--was somehow transported to a lair of my making. And she'd leave the room to regimen her body, and all I can do is wish she would walk back into the room as you... and you would be.
***I read in a yellow cloud, and in my orange shroud a pharoah's night I once took flight and embrace within. I used to walk to chase away all exegensies, (I think I'm trying to suggest excesses), and I swiped at my theoria/contemplation over things not contingent on cryptic Muslim awe, but just my home in old brown (my shoes) and how to take the doctrinaire of phala shruti (Hindu for the fruit's of hearing) and call my own name in theophany (transcendent calling of my own name...), but as in a tinny radio jam box mute and lying on the ground while its owner was searched by his soldier inquisitor--what I saw in the Old City of Jerusalem. Lightning vox with its climax amidst space only has self-denial to contend with. So my opportunity to say I can't accept man's threat against man was forever in ideas of rumors of war. My hope is mythic that mostly I know everyone can have the light at the end of tunnel I see, that there's no lying in wait for the end game (of war's staged allegiance to pain)--the illusion that hope is consistent with suffering for the reprieve, leaves me shouldering my bridge toward awareness: I'm determined to be as stupid as the animal biting its own shadow, if that shadow would be eaten by street lights' radiant voyage when branches above of my neighborhood's gray sidewalk--or rather branches of neighborhood's sidewalks REFLECTS unconditionally. The pharonic night's were empireal strolls in Beaumont-Gardenside burbs...
"...that I can't make up my mind about. It would be difficult to start a new relationship with someone--I don't know that I want to. What do you think? Dating around? But nothing serious--and hold out for each other...?" I THINK the culture you & I come from has it that folks are casual and not tied down, meaning it wouldn't necessarily be a great difficulty to stay aloof in the presence of another woman, and I would hope that you feel that way if some guy wanted to date you--that you would be casual and not get caught up with something that here in a yr or so would otherwise pull you out of the possibility that you and I would continue. Yes, I do want to continue--because I anticipate you will have made ground on many necessary responsibilities that SOOOOOO concern us right now. In other words, a lot hinges on your development. Which like I say, you are HUGE and dynamic and will feel--not to make a mean pun--like a million bucks by that time. I'm not saying I want my cake and eat it too--I am rather placing the cart before the horse, and you're the cart in one way, and in another way I am imagining that we COULD comparatively look at each other from this same "condition" tho' time will have perhaps made us THINK we have changed... Change IS necessary, but I don't for a minute think that I want to be uprooted from this tree you and I have planted... I think you get what I am hedging on and not actually saying...all I know is it's weird to think about, and I feel pretty much like a nobody til someone says I really do matter. I would tell you everything or anything if there ever is an anything... You see what I mean about if thou wert as my sister? I mean that'd be strong if I could confide in you til kingdom come, whatever this high and low road brings you and I... I'm just forewarning a possibility...and am being as up front as possible...and I think who the cap fits let him (me) or her (you) wear it--ONE size fits all. This is like a pact with you. Whadya think, sis?
Told Val this was meant for her: we have an understanding-- it'll be a year or so before the next one...(understanding, I mean)
***Perhaps it'll be An Erotic Journey from Milan to Minsk... I mean, anything smacking of porn from the seat of Rum (Italia) to Eastern Europe has my name on it. And also ever since Craig got tied up and manipulated into a relationship with basically a mailOrder bride from Russia, I thought just going downtown to get it on with Ms. Brown, may as well be Ivanovich's forbidden fruit, the lucky daughter of a mafioso Russian daddy-o as easily... You know seeing that you and I are kinship with this part of the world, "she" could be my surrogate ball & chain Hungarian lover, albeit from the Yellow Horde (think Mongolian features--yes yours) in Slavic guise as opposed to the most diverse of Eastern European views into language's ontology=Hungarian so odd, and powered by that diversity... but again either Romance language or Cyrillic/Slavic ones, have tattooed my prediliction with a Commie girl. Like really Communist, straight out of 1900 when Zadie was but a cinder in his mother's eyes, and her rebellious girl-friend, presumably who I would have known, then gotten to know--was somehow transported to a lair of my making. And she'd leave the room to regimen her body, and all I can do is wish she would walk back into the room as you... and you would be.
***I read in a yellow cloud, and in my orange shroud a pharoah's night I once took flight and embrace within. I used to walk to chase away all exegensies, (I think I'm trying to suggest excesses), and I swiped at my theoria/contemplation over things not contingent on cryptic Muslim awe, but just my home in old brown (my shoes) and how to take the doctrinaire of phala shruti (Hindu for the fruit's of hearing) and call my own name in theophany (transcendent calling of my own name...), but as in a tinny radio jam box mute and lying on the ground while its owner was searched by his soldier inquisitor--what I saw in the Old City of Jerusalem. Lightning vox with its climax amidst space only has self-denial to contend with. So my opportunity to say I can't accept man's threat against man was forever in ideas of rumors of war. My hope is mythic that mostly I know everyone can have the light at the end of tunnel I see, that there's no lying in wait for the end game (of war's staged allegiance to pain)--the illusion that hope is consistent with suffering for the reprieve, leaves me shouldering my bridge toward awareness: I'm determined to be as stupid as the animal biting its own shadow, if that shadow would be eaten by street lights' radiant voyage when branches above of my neighborhood's gray sidewalk--or rather branches of neighborhood's sidewalks REFLECTS unconditionally. The pharonic night's were empireal strolls in Beaumont-Gardenside burbs...
Monday, February 15, 2010
I hate calling LEXINGTON LEX VEGAS, but here it goes!
Do we agree that folks are fixated on an end game: life, today's party, tonite's fun! (not to mention the pseudo-science of end of days scenarios, biblacy therewith the conjured foolishness...)Maybe we ought to kill the reason to wonder at impermanence. You'd say, I'll think about disaster, or my reprieve beginning at its summation. On and On you say you'll go ooon wondering... But remember thoughts converge unto these things, go away as exactly. How about just go, for example. **THis is my thang from yesterday's reading. Which I didn't get as much done as I really feel I should have. I can be austere, and there's a pay-off. But I can boogie--getting really expansive, then be cool for a few days, reading-studying but without the long timeliness as on apposite say weeks passing by. YET my measure OF just how it gets with all creativeness and intensity with friends and relationship with the world et al, is exactly the same, no matter how hard of late and duration of time spent intent upon digesting certain concepts. Meaning, I feel received and I feel like I am giving away what the others sell... A really good feeling--just giving it all to the midnight sky!! The problem is IS expecting the bigger pay-off from lengthier attempts at erudite living. Somehow it never seems to matter. One day of stalwart effort 'tis enough to find myself in a plateau of elevated thought...
Now, I'm being a little acidy. But I thought his lyrics were interesting (which as above I use "...what the others sell," and "...midnight sky," from the musician in focus now). Actually he says, Yet I've learned my lesson well, he "walked" on ice and he rang the bell, he did his sentence down in hell; he gave away what the others sell...but EvEryThinG is gonna be alright... The F bomb was from another one of his songs--i was confused (I fucked IN ice...) Anyway, this is just flow of consciousness from an ICE reference in the recent stint of cold weather. Maybe, thoughtlessness transpires in Paul K and the Weathermen's music's message because it was wintry days spent at U of KY when I ran with this crowd/ the underground music scene her in Lex Vegas...of which I am no player. But I must say I get ecstatic feelings from music as one should, and if religion is defined as self-actualization, I am definitely at the peak of what the beauty of such artifice lends in terms of apostasy from the trappings of identity. Identity is the measure of something exoteric, which is TURNED out and away from subtler attributes of art and music. Rock and Roll--yeah, I'd call it my religion--sometimes!!!
***The end game scenario should seem like the pseudo-science people preach having signs telling us of impending nirvana impending annihilation. Biblacy therein this discussion is the crutch of too many. Armigeddeon, which admittedly I know nothing about, except that I'm guessing some early Israelites fought in Meggido--and then allowed in their minds the world should end there, is a preachy joke. Folks that say watch-out-here-it-comes are begging to witness the world's comeuppance-and I find it childish. Anyway:::
It just natural that the father-role our etre-pot into man's desire (like what Abraham said about Terah, that his desire resides in his father's house), is this lens causing some agitation. In religious discussion--I throw it all in one idea, the won ideal, which is 'my parents" are really mind appearance. And their is a stately way to imagine how it seems I have ever conjured my presense in view of their fascinans made up of time and place that gave me my grounding. Mysterium terribile et fascinans is how one takes external forces...say "those" individuals from whom life is in one huge way defined, and gets internalized and written in our subjective minds. So, now we can say IT is otherwise filial brotherhood sisterhood perhaps which is better to relay how we COULD come across to them. It doesn't matter that it is not encouraged. It doesn't matter that they would even riddle us with morose heart in hand, that we get NO pay-off by the languish of those corridors of personal history all supposing we fell away from the tree. IT doesn't matter we inevitably say we are here alone mOm and dAd--in humanities' worlds of acquisitive minds we merely want to believe impermanence will awaken the child and his wisdom that THEY are going to be just alright.
Now, I'm being a little acidy. But I thought his lyrics were interesting (which as above I use "...what the others sell," and "...midnight sky," from the musician in focus now). Actually he says, Yet I've learned my lesson well, he "walked" on ice and he rang the bell, he did his sentence down in hell; he gave away what the others sell...but EvEryThinG is gonna be alright... The F bomb was from another one of his songs--i was confused (I fucked IN ice...) Anyway, this is just flow of consciousness from an ICE reference in the recent stint of cold weather. Maybe, thoughtlessness transpires in Paul K and the Weathermen's music's message because it was wintry days spent at U of KY when I ran with this crowd/ the underground music scene her in Lex Vegas...of which I am no player. But I must say I get ecstatic feelings from music as one should, and if religion is defined as self-actualization, I am definitely at the peak of what the beauty of such artifice lends in terms of apostasy from the trappings of identity. Identity is the measure of something exoteric, which is TURNED out and away from subtler attributes of art and music. Rock and Roll--yeah, I'd call it my religion--sometimes!!!
***The end game scenario should seem like the pseudo-science people preach having signs telling us of impending nirvana impending annihilation. Biblacy therein this discussion is the crutch of too many. Armigeddeon, which admittedly I know nothing about, except that I'm guessing some early Israelites fought in Meggido--and then allowed in their minds the world should end there, is a preachy joke. Folks that say watch-out-here-it-comes are begging to witness the world's comeuppance-and I find it childish. Anyway:::
It just natural that the father-role our etre-pot into man's desire (like what Abraham said about Terah, that his desire resides in his father's house), is this lens causing some agitation. In religious discussion--I throw it all in one idea, the won ideal, which is 'my parents" are really mind appearance. And their is a stately way to imagine how it seems I have ever conjured my presense in view of their fascinans made up of time and place that gave me my grounding. Mysterium terribile et fascinans is how one takes external forces...say "those" individuals from whom life is in one huge way defined, and gets internalized and written in our subjective minds. So, now we can say IT is otherwise filial brotherhood sisterhood perhaps which is better to relay how we COULD come across to them. It doesn't matter that it is not encouraged. It doesn't matter that they would even riddle us with morose heart in hand, that we get NO pay-off by the languish of those corridors of personal history all supposing we fell away from the tree. IT doesn't matter we inevitably say we are here alone mOm and dAd--in humanities' worlds of acquisitive minds we merely want to believe impermanence will awaken the child and his wisdom that THEY are going to be just alright.
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
Kedushah mentioned because Wieseltier bridges Religions
We supply our dreams with their fine details. What if we did this to the rational mind? You say the rational mind is cold, unallied. I say, once we dream of the rational, we are converged upon Time PLace and Community. We dream our imaginative narrative.
If philosophy was the smoke, and it would yield thru its conduit...in one way "the burning in my chest and in my lungs," (Paul K.) is an intensity which is key--and in the obvious way thru the fed hearth of ideas proliferating into the neighborhood's stands of trees, then I combust being restored to I AM.
"How sincere is the profession of your own insignificance if you believe that you are being heeded by that than-which nothing greater can be conceived?" Anselm--a Christian mystic from close to 800 yrs ago.
"Bear one another's burdens, and thereby fulfill the law of Christ." (Galatians 6:2)
The Anointed, the Perfect man, but divine? He said be committed/pistis to me (and become a pisteou/an initiate), but our sense of belief has gotten in the way. He didn't say Believe in me--that would have been found strange to him. An Example is found thru dedication, not repetition of our becoming acquisitive over liturgy. We'd be initiated by actively pursuing the WAy, not touting words that give One security/self-preservation. This is precisely Karen Armstrong's discussion on the Gospels. I thought the nuance was interesting, because many times I am not open to the Christian ethic, yet because of the virtue of what I choose to study/read, it comes up frequently--and I find something extremely relevant and consoling in any one of the Gospels...like Thomas'. Now, by feeling illuminated by this exegesis I don't pretend to say ACTION would not be any one particular X-tian's tendency in doing something meritable. Certainly, this is a call to action.
Just read an interesting perspective as to what we should actively pursue: "Whoever makes an effort to purify himself receives assistance from Above." This comes from the Zohar--the Book of Splendor. The primary source of Jewish mysticism/ Kabbalah... The word referenced is sanctification/ kedushah in Hebrew--the existential is what is implied in what is Holy. One way of doing this is to hold the world in all its subjectivity into High Esteem. Taking what is mundane and have the very sense of it as what receives us til consciousness is welcomed in Wholeness/shalom. Note DHYANA here from Buddhism's 8 fold path toward transcendence. The Result is what is important (in DHYANA)--that being we recognize epiphenomenal reality in relationship so that samadhi is restorative.
One statement of mind's alternate ambience is when I could hear a flangey radio--the conversation in my head threatening that the vocal fountain now scrawling across some projected field around me would soon trail off, but with no clue that an innerVoice is my recorded self. If I were in front of some media providing apparati, it seems only the object in focus suggests I am welcome.
If philosophy was the smoke, and it would yield thru its conduit...in one way "the burning in my chest and in my lungs," (Paul K.) is an intensity which is key--and in the obvious way thru the fed hearth of ideas proliferating into the neighborhood's stands of trees, then I combust being restored to I AM.
"How sincere is the profession of your own insignificance if you believe that you are being heeded by that than-which nothing greater can be conceived?" Anselm--a Christian mystic from close to 800 yrs ago.
"Bear one another's burdens, and thereby fulfill the law of Christ." (Galatians 6:2)
The Anointed, the Perfect man, but divine? He said be committed/pistis to me (and become a pisteou/an initiate), but our sense of belief has gotten in the way. He didn't say Believe in me--that would have been found strange to him. An Example is found thru dedication, not repetition of our becoming acquisitive over liturgy. We'd be initiated by actively pursuing the WAy, not touting words that give One security/self-preservation. This is precisely Karen Armstrong's discussion on the Gospels. I thought the nuance was interesting, because many times I am not open to the Christian ethic, yet because of the virtue of what I choose to study/read, it comes up frequently--and I find something extremely relevant and consoling in any one of the Gospels...like Thomas'. Now, by feeling illuminated by this exegesis I don't pretend to say ACTION would not be any one particular X-tian's tendency in doing something meritable. Certainly, this is a call to action.
Just read an interesting perspective as to what we should actively pursue: "Whoever makes an effort to purify himself receives assistance from Above." This comes from the Zohar--the Book of Splendor. The primary source of Jewish mysticism/ Kabbalah... The word referenced is sanctification/ kedushah in Hebrew--the existential is what is implied in what is Holy. One way of doing this is to hold the world in all its subjectivity into High Esteem. Taking what is mundane and have the very sense of it as what receives us til consciousness is welcomed in Wholeness/shalom. Note DHYANA here from Buddhism's 8 fold path toward transcendence. The Result is what is important (in DHYANA)--that being we recognize epiphenomenal reality in relationship so that samadhi is restorative.
One statement of mind's alternate ambience is when I could hear a flangey radio--the conversation in my head threatening that the vocal fountain now scrawling across some projected field around me would soon trail off, but with no clue that an innerVoice is my recorded self. If I were in front of some media providing apparati, it seems only the object in focus suggests I am welcome.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Sitting NEAR = looking to the Upanishads
All things are possible take 1. All things are possible when you are really unable. The evidence of that is knowing when we look for truth, it eludes us. That the world is, is what occurs when we desisit from cleaving to its semblance. The world is our evidence then.
I could hear a flangey radio--the conversation in my head threatening that the vocal fountain now scrawling across some projected field around me...and would soon trail off, but with no clue that an innerVoice is my recorded self. If I were in front of some media providing apparati, it seems only the object in focus suggests I am welcome.
Hearing with inner sensei some pattern in my inner dialogue was the strange empty look of just my proxy with garage and drive, front sidewalk and Ash tree with convalescent boughs. Do you find it a sense of release looking into the loam of your yard, or the call of the tree tops--like it is some lens through which the wilderness is encroaching just a little more than the shitty-city allows? With any luck we can believe it, then have it, just have it. The early Indian trads, Hindus Buddhists Jains, all conceived of a learning dialect under boughs and skies' vistas
Studying only up the street from where I now reside, I wandered thru Madame Blavatskii's Esoteric & Exoteric Writings deliberating on what I conjured and wanting it, then not wanting it and unable to see my way past it. The Upanishads were conceptually unknown to me, but fervently in the utility of whiling away. Just a box, the spectral me a spectral shore--the other shore, like only one thing is possible, annihilating wanting some kind of mystery that couldn't measure up to what is Good Enough: a box in the corner of soul eyes, never blinding, but merely a warning...I can't know immediacy, just everything leading up to it. WE can take the path to the Ocean's edge, but we can't get in.
Kerouac coming down from the mt. in a figurative way when poesis over the splurb and plash of the ocean hitting Big Sur's beaches, was the clarity he sought so many times before and now making sense he was doing the right thing. Like a flight thru his nerve, high up, one moment seized, a note or two takes hesitancy & a babel of thought, making an un-nuanced few hours surface. 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 one occasion he relates: "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'll turn 44 in a few months. 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.
I could hear a flangey radio--the conversation in my head threatening that the vocal fountain now scrawling across some projected field around me...and would soon trail off, but with no clue that an innerVoice is my recorded self. If I were in front of some media providing apparati, it seems only the object in focus suggests I am welcome.
Hearing with inner sensei some pattern in my inner dialogue was the strange empty look of just my proxy with garage and drive, front sidewalk and Ash tree with convalescent boughs. Do you find it a sense of release looking into the loam of your yard, or the call of the tree tops--like it is some lens through which the wilderness is encroaching just a little more than the shitty-city allows? With any luck we can believe it, then have it, just have it. The early Indian trads, Hindus Buddhists Jains, all conceived of a learning dialect under boughs and skies' vistas
Studying only up the street from where I now reside, I wandered thru Madame Blavatskii's Esoteric & Exoteric Writings deliberating on what I conjured and wanting it, then not wanting it and unable to see my way past it. The Upanishads were conceptually unknown to me, but fervently in the utility of whiling away. Just a box, the spectral me a spectral shore--the other shore, like only one thing is possible, annihilating wanting some kind of mystery that couldn't measure up to what is Good Enough: a box in the corner of soul eyes, never blinding, but merely a warning...I can't know immediacy, just everything leading up to it. WE can take the path to the Ocean's edge, but we can't get in.
Kerouac coming down from the mt. in a figurative way when poesis over the splurb and plash of the ocean hitting Big Sur's beaches, was the clarity he sought so many times before and now making sense he was doing the right thing. Like a flight thru his nerve, high up, one moment seized, a note or two takes hesitancy & a babel of thought, making an un-nuanced few hours surface. 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 one occasion he relates: "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'll turn 44 in a few months. 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.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Inter-play of light and memory: Salvia Divinorum interuption!
The other night, profiles of the constancy of having seen Howie, as long as we have known each other, then-yielded to neon-like perimeters surrounding him. Memories of looking thru the banana leaved canopy, in Israel--the West bank w/ his partner w/whom he grew up & me converging then in those few moments into their group, we had looked at the polygons of light coming into the ground where we stood, which were always dismissed & assumed--lest it matters that I imagine them now. And this looking would be toward people when we gather after a while only presence & gratuitous image... as that has changed too! It was like I had looked up into that light, a practical remonstration of personal history now opening up--during an episode of Salvia Divinorum effects. The cult of personality, yours mine anyone's, seemed to become an objective cause: consciousness now ironic because mental space becomes obviated--a discreet sharing of adventurous prowess of psychic drama; killing the norm together! This looking up into light interests me. At the laundro-mat the day before the last day of the year, I had an intuitive homeward feeling because I sensed time & place contained in the sheen of lights in there, as I immersed myself in an Israeli author's bio -- his growing up in Palestine, Jerusalem-- Palestine which later became Israel(constituent w/ a relevant past--when we call it Palestine, no doubt, anyways...). Now I was back the other direction, because everything is a before and after with my occasional thoughts on my travels in the Middle-East, w/ the hellion of light intensity, which at times has humbled me, making me turn off & tune out. These moments, instead, were a layering of brightness stewing above me, construing OBLIVION of any mundane thought TOWARD a "typical" trip to this place--in the shopping center next to my wife's pizza place.
MY BROTHER RESPONDED WITH THIS COMMENT: MY ORIGINAL POST WAS CALLED THEEND OF THE YEAR__IT'S SABBATH!! You grow nostalgic young blood. Somehow the artificial "change of year", this new number affects us all. It is a time model which we use to measure our current state. I can see the light you speak of, brightly feeding me like a reptile, giving energy. For me, shining through the grape leaves rather than bananas. The grand hills of Jordan, staring from accross the river where I always imagined Jordanian soldiers watching me work through their binoculars - maybe laughing at my sweaty toil while they watch from some shady place drinking tea.
IN MY CONCLUDING THOUGHT--this is my mnemotechnical measuring of the motive to tell stories:: Just by taking the tact that I should never finish certain sheer moments of memory, like it's on my behalf the feeling of living next to a river, never is the river jaundiced of tarrying stones--making memory as comfortable as probably the nicest teacher I had here in Lexington telling me she levitated, knowing it is no more than the horse losing concact with the ground in its galloping dance. No, but, there is no fulfillment, things are readily good enough. We are at our best when we are equinimical. Anyway Krishnamurti had that good aphorism that truth is a pathless land. If we believed in a path, it would confirm consequences in forgetfulness...seems like as in a dream I once had, the trodding exile from some precinct of memorialized space to the balance of intermediary space was getting the ground to meet each step--it was a move into subjectivity, since I hadn't divined where I ought to end up. Really like an Aboriginal walk-about.
MY BROTHER RESPONDED WITH THIS COMMENT: MY ORIGINAL POST WAS CALLED THEEND OF THE YEAR__IT'S SABBATH!! You grow nostalgic young blood. Somehow the artificial "change of year", this new number affects us all. It is a time model which we use to measure our current state. I can see the light you speak of, brightly feeding me like a reptile, giving energy. For me, shining through the grape leaves rather than bananas. The grand hills of Jordan, staring from accross the river where I always imagined Jordanian soldiers watching me work through their binoculars - maybe laughing at my sweaty toil while they watch from some shady place drinking tea.
IN MY CONCLUDING THOUGHT--this is my mnemotechnical measuring of the motive to tell stories:: Just by taking the tact that I should never finish certain sheer moments of memory, like it's on my behalf the feeling of living next to a river, never is the river jaundiced of tarrying stones--making memory as comfortable as probably the nicest teacher I had here in Lexington telling me she levitated, knowing it is no more than the horse losing concact with the ground in its galloping dance. No, but, there is no fulfillment, things are readily good enough. We are at our best when we are equinimical. Anyway Krishnamurti had that good aphorism that truth is a pathless land. If we believed in a path, it would confirm consequences in forgetfulness...seems like as in a dream I once had, the trodding exile from some precinct of memorialized space to the balance of intermediary space was getting the ground to meet each step--it was a move into subjectivity, since I hadn't divined where I ought to end up. Really like an Aboriginal walk-about.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Confessional--like to Zadie, to the One and Many. Then Etc.
Got a lot of reading done yesterday after work. Felt great. Strange thing FinaLLy getting acquainted with silence and solitude. Finally not because I haven't noticed it before, but quite the opposite. It is a strange surprise, as in some threshold saying, "see you didn't realize this moment was waiting!" I think I feel your numinous mind and your language skills as I'd remember...like later wishing I had appreciated more then in that occasion, some occasion! Funny how a sense a presence is so phenomenal. I lived at my house on Williamsburg for about 27 yrs. There were some solitarian days there, due to my schizophrenia...which is utterly IN hand now--I so much love feeling convinced over a question of balance, but "then" I wasn't on meds or not the right kind. Anyway, I certainly began to characterize those ground-zero days among those environs as some kind of ulterior normative self, maybe. Going down to the sinkhole and sitting in the fenced-in area to read, or down at the Church on ParkersMill--like I've mentioned to you before, was what I felt I should edu-tain and have continuity with what i started at U of Ky. You are just like other old neighbors giving that certainty of the those skys encumbering me, I tend to feel. It was a great place to linger-on IN, and to grow and have endured--no doubt. But--I drew so many incursions of what I wanted to be in dialogue with, and you personify that event, as does your homey house...and it's a dusky ride into attention over emptiness anyway.
~~The understanding of our essential nature as a goal, in monotheist terms, should make us wonder at the fact the we know things must-go-away, we die. So it becomes very easy after that to say, that this world must end likewise--and expect, and f%$#ing pray for that. In some Theism, the signs can't be read, if they were it is said to be too late. So these bible and or Koranic thumpers need to quit looking.
You can walk to the Ocean's edge, but not get in. The Other Shore is the best symbolic illustration of the Ultimate Reality. The spectral shore is my narrative making ME the convergence of what-IS. Thoughts Feelings and Actions are allegory to Higher Ground.
ALL symbols of eternity ARE in this life. Are you saying you know of another--because you're speaking from this precinct in life, not another (kind) of life. Language is symbolic, RIGHT? Right! So in that we've used ideas about something netherly or paradisaical, still only bespeaks of what-is: that which is before you...
Once I thought "knowledge" would solve all my ills. So I was determined to believe that motive temporarily--because there is something about Unknowing, the Musterion--a sacrament in fact that is important as well. Musterion=mysterion. Ram Das, really doesn't speak to me much, maybe a couple of things...he's like Eastern Thought schtick, said one thing I remember just flipping thru his book at Waldens at Fayette mall about 7yrs ago. That once we realize we can say with confidence that I DON"T KNOW--it's because the certainty of our skies of youth, were really observed for what they were. I'm thinking THEIR intensity and spectacle--or the faces our instincts make us presume and emote.
~~The understanding of our essential nature as a goal, in monotheist terms, should make us wonder at the fact the we know things must-go-away, we die. So it becomes very easy after that to say, that this world must end likewise--and expect, and f%$#ing pray for that. In some Theism, the signs can't be read, if they were it is said to be too late. So these bible and or Koranic thumpers need to quit looking.
You can walk to the Ocean's edge, but not get in. The Other Shore is the best symbolic illustration of the Ultimate Reality. The spectral shore is my narrative making ME the convergence of what-IS. Thoughts Feelings and Actions are allegory to Higher Ground.
ALL symbols of eternity ARE in this life. Are you saying you know of another--because you're speaking from this precinct in life, not another (kind) of life. Language is symbolic, RIGHT? Right! So in that we've used ideas about something netherly or paradisaical, still only bespeaks of what-is: that which is before you...
Once I thought "knowledge" would solve all my ills. So I was determined to believe that motive temporarily--because there is something about Unknowing, the Musterion--a sacrament in fact that is important as well. Musterion=mysterion. Ram Das, really doesn't speak to me much, maybe a couple of things...he's like Eastern Thought schtick, said one thing I remember just flipping thru his book at Waldens at Fayette mall about 7yrs ago. That once we realize we can say with confidence that I DON"T KNOW--it's because the certainty of our skies of youth, were really observed for what they were. I'm thinking THEIR intensity and spectacle--or the faces our instincts make us presume and emote.
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