***Like I'm talking to her:
I'm moving in circles where I'm forgetting you. I am still having to re-remember everything. It's not fair to you, and it makes life unbearable to me. I fell in love late. I get to the house in shadows. I watch lights in my eyes solution things I have no business knowing...these lights fade, and salient life distorts its continuity--pitch resolving cosmos, this moment. It's salience lost in its latent collection: if there were this provenance, why am I risen with its compulsion? (...as in your LOVE) And deceived by its warrant of success? (meaning we wait, it'll have to unfurl like a long road, but lots of signs on this road, and plenty of "deceptive" trappings of identity taking one on strange rides)
***Laura H's dialogue, then me saying:
Subject: gravity & smoke; chalice & wooden horse-eyes
Mom: Were you impressed with that mall?
Laura: Seriously? R u seriously asking me that question?
Mom: Yes
Laura: I despise malls, and I hate shopping. No, I wasn't impressed.
....saying:
If anything has taught me something of true democracy = Porch Sittin' , it's just-hating walking around feeling like my head has to shed the roseate colors behind my eyelids, that were otherwise less precipitous, meaning I only know then--at the mall, running for the the recesses is what I ought to do.
Using language of the great Elias Canetti---exposing the conduct that has grabbing hands grabbing all that they can. Instinct & over-wrought moral compass denies the proffered hand what it's supposedly due!! The hand is an antechamber," toward the "seizing," then "incorporation" of mysterious propensities of outward fact in its contagion. The open hands of Musselmanners in devotion; the receiving cupped hands in Jewish women's votive prayers waving across shabbos candles, then availing her face; the taut grip upon the integrity of doctrines in fundamentalist throes to stave off threats to self-preservation...: a populist emerging from experience to union with it in physical or spiritual success.
Ok, a little of what I say above is the case. That I sorta infer "moving on" isn't the case--but I feel threatened by it, as if I can't object to alternatives to our thing.... But I do in fact reject the alternatives, and will until we are in each other's arms again. I am just venting the "pain." Which is a weird word, it's more just longing--and I have a long history of longing... And LONG I am--wait wait that doesn't sound right. Anyway, this has a ring to it like I'm talking about solely just us--but in the end this small writ is about other sorta existential things--that DO NOT threaten us... I LOVE YOU.
***I gathered the concept of my first book, without reading it. I walked past chthonian bookcase....and read the lay of the land. Called myself alliterative, but I was prone only to the last open page. Toting around things made of whispers and nuances, knowing it wasn't enough, I think until you think about words--their vanity & cheapness--one's thirst begins to martyr the point. Kill yourself when expression loses its vehicle, and then walk or dance images, deigning language to follow.
***Man may be existential toward excelsior humanities more usually in evolved intellectus than women (if I'm in this box). If I'm in this box--man's--my lens is this miasma of agonistic possibilities; I compete with objective alterior selves. A self-profession, potent with exiles--yet potency in the looming temporal university, it's fondest enumeration, is feminine spirt; the most toxic. (...performing on me in spires of self-actualizing covenants...) That victories are critical, machine-distorted, competition dims her salient respite that her goal is that dream-scape ( of the intercourse of soul passions, of paths of splendor & fates), this lightness of being, her charge of giving away what is dear...
***
Sometimes it's just one word. It stammers in the arc of a room we ambulate. Fooled is the writing on the wall, when mindful. Pull the cold-lamp letters from white-noise vibratory properties off the wall, so prohibitive, yields like an urban facade...to something populist, painted in human schema--and lost to what is beyond anthropos, his/her spectral shore: certain skies just do not appertain... Damned is the invocation that the word creates, but as vain & cheap that they are, I'm doomed to eternal symbols, vague & flashing. And identity is what a life has become, but is no symbol!!!
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Monday, September 05, 2011
TODAY, no end of the world
***Grafting my head to the floor, potential feeling almost energetic (like a cauldron conflagrated head) but without subtle presence as evident, a coffee table book on modern-astronomy, from the 60s actually, had cosmic pictures and fractal formulae for my thread to something grounded and immediate. Sounds with dispensations yawning, resound like air-conditioner units proximal and draining, my repose etching into noise cessation had that been the case. Everything echoing--all sensitivity letting blood... The meds I was on had its durations like a caterpillar metamorphosizing, pleroma skies outside this basement window made dry & heavy the day's long ends. Release was my sorrow that change was imminent--this was different for me--a phenomenon that trials (verb tense) peerless circumstance and characters in sounds-arriving advantage temporal world physical success and my submission as discomfitted loss. Oh the bitterness, no one to look to and receive my imaginary stare... The concept that authors present definitions in my path in langour suspense, must have worked--I knew sorely I gave a damn--an excellent presumption in rain-storms like ancestor's message vehicle in alliterative lightning shock, I would finesse throes of appearances...emerge as from I & Nature!!
***The Jewish atheist is a monk. A chair speaks of a thousand deaths, G*d speaks of a thousand lives. (thru a seive of unbelief, or unlived by anyone but an acolyte's conjecture of memorialized space.)
***True democracy =becoming a whisper next 700 yr old oak, just a glimpse framed out of pooled mouldered water--like that is relicky tumult into mind-patters, tho' my helpless anthropothic-trunk prone (and water ambulates in attention's margins), water-table beneath --funky, chthonian, tarrying stream its salient merciful keys...but impossibly theologized. Fountain night, pitch exhorting heavens, the new years are ringed, but arrested. This tree and that tree appreciates clime's greater-will toward treehood--neighborhood murmurs better architecture in tree tops sky-line, the flame of tree talons dispatch horizon's perfect thread... 10,000 fractured leaves weaving intentions of mind-sore from strange concealment!! Light's ultimate control, the birth of life, consciousness arising, water's ally is humanity as its vessel for light's intent.
***I found mind-relics in situ as to say images I perused showing pharonic chambers as well as some krishna blue figures, Hindu things, all coming to me in fertile glyphs. Glyphs in intrepid fiery self-profession, which made it clear to me, leaden consciousness would fall away, no sub-conscious makes wakened states any more oriented to recesses and thought primacy...it is one fluid state into the embrace of outward fact; the knowing of which may be abysmal, but thoroughly my own industry to alight the weird.
***Modeling the verity with these souls of dawn break, for me, found how I'm strung in reaction all the time: my breath extruding from guffaw of inviolable Other at once supposed, but next a yawn of day reconciles other dreams. Folks looking all possible, but remote, championing ground zero, I'm weaving throes of their superable repose. Folks look like folks in the diminutive, down in a well, with earth's lay formidable reaching us before them, they're subterranean, have already "made" habituation in the world. If we're driven into relationship, looking as into space evolving like stammers & whispers, down, down, dawn goes with Babylon falling, uncertain of the pivot to thwart the turbillon into recesses, ofcourse the fractalized self would be feared. So perhaps seeing what conscious crowd taxied-in, in a fine example of awakening--thing actual--but now, not waiting to see one's mornings get the clouds 9 dew, one may net the suspiring invocation of mutual arising of mind in constancy in bleary 5 o'clock evening's dust and torpor...
***I highly suggest reading the Closing of the Western Mind, by Charles Freeman. A great church history--critical of course in some ways, but the politics that went into deciding as upon the canon that inevitably led to why folks distinguish themselves as X-tian...makes unfalsification the primed response that beckons no opposite retort (the argument goes, life is evolvement, but our G*d started it.). The burden of evidence isn't clear til meta-physical stipulations are portent--I think it can be done, but a roseate receiver of man's worth can't be fate's quality. Karma/kama makes instincts met in trials over righting predeceased incarnations, typically not cures for our occurring in a world-to-come. So, life's meaning if there is one, is wrestling with this our exilic semi-adaptive willingness or not experience of anthropos...an immanent lens--no personal deity makes outward fact sacralize reflection to THIS inward journey, had we looked. One would look, had they a question in their nerve lit.
***I'm absolved before I barely try. Then, once the day is ensued--experiences alliterated as goal--I remember for now everyone has looked the other way, no real concern...I'm suppose to be fine the world deigns!! Starting down gutters in the lanes, I've no provenance there would be the same embrace of white noise vibratory properties of bldg's blinking eyes; I don't know any longer who has given me over to the streets again.
For fuck sake I'm rail thin--I cannot pick up a cig--I just have to remember the pale emptiness... read, and read more. Potok orients me to the "rosy colored mourn" of Yehudin sincerity, but I'm telling you Elie Wiesel, right now, talking about madness mostly in interrogatives, divines my modality in these moments--moment to moment--with immense emotional honesty; I look back a hundred-fold, something is there...I should suffer for it!!
***To heed the rave & calvacade of conscious crowd--not weighted upon as if healing needed investing in my despondency--feels like a goodconduct seeded furrow. I'm seeing agency as graviton in rational riddles like I'm likely self-profession when the center seeks oblivion. Imagine that reified self most available when kenotic matriculation alight in floes, rather than arguably a goal or presence-statement of postulating integrities... (so) rationalizing No-book condemns speaking with hands. Only inner-eye can deign memory 'flect aeries unconfessed never to be written because language has parturition underneath anything pith of mind withdraws, & acquisitive laser accurate suspiring of mind, winds of light, breaths, then exilic steps...corridors, plateaux, but to whom?
(so) rationalizing No-book condemns speaking with hands
What I mean by that, maybe suggests alliteration references tools, but fruits of hearing, the largesse maybe of books, still has the reader receive expression immediately, directly, rather than nuances of remote actions, other aims furthered!! No-book makes conscious props, symbols yet are mouthfuls of fire... conscious glyphs are libations in founts--thought is salience greed and who said one transpires without knowing something, anything at all, is redemption, from a less symbolic mediation=to empirical conduct, & less dalliance.
***A Jew courts non-belief in order to be a Believer. Take the lowest common denominator: haShoah, the Holocuast. In Auschwitz Jews, a minion, took G^d to court & found the Absolute guilty in absentsia. Giving meaning to the Unknown, is denying or being denied by the objective reality: Suffering! Particularly if "meaning" is evidence-poor. There is Nothing, Ayn-sof, outside the Known--and everything manifest in physical success, materially voidant. Wiesel mentions that in Exile, G^d experiences the attrition as well, perhaps, but the absurd has reduced hope to those with vitality as its discerning, making thought excersized in self-preservation as the prerogative for those with lives of meaning. Nothingness & essenselessness orient the sufferer to the miasma of the sticky business that G^d's word is sacralized and resourceful--unjust vestiges of Power and Victory which aren't attributable to the lowest-common-denominator. After this congregation relegates G^d to life's desperate void, they commenced w/their evening prayers.
***We have to manifest nothing, so the victim has to deny himself. Nothing gets capsulated,, it's the project of our worth, it is finding out what is empirical in the most general sense. Only that we endureth gives it meaning--sometimes the efficient cause when beginnings speak of right-ordering past-relics of lesser-exile, the suggestion is valences are poor from self-profession. At one point we have this modality that allows the world seemingly find us in our corporeal agitation. If as in a chair expiring a thousand-deaths what is implicit is a dream where something intermediary is taking-notice, then like Marley chimes, if you keep coming, then you're over... The world is good when it seems to seek us.
***The Jewish atheist is a monk. A chair speaks of a thousand deaths, G*d speaks of a thousand lives. (thru a seive of unbelief, or unlived by anyone but an acolyte's conjecture of memorialized space.)
***True democracy =becoming a whisper next 700 yr old oak, just a glimpse framed out of pooled mouldered water--like that is relicky tumult into mind-patters, tho' my helpless anthropothic-trunk prone (and water ambulates in attention's margins), water-table beneath --funky, chthonian, tarrying stream its salient merciful keys...but impossibly theologized. Fountain night, pitch exhorting heavens, the new years are ringed, but arrested. This tree and that tree appreciates clime's greater-will toward treehood--neighborhood murmurs better architecture in tree tops sky-line, the flame of tree talons dispatch horizon's perfect thread... 10,000 fractured leaves weaving intentions of mind-sore from strange concealment!! Light's ultimate control, the birth of life, consciousness arising, water's ally is humanity as its vessel for light's intent.
***I found mind-relics in situ as to say images I perused showing pharonic chambers as well as some krishna blue figures, Hindu things, all coming to me in fertile glyphs. Glyphs in intrepid fiery self-profession, which made it clear to me, leaden consciousness would fall away, no sub-conscious makes wakened states any more oriented to recesses and thought primacy...it is one fluid state into the embrace of outward fact; the knowing of which may be abysmal, but thoroughly my own industry to alight the weird.
***Modeling the verity with these souls of dawn break, for me, found how I'm strung in reaction all the time: my breath extruding from guffaw of inviolable Other at once supposed, but next a yawn of day reconciles other dreams. Folks looking all possible, but remote, championing ground zero, I'm weaving throes of their superable repose. Folks look like folks in the diminutive, down in a well, with earth's lay formidable reaching us before them, they're subterranean, have already "made" habituation in the world. If we're driven into relationship, looking as into space evolving like stammers & whispers, down, down, dawn goes with Babylon falling, uncertain of the pivot to thwart the turbillon into recesses, ofcourse the fractalized self would be feared. So perhaps seeing what conscious crowd taxied-in, in a fine example of awakening--thing actual--but now, not waiting to see one's mornings get the clouds 9 dew, one may net the suspiring invocation of mutual arising of mind in constancy in bleary 5 o'clock evening's dust and torpor...
***I highly suggest reading the Closing of the Western Mind, by Charles Freeman. A great church history--critical of course in some ways, but the politics that went into deciding as upon the canon that inevitably led to why folks distinguish themselves as X-tian...makes unfalsification the primed response that beckons no opposite retort (the argument goes, life is evolvement, but our G*d started it.). The burden of evidence isn't clear til meta-physical stipulations are portent--I think it can be done, but a roseate receiver of man's worth can't be fate's quality. Karma/kama makes instincts met in trials over righting predeceased incarnations, typically not cures for our occurring in a world-to-come. So, life's meaning if there is one, is wrestling with this our exilic semi-adaptive willingness or not experience of anthropos...an immanent lens--no personal deity makes outward fact sacralize reflection to THIS inward journey, had we looked. One would look, had they a question in their nerve lit.
***I'm absolved before I barely try. Then, once the day is ensued--experiences alliterated as goal--I remember for now everyone has looked the other way, no real concern...I'm suppose to be fine the world deigns!! Starting down gutters in the lanes, I've no provenance there would be the same embrace of white noise vibratory properties of bldg's blinking eyes; I don't know any longer who has given me over to the streets again.
For fuck sake I'm rail thin--I cannot pick up a cig--I just have to remember the pale emptiness... read, and read more. Potok orients me to the "rosy colored mourn" of Yehudin sincerity, but I'm telling you Elie Wiesel, right now, talking about madness mostly in interrogatives, divines my modality in these moments--moment to moment--with immense emotional honesty; I look back a hundred-fold, something is there...I should suffer for it!!
***To heed the rave & calvacade of conscious crowd--not weighted upon as if healing needed investing in my despondency--feels like a goodconduct seeded furrow. I'm seeing agency as graviton in rational riddles like I'm likely self-profession when the center seeks oblivion. Imagine that reified self most available when kenotic matriculation alight in floes, rather than arguably a goal or presence-statement of postulating integrities... (so) rationalizing No-book condemns speaking with hands. Only inner-eye can deign memory 'flect aeries unconfessed never to be written because language has parturition underneath anything pith of mind withdraws, & acquisitive laser accurate suspiring of mind, winds of light, breaths, then exilic steps...corridors, plateaux, but to whom?
(so) rationalizing No-book condemns speaking with hands
What I mean by that, maybe suggests alliteration references tools, but fruits of hearing, the largesse maybe of books, still has the reader receive expression immediately, directly, rather than nuances of remote actions, other aims furthered!! No-book makes conscious props, symbols yet are mouthfuls of fire... conscious glyphs are libations in founts--thought is salience greed and who said one transpires without knowing something, anything at all, is redemption, from a less symbolic mediation=to empirical conduct, & less dalliance.
***A Jew courts non-belief in order to be a Believer. Take the lowest common denominator: haShoah, the Holocuast. In Auschwitz Jews, a minion, took G^d to court & found the Absolute guilty in absentsia. Giving meaning to the Unknown, is denying or being denied by the objective reality: Suffering! Particularly if "meaning" is evidence-poor. There is Nothing, Ayn-sof, outside the Known--and everything manifest in physical success, materially voidant. Wiesel mentions that in Exile, G^d experiences the attrition as well, perhaps, but the absurd has reduced hope to those with vitality as its discerning, making thought excersized in self-preservation as the prerogative for those with lives of meaning. Nothingness & essenselessness orient the sufferer to the miasma of the sticky business that G^d's word is sacralized and resourceful--unjust vestiges of Power and Victory which aren't attributable to the lowest-common-denominator. After this congregation relegates G^d to life's desperate void, they commenced w/their evening prayers.
***We have to manifest nothing, so the victim has to deny himself. Nothing gets capsulated,, it's the project of our worth, it is finding out what is empirical in the most general sense. Only that we endureth gives it meaning--sometimes the efficient cause when beginnings speak of right-ordering past-relics of lesser-exile, the suggestion is valences are poor from self-profession. At one point we have this modality that allows the world seemingly find us in our corporeal agitation. If as in a chair expiring a thousand-deaths what is implicit is a dream where something intermediary is taking-notice, then like Marley chimes, if you keep coming, then you're over... The world is good when it seems to seek us.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Travel is Meritable===MOM IN FOCUS
***sa'adyah in Arabic, hazlakhah in Hebrew, felicitas in Latin, pramudita in Sanskrit, & eudamonia in Greek means happiness. The arising of compassion, Karuna in Sanskrit, under the guise of conscious void, Sunyata, make a quest for being wrested by seeking a way...a becoming. Inspired by igniting one light, technically unsuitable from weird conflagrating effort, pollution makes a standard of an Aspirant...custodial duties tally physical impugning of voluntas, I can't necessarily will lightness of being. Anything that may add to the now approaching cosmos, in its probity had grotesque gods been cartage in vestiges of man's sanity, just indicts man for the lore of his complicity.
*** I stake no claim that joy is sundering predictably, but I imagine stripes of ways to orient myself looking back like I should share in memoria of real meaning, tarrying in truth. Went over to the Episcopal church & sat under pine trees to read, smell redolent environs in its quiet currents, and mostly explore the conflict appropriation of vanquished-solidarity from the deposits of intimidating mind-sores. It's hard to imagine auspicious indictments where I restore the fools to the paths bi-secting mine. Like I'm supposed to ready myself for that weather. The present doesn't tarry as much as 2 dimensional icons/Ideas allowing refrain of similitude in suspense. Meaning's wanderlust is the product (that art) from those echos of physical success in its purport (the ICON), when our acuity to the material is emergent and becoming, and thus consigned to nothing. Because we are manifesting material void, we indulge avid concern about becoming appearances and burying essense. Essense is lit in its becoming, but this essense is suspiring, an expiration, only known in our observable release as from it.
*** I feel like I'll be skipping vast intervals of time with Valerie at the convening of our thing--a gap of exaggerated memory and brandishing a surfeit of assiduous mourn that would have me question how proscribed it is that I have gotten emptier. Fish for me I'll tell her, don't forget the unincarnated sentence I've been handed. (Like) Chagal with his apology-accepted Believer-fish, which is likely showing a clone in the aural sea: one way of divining anthropothic other-worldly possibilities who deserve one another... The Hasids believe the fish are incomplete souls, restrained in this part of transmigration. I'm a herring unfit for my school, unchallenged in the deep with the report of the Tiamot--mercurial voidant-deep, in an all-too packed fluidity of mind. The ocean is inclined to parturition--but I'm born of mean release. Prone to the immensities of temporal water, like the fountain blue horizon cosmos, the stars are just another luminescent excuse to cut me when I can't feel it.
***Pretty weird talking about life literally huh, Mom? I mean here we all are around you--it is life as you know it. I dream about you. I can't find a critical awareness of who I am to anybody...if "they" keep coming--then they're over, I tell myself. Saying energy comes from other planets is like saying we move into consciousness. Consciousness is without--G-d, if there is, is a relationship without: this is the literal horizonal truth, presuming all margins and its cost of emptiness just beyond.
I was saying to my old neighbor of 27yrs (Melinda Higgins from Cut Corner and WRFL, if you recall?)--"strange how sisterly you are--and I feel estranged even from myself. ..........An angel poked in my window soul the other day--gave me my orders. She said, "you go onnn for now onnnn alone." As real as the back of my hand. It made me breath easier, like I had forgotten. Of course, there's no denying fellow travelers and their wisdom. I would never deny that.
I had a dream sometime back, but only after Mom's sister passed, from cancer. She led me thru neighborhood backyards, into a garage, and she was barefoot. Mom & I trailed her in this dream. As I followed her I was mindful of a stark fate harassing me--so I hastened my steps, I couldn't but follow... My proclivity for self-destruction (cigs!) gives a poor self-esteem, and no sanction. When my shame makes me high, as I weep, I almost swear it off (the meaning of lament!) like why do I deserve this healing, and others haven't the plentitude of all this emotion excersized like the blood of my spirits? My good friend says, Just try! I will, or rather I'll be critically aware--intellectus needs a heart's proponet & still I reflect and meditate, coarsely--meanwhile, my will is shot."
***Problem w/religion adducing salience is that usually it's a presentation, rather than an appreciation. The variable is, is it good for meditation? (Not necessary WWJD?--I'm saying.) New agey cagey stuff, some perhaps, think what-goes-on is dispensational, and his doctrine trifles in tea leaves' symbology. There ain't no norm, so antiquity thru lens purporting the same old actors, is self-denial. The Aryans, of the Avesta and of the Vedas, believed in a god for Expression/Speech, so profiles in media for astral representatives would likely start w/script that imbues man soul rEbElling, & his petty conscript to divine relationship (kathenotheistically)...as toward creator godheads per a certain need. So he is just talking about his participation in the creative, or its cessation. It has devotion-type praxis and while sitting upon contiguous observer's manifold, and enduring statements about temporal identities, would never have us demur from a natural canon of spiritual, relicky self-profession: I and Nature is eVer the cause without too much marketing of its vertex performance...
***The 1rst Autumnal leaf, as if, fell from the eaves in front of me in the garage. The dog noticed too, and after her steak she bowed to it & chewed on it. That part of American Splendor w/the wafting paper bag in windy aeries filmed like human emotions - elements working on it, is viable & mood availing. A work-a-day haunting fodder for season's clement designs... The melancholy locked in a cell, if Winter's approach w/gray sundered skies contains us at all, produces the domicile as a bland crime to the gravid lower unpierced pleroma... Summer, Fall, & Winter dons what is apropos to habituation of calender's transition--a year like a day, a week like a valley with enumerated shadows!! My weekends have the plateau effect, and gray encumbered thoughts, are reproven w/votive candle light and the "little smoke."
***We have to manifest nothing, so the victim has to deny himself. Nothing gets capsulated,, it's the project of our worth, it is finding out what is empirical in the most general sense. Only that we endureth gives it meaning--sometimes the efficient cause when beginnings speak of right-ordering past-relics of lesser-exile, the suggestion is valences are poor from self-profession. At one point we have this modality that allows the world seemingly find us in our corporeal agitation. If as in a chair expiring a thousand-deaths what is implicit is a dream where something intermediary is taking-notice, then like Marley chimes, if you keep coming, then you're over... The world is good when it seems to seek us.
^^^Neitzsche used the term mnemotechniques, meaning the art of forgetting. So, maybe forget the norm, and homogeneity of the integrity we establish confidences over thru the elements of the Path you have found, and consider Otherness in their mutual arising. They're probably experiencing the same release as you reconciled as propriety...from Traditions soooo recommended. Stole Neitzsche's Basic Writings from the Gaines Cntr for Humanities, knowing in time's unfurling I'd end up back there to return it, only after academician resposibilities took on currents of palimpsest days. The expectations of graded episteme self-profession, only means ordering knowledge bases because exemplar student efforts say it is within me to do that. It's like taking back language technology so as to refuse the manufacture of motives that I might proffer romans bildung, or taking on identity plainly in my own wizened concerns, as opposed to having the institution determine when & how I would ever receive that.
***Working at the Co-op way back, ole Carol Davis, lanky woman - my manager, feminist replete in every step mindful--spiritually goal-oriented, told me once about staying up in the country, the mts, I think, whence toting kindling and water etc was her grace sabbatical from toiling world of investiture from individuality in throes self-encouraged. I watched in Powaqatsi, now many times--a Libra repose of man with length of limb across his back buckets on either released end of the pole, dithering on path in 3rd World reproval of where my mind extenuates. I was this man, and I am her there, then, focused and visualizing, capitalizing of serene work-a-day mechanical runnerhood--conscious of my cog-ness, alive but in empty presidio, its gradin vanished & no one to create poles in dreamtime except remotely indicating lithe demeanor, prone state no matter the distance of my visage to theirs...
***Done formulating how I market meditation. There are still old actors framed in sublime-wealthy portes--stillness and weird possibilities to find peak moments to jump, djelug, skip, as thru new expressions 'pon the countenance of maya-foed selves, freeing space knowing knows knowing, and observer reflects intimately and not from my plastic confrontation (I can't give them their certain fu manchu face). Demons threaded into physical success, body liberation has its cost, being half of something ones propitiation has restored the spirit making presence statement the space-memorialized, but ascesis: this Becoming made asking feel literal so illusion lies un-named unpierced in its depth's promise.
***Heard the name Govind recently, & Govinda was an incarnation of Krishna. (Vishnu & Krishna interplay, at any rate...) I read that in a auto-bio. of Gandhi charitably handed to me by my brother's X in the early 90s. Haven't seen that name in a long time, and at any rate midnightblue Krishna's usual visage had conjured sublime proportions...I think therapeutically and helpful to me, minus the devotion. At the time John Coltrane was the immanent mind-sore & contemplative positor, so to speak. But adducing things-spiritual in the taste of JaZZ, just how it packs it up so one believes in the musicians' selfless entreaty made the spectral insouciance of Eastern bhakti something graspable. The mystique and how all religions and spiritual attainments travel is become what-all I would cultivate.
It is clear we are denied humanity in an ant's dream. Or perhaps granted a life to live by the dreams of the Australian green ant, dreaming the lives of the children throughout the world.
Going to bed as a king--waking up as a butterfly, living slavishly, honored by prone submission. The easy part is contrite differences--they matriculate w/propriety. The human condition is as yet extremely insignificant. Sometimes however my laurels reflect Krishnamurti's idea, as I read last night, that meditation is to get control of the mind, and then go beyond--with that goal I'll have to accede to his other recommendation, that being constituant teachers who may orient me, yet are still authorial--and is one of the things also to get beyond. For all intents and purposes I submit in the end it would still be better WITH a teacher--the Talmud says BUY them! Coltrane by his saintliness and pulpit in staged delivery, gets my propitiation...I have something to tell him!
***Singularity is the consequence of Sisyphusian designs with the pivot of life's swing. On one extremis impermanence bellows self-squalor; now down in the valley, one shadow (read: Black Elk Speaks)--and opposite an appreciable arising--we are thwarted, wizened now...this pole delivered the punch of indecision, the principal executor. The most familiar of lights extinguished--refusing to yield to absurd travelogues. That we've gotten to emergent reality is a task of duppy conquering. Seeing ubiquities contagion, naming the ill-contained (you & I), which is the persistant statement to presume our primacy will level the intimating liquid sky to its influence 'pon temporal reflections. If seeing primacy threatened, presumptions about a general awe are construed in interpretations moment to moment, the places deigned as "peak" resolve.
*** I stake no claim that joy is sundering predictably, but I imagine stripes of ways to orient myself looking back like I should share in memoria of real meaning, tarrying in truth. Went over to the Episcopal church & sat under pine trees to read, smell redolent environs in its quiet currents, and mostly explore the conflict appropriation of vanquished-solidarity from the deposits of intimidating mind-sores. It's hard to imagine auspicious indictments where I restore the fools to the paths bi-secting mine. Like I'm supposed to ready myself for that weather. The present doesn't tarry as much as 2 dimensional icons/Ideas allowing refrain of similitude in suspense. Meaning's wanderlust is the product (that art) from those echos of physical success in its purport (the ICON), when our acuity to the material is emergent and becoming, and thus consigned to nothing. Because we are manifesting material void, we indulge avid concern about becoming appearances and burying essense. Essense is lit in its becoming, but this essense is suspiring, an expiration, only known in our observable release as from it.
*** I feel like I'll be skipping vast intervals of time with Valerie at the convening of our thing--a gap of exaggerated memory and brandishing a surfeit of assiduous mourn that would have me question how proscribed it is that I have gotten emptier. Fish for me I'll tell her, don't forget the unincarnated sentence I've been handed. (Like) Chagal with his apology-accepted Believer-fish, which is likely showing a clone in the aural sea: one way of divining anthropothic other-worldly possibilities who deserve one another... The Hasids believe the fish are incomplete souls, restrained in this part of transmigration. I'm a herring unfit for my school, unchallenged in the deep with the report of the Tiamot--mercurial voidant-deep, in an all-too packed fluidity of mind. The ocean is inclined to parturition--but I'm born of mean release. Prone to the immensities of temporal water, like the fountain blue horizon cosmos, the stars are just another luminescent excuse to cut me when I can't feel it.
***Pretty weird talking about life literally huh, Mom? I mean here we all are around you--it is life as you know it. I dream about you. I can't find a critical awareness of who I am to anybody...if "they" keep coming--then they're over, I tell myself. Saying energy comes from other planets is like saying we move into consciousness. Consciousness is without--G-d, if there is, is a relationship without: this is the literal horizonal truth, presuming all margins and its cost of emptiness just beyond.
I was saying to my old neighbor of 27yrs (Melinda Higgins from Cut Corner and WRFL, if you recall?)--"strange how sisterly you are--and I feel estranged even from myself. ..........An angel poked in my window soul the other day--gave me my orders. She said, "you go onnn for now onnnn alone." As real as the back of my hand. It made me breath easier, like I had forgotten. Of course, there's no denying fellow travelers and their wisdom. I would never deny that.
I had a dream sometime back, but only after Mom's sister passed, from cancer. She led me thru neighborhood backyards, into a garage, and she was barefoot. Mom & I trailed her in this dream. As I followed her I was mindful of a stark fate harassing me--so I hastened my steps, I couldn't but follow... My proclivity for self-destruction (cigs!) gives a poor self-esteem, and no sanction. When my shame makes me high, as I weep, I almost swear it off (the meaning of lament!) like why do I deserve this healing, and others haven't the plentitude of all this emotion excersized like the blood of my spirits? My good friend says, Just try! I will, or rather I'll be critically aware--intellectus needs a heart's proponet & still I reflect and meditate, coarsely--meanwhile, my will is shot."
***Problem w/religion adducing salience is that usually it's a presentation, rather than an appreciation. The variable is, is it good for meditation? (Not necessary WWJD?--I'm saying.) New agey cagey stuff, some perhaps, think what-goes-on is dispensational, and his doctrine trifles in tea leaves' symbology. There ain't no norm, so antiquity thru lens purporting the same old actors, is self-denial. The Aryans, of the Avesta and of the Vedas, believed in a god for Expression/Speech, so profiles in media for astral representatives would likely start w/script that imbues man soul rEbElling, & his petty conscript to divine relationship (kathenotheistically)...as toward creator godheads per a certain need. So he is just talking about his participation in the creative, or its cessation. It has devotion-type praxis and while sitting upon contiguous observer's manifold, and enduring statements about temporal identities, would never have us demur from a natural canon of spiritual, relicky self-profession: I and Nature is eVer the cause without too much marketing of its vertex performance...
***The 1rst Autumnal leaf, as if, fell from the eaves in front of me in the garage. The dog noticed too, and after her steak she bowed to it & chewed on it. That part of American Splendor w/the wafting paper bag in windy aeries filmed like human emotions - elements working on it, is viable & mood availing. A work-a-day haunting fodder for season's clement designs... The melancholy locked in a cell, if Winter's approach w/gray sundered skies contains us at all, produces the domicile as a bland crime to the gravid lower unpierced pleroma... Summer, Fall, & Winter dons what is apropos to habituation of calender's transition--a year like a day, a week like a valley with enumerated shadows!! My weekends have the plateau effect, and gray encumbered thoughts, are reproven w/votive candle light and the "little smoke."
***We have to manifest nothing, so the victim has to deny himself. Nothing gets capsulated,, it's the project of our worth, it is finding out what is empirical in the most general sense. Only that we endureth gives it meaning--sometimes the efficient cause when beginnings speak of right-ordering past-relics of lesser-exile, the suggestion is valences are poor from self-profession. At one point we have this modality that allows the world seemingly find us in our corporeal agitation. If as in a chair expiring a thousand-deaths what is implicit is a dream where something intermediary is taking-notice, then like Marley chimes, if you keep coming, then you're over... The world is good when it seems to seek us.
^^^Neitzsche used the term mnemotechniques, meaning the art of forgetting. So, maybe forget the norm, and homogeneity of the integrity we establish confidences over thru the elements of the Path you have found, and consider Otherness in their mutual arising. They're probably experiencing the same release as you reconciled as propriety...from Traditions soooo recommended. Stole Neitzsche's Basic Writings from the Gaines Cntr for Humanities, knowing in time's unfurling I'd end up back there to return it, only after academician resposibilities took on currents of palimpsest days. The expectations of graded episteme self-profession, only means ordering knowledge bases because exemplar student efforts say it is within me to do that. It's like taking back language technology so as to refuse the manufacture of motives that I might proffer romans bildung, or taking on identity plainly in my own wizened concerns, as opposed to having the institution determine when & how I would ever receive that.
***Working at the Co-op way back, ole Carol Davis, lanky woman - my manager, feminist replete in every step mindful--spiritually goal-oriented, told me once about staying up in the country, the mts, I think, whence toting kindling and water etc was her grace sabbatical from toiling world of investiture from individuality in throes self-encouraged. I watched in Powaqatsi, now many times--a Libra repose of man with length of limb across his back buckets on either released end of the pole, dithering on path in 3rd World reproval of where my mind extenuates. I was this man, and I am her there, then, focused and visualizing, capitalizing of serene work-a-day mechanical runnerhood--conscious of my cog-ness, alive but in empty presidio, its gradin vanished & no one to create poles in dreamtime except remotely indicating lithe demeanor, prone state no matter the distance of my visage to theirs...
***Done formulating how I market meditation. There are still old actors framed in sublime-wealthy portes--stillness and weird possibilities to find peak moments to jump, djelug, skip, as thru new expressions 'pon the countenance of maya-foed selves, freeing space knowing knows knowing, and observer reflects intimately and not from my plastic confrontation (I can't give them their certain fu manchu face). Demons threaded into physical success, body liberation has its cost, being half of something ones propitiation has restored the spirit making presence statement the space-memorialized, but ascesis: this Becoming made asking feel literal so illusion lies un-named unpierced in its depth's promise.
***Heard the name Govind recently, & Govinda was an incarnation of Krishna. (Vishnu & Krishna interplay, at any rate...) I read that in a auto-bio. of Gandhi charitably handed to me by my brother's X in the early 90s. Haven't seen that name in a long time, and at any rate midnightblue Krishna's usual visage had conjured sublime proportions...I think therapeutically and helpful to me, minus the devotion. At the time John Coltrane was the immanent mind-sore & contemplative positor, so to speak. But adducing things-spiritual in the taste of JaZZ, just how it packs it up so one believes in the musicians' selfless entreaty made the spectral insouciance of Eastern bhakti something graspable. The mystique and how all religions and spiritual attainments travel is become what-all I would cultivate.
It is clear we are denied humanity in an ant's dream. Or perhaps granted a life to live by the dreams of the Australian green ant, dreaming the lives of the children throughout the world.
Going to bed as a king--waking up as a butterfly, living slavishly, honored by prone submission. The easy part is contrite differences--they matriculate w/propriety. The human condition is as yet extremely insignificant. Sometimes however my laurels reflect Krishnamurti's idea, as I read last night, that meditation is to get control of the mind, and then go beyond--with that goal I'll have to accede to his other recommendation, that being constituant teachers who may orient me, yet are still authorial--and is one of the things also to get beyond. For all intents and purposes I submit in the end it would still be better WITH a teacher--the Talmud says BUY them! Coltrane by his saintliness and pulpit in staged delivery, gets my propitiation...I have something to tell him!
***Singularity is the consequence of Sisyphusian designs with the pivot of life's swing. On one extremis impermanence bellows self-squalor; now down in the valley, one shadow (read: Black Elk Speaks)--and opposite an appreciable arising--we are thwarted, wizened now...this pole delivered the punch of indecision, the principal executor. The most familiar of lights extinguished--refusing to yield to absurd travelogues. That we've gotten to emergent reality is a task of duppy conquering. Seeing ubiquities contagion, naming the ill-contained (you & I), which is the persistant statement to presume our primacy will level the intimating liquid sky to its influence 'pon temporal reflections. If seeing primacy threatened, presumptions about a general awe are construed in interpretations moment to moment, the places deigned as "peak" resolve.
Friday, August 05, 2011
Fanning the flames of my wakened state with dreams
***I feel I've arisen last night--and not today, not this morning. My book Wanderings, the first thing I read intending to get caught up with station in life all point to reading, has those blue-gray pages smelling like newspaper, to tell me ...where memorialized spaces I would leave in troves of imagination, the tool to connect with and don new allies in time (and place). I read it back in about '94--this is the first retrieval of those expressions of sublime efforts. (In this book) The Helenism in Jewish thought what I've just now left off reading, is remarkable in that there are 3000 Greek words having made it into the Talmud. That gods (their gods) are subject to the same circumventing mistakes of something temporal--that pagans manifest, leaves what is expectant of earth bonds and its iconography, in light of Jewish theoria, the things held in higher ordeal. Meaning, a world-to-come to prevail as earth's denoument, is threading the astral hope in the weave of aural wailing as opposed to life as inverted from it and inconsistant when history's well-being is foulable with assurances of intransigence.
***One knows he has resumed, just not resuming--he's acknowledged neo-beginnings, and no path seems to prevail like emptying the one basket with kept serpent, while all other baskets try our willingness to exhort hai hai teacher father uniFORMity. We're convicted by the moment--the moment entreats us to expectations as its subject of surveillance. Certainly we're circumspect when a path eminent meets each striving step--and knowing where I was going - fluid & tacit - at once, consciousness came to me, & not necessarily as a-becoming... It was something spiritualizing me, that I had run to its passport probity--a path. Something gotten away from me & then reflecting, I concurred: it is mnemotechnical--I was trying to negotiate what wasn't news to me!! I had decided to erase what was beneath the ground of consciousness, so that something more bleak would compel me...less of me in fact, less to assume from my life, but in immense refrain forwarding the only cause life would persist with--vast distances to trod.
***Hope is luck. Hoping down from up above is deliberative over a path. The path gives life its transcendence, but it is creative--so luck as nothing to do with it. Mom's sister had cancer for over 11yrs. Dreamt suburbs, I'm padding the trapsing path she made - after she passed - I'm trailing her to the garage whose guffaw received us, which had the nomenclature of only a brief frequenting of the place I'd go & begin my day mowing, landscaping. Damnable and cursed these days, which in just one descriptor was my being innudated by two or three whirl-winds in the yard of one of our clients. Hellish, and yet now in somewhat convalescence, I see this space in thiS garage as perhaps the one unforseen in the dream. Mom was in the dream too. She and I both were following my barefoot Aunt Eleanor into idol-esque and stern intermediary dreamscape. The dream tabernacle had eternity all marred up in its inconvenience over my control at just where I grappled at the path meeting each step, quick-stepping, watching the mute persona of my Aunt.
***Lazy siesta, languid morning a couple Sundays ago, while reading Kazantzakis--his theodicy Report to Greco. Everytime my blue nod met the morning arising, a serene pleasure jettisoning the sober ego for the dreamt inner-verse, gave ego the pliant spirit that my particular brand of social fever would be fortified with everyone feeding my feeling of being Understood Through It. I'd gulp at the last calvacade of Lextown traffic, and as if these denizen vessels emanated from the quailed glance dowwwn the proximal corridor dowwwn into downtown proper, my kaleidoscopic inner-eye sorta naturally, sorta divinely watched semblance of day's constituency peel off the watch-tower half-empty cup. That some poingant designs on my ego is becoming variegated, the austere and remote rather signals folk, friends and family, drizzling into the precipitate identity cue...it was formidable that my mind, like loaded gun, shined out by its distributor thwarted an exercise in the day appreciating anything between me and anyone else mutually arising: it seemed like Nothing existed (between us) to make whiling away obscurant!!
^^^Where were those people of my historical well-being? That sociological water that flame consumes and is not deterred. They are borne aloft=black sinewy and dissolved... That need... I needed. The candle said HERE I'll appropriate it. No no I needed the candle for meditations, not tribulations...not yet one more relicked shard of self for curio in moments of release, that actually question if it is at all observerable. Is it Observable Release--the meridian of knowing we'd feel life escape, and no way to follow? Maybe not ask WHY I know I see, but just let its content distort what otherwise remained the Uncarved Block.
Go so far as to say this stela of self is the best of corner stone, and still the house stood without it...
Cornerstone rededicated: MARK, my brother. wrote
You know, I liked looking out that window because it was at ground level. It was as if I could get the perspective from the earth itself, perhaps as the little animals do, feeling part of the earth.
In my 90's respite--my room--I'd sit on the floor, basement window to my back looking out to the backyard, sometimes I'd light a candle & assert my meditations would graduate more formally. The candle presides in sentient cause like it was not only advent of my focus, but draws in favorable assent from those especially in my midnight raving who had congregated around--in pronouncements of my historical well-being. The silent assent comes from gaping gaffawed world broadcasting my ego-centricism, yet this crystal palace gets its character denied--the ego limps along: self-profession melts into smoking black sinewy smoke... At once I imagine the flame fed by factoring-in the solace of peers--it's familial, then the flame wields and flutters, throes of personae borne aloft take on new climates of exclamation... They're consumed like my eyes emptied of reservois of dire need: sociological water, and no water could put out that fire.
***A 1000 deaths in labyrinthine shadows behind me in the redoubt of place of study. One dream purporting of rivers of time, filling bottles of unseen Axial age Dispensationals--so to speak, meaning soft machines, people. 10,000 doubts occurring one & against the 10,000 things: These "things" maybe reconciled memories, figures and glyphs like 9 clouds behind "asha" (an Avestan word) = order, the world in Right Action, the Tao's version.
We all pass, but the mind's eye reflects on the inconsistancy of the impermanent record in the hesitation of a look withIN. We surrender to the inward journey, and notice refined reasons to give thanks & praises for the irony of our security
***One knows he has resumed, just not resuming--he's acknowledged neo-beginnings, and no path seems to prevail like emptying the one basket with kept serpent, while all other baskets try our willingness to exhort hai hai teacher father uniFORMity. We're convicted by the moment--the moment entreats us to expectations as its subject of surveillance. Certainly we're circumspect when a path eminent meets each striving step--and knowing where I was going - fluid & tacit - at once, consciousness came to me, & not necessarily as a-becoming... It was something spiritualizing me, that I had run to its passport probity--a path. Something gotten away from me & then reflecting, I concurred: it is mnemotechnical--I was trying to negotiate what wasn't news to me!! I had decided to erase what was beneath the ground of consciousness, so that something more bleak would compel me...less of me in fact, less to assume from my life, but in immense refrain forwarding the only cause life would persist with--vast distances to trod.
***Hope is luck. Hoping down from up above is deliberative over a path. The path gives life its transcendence, but it is creative--so luck as nothing to do with it. Mom's sister had cancer for over 11yrs. Dreamt suburbs, I'm padding the trapsing path she made - after she passed - I'm trailing her to the garage whose guffaw received us, which had the nomenclature of only a brief frequenting of the place I'd go & begin my day mowing, landscaping. Damnable and cursed these days, which in just one descriptor was my being innudated by two or three whirl-winds in the yard of one of our clients. Hellish, and yet now in somewhat convalescence, I see this space in thiS garage as perhaps the one unforseen in the dream. Mom was in the dream too. She and I both were following my barefoot Aunt Eleanor into idol-esque and stern intermediary dreamscape. The dream tabernacle had eternity all marred up in its inconvenience over my control at just where I grappled at the path meeting each step, quick-stepping, watching the mute persona of my Aunt.
***Lazy siesta, languid morning a couple Sundays ago, while reading Kazantzakis--his theodicy Report to Greco. Everytime my blue nod met the morning arising, a serene pleasure jettisoning the sober ego for the dreamt inner-verse, gave ego the pliant spirit that my particular brand of social fever would be fortified with everyone feeding my feeling of being Understood Through It. I'd gulp at the last calvacade of Lextown traffic, and as if these denizen vessels emanated from the quailed glance dowwwn the proximal corridor dowwwn into downtown proper, my kaleidoscopic inner-eye sorta naturally, sorta divinely watched semblance of day's constituency peel off the watch-tower half-empty cup. That some poingant designs on my ego is becoming variegated, the austere and remote rather signals folk, friends and family, drizzling into the precipitate identity cue...it was formidable that my mind, like loaded gun, shined out by its distributor thwarted an exercise in the day appreciating anything between me and anyone else mutually arising: it seemed like Nothing existed (between us) to make whiling away obscurant!!
^^^Where were those people of my historical well-being? That sociological water that flame consumes and is not deterred. They are borne aloft=black sinewy and dissolved... That need... I needed. The candle said HERE I'll appropriate it. No no I needed the candle for meditations, not tribulations...not yet one more relicked shard of self for curio in moments of release, that actually question if it is at all observerable. Is it Observable Release--the meridian of knowing we'd feel life escape, and no way to follow? Maybe not ask WHY I know I see, but just let its content distort what otherwise remained the Uncarved Block.
Go so far as to say this stela of self is the best of corner stone, and still the house stood without it...
Cornerstone rededicated: MARK, my brother. wrote
You know, I liked looking out that window because it was at ground level. It was as if I could get the perspective from the earth itself, perhaps as the little animals do, feeling part of the earth.
In my 90's respite--my room--I'd sit on the floor, basement window to my back looking out to the backyard, sometimes I'd light a candle & assert my meditations would graduate more formally. The candle presides in sentient cause like it was not only advent of my focus, but draws in favorable assent from those especially in my midnight raving who had congregated around--in pronouncements of my historical well-being. The silent assent comes from gaping gaffawed world broadcasting my ego-centricism, yet this crystal palace gets its character denied--the ego limps along: self-profession melts into smoking black sinewy smoke... At once I imagine the flame fed by factoring-in the solace of peers--it's familial, then the flame wields and flutters, throes of personae borne aloft take on new climates of exclamation... They're consumed like my eyes emptied of reservois of dire need: sociological water, and no water could put out that fire.
***A 1000 deaths in labyrinthine shadows behind me in the redoubt of place of study. One dream purporting of rivers of time, filling bottles of unseen Axial age Dispensationals--so to speak, meaning soft machines, people. 10,000 doubts occurring one & against the 10,000 things: These "things" maybe reconciled memories, figures and glyphs like 9 clouds behind "asha" (an Avestan word) = order, the world in Right Action, the Tao's version.
We all pass, but the mind's eye reflects on the inconsistancy of the impermanent record in the hesitation of a look withIN. We surrender to the inward journey, and notice refined reasons to give thanks & praises for the irony of our security
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
The Youth in Me contends with ex nihilo=absolute On-spirit
I sight cold-creators' conscious message--they seem to have gotten somewhere. There as before me is this sort of conscious energy, a prop, and back in my vacuous space I am thwarted by their ideal. And yet there stands a sense of his or her effort as it proceeds in this yah moment. I take strides to represent it somehow, and I do, but only this man or that woman as "imminent," like mundane me: I see me, yes from that lens, and still it is only my last lumbering step that I find in my retreat. Who are they as only decisors of my self-profession? It almost doesn't take place: rather it is man and nature, his own albeit, but this most elusive of relationships, without the guise of I & Thou, or even I & I...
***Over at the creek behind the Episcopal Church a sump house sat with a bereft earthscraper. I waved Dostoevskii at the glint off of fractured glass covering gauges, wanting some token from an atmosphere at this essentially tragic timelessness. Lighted beginnings were hard knowing the array of festivals ahead pay coffers unreconciled by only disaster reduced in its effect by something as gross to topple its unfair designs. The appeal to console in self most of all, had the unpunctual sabbatical of my bridge toward wakened privy to deal with not a soul, not fucking one, whose o' plenty I admit having considered they had formidably been actually none other than the kohl in my eyes. Places given its exigency memorialized are conscious satellites, and when the deluge so spectral challenges the gloss surface to dissuade one's intercourse, truth in denouement is pathless. If I ask once whither I go--it is certain I dweet in the present.
***I look at the sky, I am donning horizontal repose. I glance at ubiquitous sidewalks, and I am vertical and pillaresque. Thinking about all the elements distorting one's demeanor, I'm reminded of an adept's life as a plant, or as an animal, or, if I knew enough about him/her--their chemical romance, in saintlike narratives, all grotesque anthropology. At once I see parts of me--the suspired expression particularly, as emerged from appearances. Certainly our "cousin" sentience is identity sources. It is not as if we are here to study the air, and the playground as light, unless we are directed to render seasons change in everyone's becoming as exhalant "liquid language awash." (Wallace Stevens)Breath in the black smoke, exhale the white - and watch how much incense can do w/o the nicotine delivery. (claiming tobacco as an incense votive) I like the pollen-messenger, and climate (aqlim *Arabic) of the greater will as something Superably Conscious. The bee-catcher in lavender high, takes mind to be entertainment of nothing other than stratigraphic of air... Tobacco: cagey high, draws maps in antiquated ways. If I could see the clung leaf on the ankle of Kaskerbeh's wife, or was it Kasturbai...? One is Gandhi's wife, the other is a Pte US aboriginy... To speak of Kaskurbeh (Kasturbhai is def. Asian Indian, I'm imagining!) I'm referring to the guy who first cultivated tobacco. Every night K's wife would ask him to go watch the stars to the edge of red rock massifs. The path to their look-out has a stream, and as this native house-maiden crosses every night, K follows her yet to her demise: she throws herself over inevitably. He takes the carcass and drags her across some meadow or field, the narrative says, and her bones in the loam produce the tobacco for the proselytic enjoyment. The high is endo-skeletal, I suggest, and is yet one more element whose sublime chaos bares out anew an extremis repose...
The shadow cast by trees next to this Lex corridor, looks like a draped bag, denying contours of the produce within. Cars are belched from the crest of hill, beyond my sight, and are tamed by the empty rapt presage of the day. If my shadow was a mirror, mouthfuls of fire would dot it.
The eaves, just before me make a linear shadow, threshold of memories, sitting in prolonged summery day's long ends, smoking cigarettes...metabolizing, as we did in agrarian circumstance. The shadows cast under those conditions were under a banana canopy. Designs on my day can be as subtle as the common peer-like striven travelogue, a flow of consciousness type read, which can all point to a retreat into some kind of chemical high--and yet I feel at my best staving off these things that are the least of me: nicotine delivery jettisoned...
My time trajectory in a kind of well-being involves a chimerical experience (dreamy), but due in part to this huge life of denial (of anything in the obstruction of mind-calvacade), the glyphs in mind, say, after having ambulated into new climes, are either proof things DO reach me, OR in fact, there is no connection from days' thresholds to the next embrace of What-Is!!! In weary walks up Nich'ville rd, after seances with cars threading the night's veil, I felt a strong impulse to anticipate the far-off mummer, all the while, then lidded auditive rush when traffic was the closest report. Kabbalah was a refrain in night's cloudy presence, and almost to Southland Dr, up in the yard of the older home giving character where it isn't otherwise expected, there is a sign in this yard: It says, Notary Public. "Notarikon" kept clacking like environs made up of more signs than just that--all of which felt tacit in synaesthete ways; notarikon is a method of mystic study -- and letter permutations are easily recommended in meditation, when a claimant feels an alliterative conduct when in fact, only drops of the ocean is administered...leaving what is toxic for another time. An invisible hand draws semblances, of this one big road w/lots of signs--to define life as a "gate." The hand is mind's nomenclature, always effective if the self promoted has one land on
a sense of the Outward fact, as opposed to self-preservation in Thoughts which establishes nothing in way of the distance strung heaving, and strewning presence in the pocket of complacency.
Are we old souls, have we just gotten here? How prolonged does the gate remain open, when life energy is acted upon by a new & timeless transitions?
The success with which efforts--physical albeit--tell us that an "impression" is made in the mind of the Actionable (those who act), that with a certain finesse this person details just how things lay--the lay of the land (or say the old man down the road appreciating his "shit-gimme!!"), something quite cathartic appeals to our minds sooo in need toward attunement. Marley says, "You speak I feel!!" And by that, one may appeal to the self-profession a wizened fellow prosecutes his or her attempt of ambulation toward our self-same resources, while viable material success is found without.
I like seeing people comport themselves like goats. Haunches all particularly high, an acuity in something physically adept, but unconsciously courted. Old people doing chores... and it isn't around the corner, rather their impermament record IS recording OUR's!!!
A man at once is an animal, comes from animal clemency, and animal ways tho' demonstrated in his appearance, are no longer superable as the distinction is made. G^d is conjured by Priests, but is no longer G^d as the Priest feels distinguished in His presence reconciled thru deeds or scripture. We emerge as from form, as from physical success...liberated and uncategorized.
In Jerusalem one of our rabbis was part of the S. African satellite community breeding these Literalists, of whom these exilic communities would tether religious causes to people like in my group--to make us good Jews?! This rabbi, in particular, had hair growing from the surface of his nose, and on the top of his ears, gave him grave sublimations because everything in these men's manner were indicators of what it is to be Believers/Righteous. The teeth the world has in his devekut* grasp--*the cleaving to stages of energies, attributes of an Absolute, his teffilin wrapped arms, meant war, and flat out the deigned response to a world unreadied for Jewish consciousness. His might in a praxis of utility, to represent something seemingly advertised as amongst this setting where no play-bill was necessary, retroactively made a World-view look reasoned and wonting of access. I ran thru that very door, baring what I thought was something responsible in a general understanding, comprising secular studies as the lens to look at this community's foundational example.
a fist curled in anger, captured in open palm, is actually unity
In opting for confusion, putting the undeliberative half-expressions in a box, jettisoning torpor, language still abides in the valley of tongues. The place of all the concommitant potentials is much like a ground of being, an empty vernacular tableau, where those in refrain from jumping into the fray only dream of the invisible hand--the decisor of the things out of our control. Louis Farakhan being interviewed one time had made a gesture like his hand designing circular descending pattern from the side of his head, as if the words in certain confidence are released out of such a guffaw. Literate thought presumes a restraint, and a volley of release from it, when language demurs from a conscious prop to a physical one...say, the poignant regard for one reservois of language in the flesh.
I just need to consider that the tools are for the simplest conjurations of the outward fact. And that being attention, is one big step toward not being expected to do much, but to favor ethereal ever-positing light. If will & memory are the tools where thoughts 'flect - and potentials are born, then the utility is that I accomodate something with no fissure in my victory in devotion, or sincerity. And yet these tools might vanquish the foe of self-assertion, ill-prepared self-profession... I could expect more, and if Himilayan memorialized space be spiritual awareness from teasing out an alternative to my self-deception as I inure it, I give it back to the first invisible hand to aright my furies kindling--then being true if only to inquiry in extinguishing self in throes of general awe, I've got nothing else to live uP to.
***Over at the creek behind the Episcopal Church a sump house sat with a bereft earthscraper. I waved Dostoevskii at the glint off of fractured glass covering gauges, wanting some token from an atmosphere at this essentially tragic timelessness. Lighted beginnings were hard knowing the array of festivals ahead pay coffers unreconciled by only disaster reduced in its effect by something as gross to topple its unfair designs. The appeal to console in self most of all, had the unpunctual sabbatical of my bridge toward wakened privy to deal with not a soul, not fucking one, whose o' plenty I admit having considered they had formidably been actually none other than the kohl in my eyes. Places given its exigency memorialized are conscious satellites, and when the deluge so spectral challenges the gloss surface to dissuade one's intercourse, truth in denouement is pathless. If I ask once whither I go--it is certain I dweet in the present.
***I look at the sky, I am donning horizontal repose. I glance at ubiquitous sidewalks, and I am vertical and pillaresque. Thinking about all the elements distorting one's demeanor, I'm reminded of an adept's life as a plant, or as an animal, or, if I knew enough about him/her--their chemical romance, in saintlike narratives, all grotesque anthropology. At once I see parts of me--the suspired expression particularly, as emerged from appearances. Certainly our "cousin" sentience is identity sources. It is not as if we are here to study the air, and the playground as light, unless we are directed to render seasons change in everyone's becoming as exhalant "liquid language awash." (Wallace Stevens)Breath in the black smoke, exhale the white - and watch how much incense can do w/o the nicotine delivery. (claiming tobacco as an incense votive) I like the pollen-messenger, and climate (aqlim *Arabic) of the greater will as something Superably Conscious. The bee-catcher in lavender high, takes mind to be entertainment of nothing other than stratigraphic of air... Tobacco: cagey high, draws maps in antiquated ways. If I could see the clung leaf on the ankle of Kaskerbeh's wife, or was it Kasturbai...? One is Gandhi's wife, the other is a Pte US aboriginy... To speak of Kaskurbeh (Kasturbhai is def. Asian Indian, I'm imagining!) I'm referring to the guy who first cultivated tobacco. Every night K's wife would ask him to go watch the stars to the edge of red rock massifs. The path to their look-out has a stream, and as this native house-maiden crosses every night, K follows her yet to her demise: she throws herself over inevitably. He takes the carcass and drags her across some meadow or field, the narrative says, and her bones in the loam produce the tobacco for the proselytic enjoyment. The high is endo-skeletal, I suggest, and is yet one more element whose sublime chaos bares out anew an extremis repose...
The shadow cast by trees next to this Lex corridor, looks like a draped bag, denying contours of the produce within. Cars are belched from the crest of hill, beyond my sight, and are tamed by the empty rapt presage of the day. If my shadow was a mirror, mouthfuls of fire would dot it.
The eaves, just before me make a linear shadow, threshold of memories, sitting in prolonged summery day's long ends, smoking cigarettes...metabolizing, as we did in agrarian circumstance. The shadows cast under those conditions were under a banana canopy. Designs on my day can be as subtle as the common peer-like striven travelogue, a flow of consciousness type read, which can all point to a retreat into some kind of chemical high--and yet I feel at my best staving off these things that are the least of me: nicotine delivery jettisoned...
My time trajectory in a kind of well-being involves a chimerical experience (dreamy), but due in part to this huge life of denial (of anything in the obstruction of mind-calvacade), the glyphs in mind, say, after having ambulated into new climes, are either proof things DO reach me, OR in fact, there is no connection from days' thresholds to the next embrace of What-Is!!! In weary walks up Nich'ville rd, after seances with cars threading the night's veil, I felt a strong impulse to anticipate the far-off mummer, all the while, then lidded auditive rush when traffic was the closest report. Kabbalah was a refrain in night's cloudy presence, and almost to Southland Dr, up in the yard of the older home giving character where it isn't otherwise expected, there is a sign in this yard: It says, Notary Public. "Notarikon" kept clacking like environs made up of more signs than just that--all of which felt tacit in synaesthete ways; notarikon is a method of mystic study -- and letter permutations are easily recommended in meditation, when a claimant feels an alliterative conduct when in fact, only drops of the ocean is administered...leaving what is toxic for another time. An invisible hand draws semblances, of this one big road w/lots of signs--to define life as a "gate." The hand is mind's nomenclature, always effective if the self promoted has one land on
a sense of the Outward fact, as opposed to self-preservation in Thoughts which establishes nothing in way of the distance strung heaving, and strewning presence in the pocket of complacency.
Are we old souls, have we just gotten here? How prolonged does the gate remain open, when life energy is acted upon by a new & timeless transitions?
The success with which efforts--physical albeit--tell us that an "impression" is made in the mind of the Actionable (those who act), that with a certain finesse this person details just how things lay--the lay of the land (or say the old man down the road appreciating his "shit-gimme!!"), something quite cathartic appeals to our minds sooo in need toward attunement. Marley says, "You speak I feel!!" And by that, one may appeal to the self-profession a wizened fellow prosecutes his or her attempt of ambulation toward our self-same resources, while viable material success is found without.
I like seeing people comport themselves like goats. Haunches all particularly high, an acuity in something physically adept, but unconsciously courted. Old people doing chores... and it isn't around the corner, rather their impermament record IS recording OUR's!!!
A man at once is an animal, comes from animal clemency, and animal ways tho' demonstrated in his appearance, are no longer superable as the distinction is made. G^d is conjured by Priests, but is no longer G^d as the Priest feels distinguished in His presence reconciled thru deeds or scripture. We emerge as from form, as from physical success...liberated and uncategorized.
In Jerusalem one of our rabbis was part of the S. African satellite community breeding these Literalists, of whom these exilic communities would tether religious causes to people like in my group--to make us good Jews?! This rabbi, in particular, had hair growing from the surface of his nose, and on the top of his ears, gave him grave sublimations because everything in these men's manner were indicators of what it is to be Believers/Righteous. The teeth the world has in his devekut* grasp--*the cleaving to stages of energies, attributes of an Absolute, his teffilin wrapped arms, meant war, and flat out the deigned response to a world unreadied for Jewish consciousness. His might in a praxis of utility, to represent something seemingly advertised as amongst this setting where no play-bill was necessary, retroactively made a World-view look reasoned and wonting of access. I ran thru that very door, baring what I thought was something responsible in a general understanding, comprising secular studies as the lens to look at this community's foundational example.
a fist curled in anger, captured in open palm, is actually unity
In opting for confusion, putting the undeliberative half-expressions in a box, jettisoning torpor, language still abides in the valley of tongues. The place of all the concommitant potentials is much like a ground of being, an empty vernacular tableau, where those in refrain from jumping into the fray only dream of the invisible hand--the decisor of the things out of our control. Louis Farakhan being interviewed one time had made a gesture like his hand designing circular descending pattern from the side of his head, as if the words in certain confidence are released out of such a guffaw. Literate thought presumes a restraint, and a volley of release from it, when language demurs from a conscious prop to a physical one...say, the poignant regard for one reservois of language in the flesh.
I just need to consider that the tools are for the simplest conjurations of the outward fact. And that being attention, is one big step toward not being expected to do much, but to favor ethereal ever-positing light. If will & memory are the tools where thoughts 'flect - and potentials are born, then the utility is that I accomodate something with no fissure in my victory in devotion, or sincerity. And yet these tools might vanquish the foe of self-assertion, ill-prepared self-profession... I could expect more, and if Himilayan memorialized space be spiritual awareness from teasing out an alternative to my self-deception as I inure it, I give it back to the first invisible hand to aright my furies kindling--then being true if only to inquiry in extinguishing self in throes of general awe, I've got nothing else to live uP to.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Apropos of a summer's night myth
At the top of my street an old haggard lady sometimes came out to mow. She seemed like the grandmother--Bubby, the comely character from The Stories of the Red Calvary, who fed moldy chocolates to the young Isaac Babel in the duration of times he'd go take lessons--piano or Hebrew?--there in her little shtetl domicile. I threw an arrow of disaffection (not at her) at the red stop sign in the corner of her yard, red like my heart that truly split into two.
Just a block away out behind Louie B Nunn's house there at the bottom of his extensive backyard courses Kenton's Blue Hole--a natural spring. The Ky historical marker sign wasn't visible last time I drove past thru that Parkers Mill treed corridor adjacent. The sense that I'm taking in a recognized historical place, but never a soul to come around but me, is how I'd consort with personifying loci, a place under the sun to spiritually gain focus. Behind the church - the access point to amble in behind these estates - is where Jewish neuroses thru the writings of Isaac Babel made abstraction & absurdity oikoumene (worldly). If I could at all consider to push the limits of that inner-narrative, conceding I'd readily answer for it, would leave me prone--so nothing else to answer for...nothing. I'd finish a study program, setting intellectual goals according to MY feeling, and encant Bob Marley's Burnin' & Lootin': "yes me friend we take the streets again." Then strolling back to the house, the neighborhood becomes especially bound in a pregnant essense, while not knowing who or what would be borne from it, images of Egypt lay at my feet.
Elucidating Babylon seems generally unpalpable--giving it the "gate's" word technology, makes it less the contemptible concretized spaceship, and relays the ideal as "sublime porte."
Rasping ironic mountains, there in the West Bank, inwardly I'm assuming magical space, but these Middle-easterners are vomitted from its sure embrace: under the desert sun & traduced voidant skies, a dead rat once living in these banana canopies, gets consumed less by the elements than ubiquitous ants harvesting the carnal moshav denizen (moshav is a communal farm). Bionic Rats--the song--conducts my life charged w/Babylon falling in a symbolic way. It is plastic in my minds eye, and evidence of the rape humanity appropriated when folks get seduced by the stranger & his ackward lumber thru core-cultures.
Magdi -an Israeli Jew, rides the field manager's tractor--hauling the flatbed to unload into the lorry driven by his ill-contained neighbors, the Palestinians. Everytime we harvest, like once a week, inevitably it rains. 70lbs of bananas sawed off its mother tree stalk is the fruit hod, so to speak, we deliver to the flatbed. Rats nesting in the bunch leap to escape this frenetic jettisoning of its lair. If Babylon restrains us, demands our reliquishing of a kind of escape, then thru the semblance contrived of imminent loss, do I sing in a strange land. My feet are my bed--the dance is to downpress Babylon from its demented telos always supposed, always ego forlorned.
I have seen the voice stream. Definitely in night's chimera, but as if this mind media, tho' thoroughly reified, more than anything an elemental kind of body consciousness came out of me like breath and light thru my eyes. The context of at least a couple of dreams had Moses dwell within me, draped my countenance, with prophetic mantras, angry & unconvinced I would hear it wholly in a vertex of continuity where otherwise I should have been appopriating the suffering characterizing my demonic trials.
The trees' boughs embowered with all this precipitation create vistas of live scaffolding dripping w/mind milk. Its scrawl of their limbs is definitely the only perfect image one might conceive naturally of our mind's physical proliferation.
The sight of these trees giving these 'burbs character, their canopies wail in its remoteness, the leaves in swaying voices telling their subjects of the one place human industry won't reach. Trees look like they speak to the skies in their yawning arc up above, and these oaks with muscular trunks--now below, have housing architecture more to convene in fortitude. The pug marks of squirrels, the clawing scratches from robins, starlings et cetera--make dust on people's yard's approach clairovoyant, niche-like--the demands of my language gifted with new repositories: Seems like antiquated alliteration, but new language to me for the old & eternal!!!
Of course Buddha represents a just cause. He had respite within the King's court (his pops). He got experienced at the most acquisitive peace to suspire in days of succour--mind can't be discomfitted if learning has no tether to closed crowd. If it's just you and the rest of the world--then there's nothing really to turn off. (despite the melodrama riches were not his ambition, preponderant--ugly in its material success) He was an Egoist=his self-interest was fulminate, roiling just to be called by the report at once below the sea's frozen surface... Healing adduced. His education abideth a sabbath learning. Going out, his exiling, had been propitiated...
At one point, back in the 90s, I lost my voice. This was a symptom of intense scrutiny--self-scrutiny, and "how" I spoke was reeling and enumerating in mind's eye - the feeling was that I was serving it up for exasperating reasons, really unto a material success IN my condition downpressing my better intentions... My voice came out really high pitched, and it took a lot of good humor to see it as just one step toward knowing What Ought ever to be said--the language vehicle, my impelling motility *spontaneity, or modality *the ground from which expression is formed, in Expression couldn't any longer be handled in the same way. I needed the song in my heart and mind to come-correct. Just to say the right thing. The sense would otherwise round out a script with which everything said would have had immense consequences.
Walnuts and their fragrant tannins, this phala (broadly saying "fruit") is the rimmonim or pomegranates of a deep aside. Threaded thru psuedepigraphia the pomegranate draws one east, and is the color of splendor. Cite the Zohar here--written in the 1200s I think--meaning NOT in the 2nd century. If herb fi me wine has a libation recommended in paradise, the inside-myself florescence sees plaintive mind's wail absorbed in black fire and its white fire tabula rasa... Just senses bound to letters. I'd drink any offered, merciful milk, wine, honey, eternity's water. Good enough I see these symbols permutated, and people who actually got to clarified aeries--Orientalists--bring the east's language finessed just so. Verifying an academician's romance with IT had this given character that the ideal will get inverted anyway.
Any reading dealing w/LIGHT is a sense that we experience a proponet at our side, thru our senses--the orientation toward the Most-I. Inayat Khan, a contemporary Sufi, uses this higher ground subject, isn't showing the actionable success of theoria writing until the Ideal is represented. The light for sight, ire-ites, the countenances of energies, actually vessels, rooted to anthropos in our devotion to divulge valleys of indecision, releases us--the shadows vacous and regressed so that solarity makes one's struggle--into the field of possibilities--that it may be meditation unfoundered. If consciousness is to be deficit riddled, like a pile of gems having the beam of merely a flashlight to refract speciously, it is only that subjectivity w/o fulminate burnishing rays under the Perfect Source, which compels man to unmix the dross of its (light's) restraints that would brave restitution in the World with less meaning than its conduct we suffer.
Woke up one morning w/the still background of my room in my silent chimerical repair in all kinds of white noise vibratory properties--the walls thicker, more uniform, weirdly stultifying... Valerie in her suspiring repose looks loved and consumately halotosis wealthy--I kissed her lips anyway. The feeling from dream-scapes tacitly emptying, without this lens, without walls colorless dry & heavy, usually makes the mind have impetus (the compulsion of novel expressions, language re-emerging)---and factors-in the projected mean (=life revivified); the sense that my room became such an evident intermediary meditation pushes self-emptying into a mental-scape landmark...: I was certain that the dream of existence was unwed by anykind of awakening. My world just reified dream-time--a proliferate motive if dreams loose none of its retreat in temporal awakening!!
Before the Intifada of '87, a signifier of the devolved state of numinal examples, social expectations spited...expiring in humanity's thwarted key to enlist my rally, in Jerusalem around ben Yehuda blvd, my ego-strife got shorned of distraction, and Rob & I dosed half a blotter of A a piece. The morning after, if anything be told that liquid sky is beheld, an emblem of whose life in one well of time, just a Jew, raises my head toward the Way (halakhah), where he'd been acceding unto. Yes, I dooo ask--and what is to fulfill me in yielding to an Absolute is more a nod of a concession he allows, and I go and be received et al, particularly w/o reifying his formal meditation in the memorialized space of his Chosen* Way. Chosen is just the mythic commerce of a theodicy product worthy of anyone, yet dharma is precisely IT. He steps out of Meir She'arim--a night's day opens like fire, or lotus--the community is next to the hostel where we stayed... Sustained reverence but at the expense of anything else appreciating in my senses is critical for my repair. This next-day-after expunged the immanent retreat one can simply imagine in mind-sore psychedelia--it has to be eVer a retreat, and still mundane temporance cans something more instructive - but after, I know aFter! To reckon renewal is to take exception, but observation of what profundity my fealty to life as reliable felt like, was rightfully framed in the belched calvacade of the Religious (strict minds, strickened spirits somewhere amongst)--to this man into my immediate sphere. The sky had mouthfuls of fire, stars, and the valley of tongues is language sounding like the peal of a bell and the world stands as serene; a point at the ground of being where emanate days are wed.
Just a block away out behind Louie B Nunn's house there at the bottom of his extensive backyard courses Kenton's Blue Hole--a natural spring. The Ky historical marker sign wasn't visible last time I drove past thru that Parkers Mill treed corridor adjacent. The sense that I'm taking in a recognized historical place, but never a soul to come around but me, is how I'd consort with personifying loci, a place under the sun to spiritually gain focus. Behind the church - the access point to amble in behind these estates - is where Jewish neuroses thru the writings of Isaac Babel made abstraction & absurdity oikoumene (worldly). If I could at all consider to push the limits of that inner-narrative, conceding I'd readily answer for it, would leave me prone--so nothing else to answer for...nothing. I'd finish a study program, setting intellectual goals according to MY feeling, and encant Bob Marley's Burnin' & Lootin': "yes me friend we take the streets again." Then strolling back to the house, the neighborhood becomes especially bound in a pregnant essense, while not knowing who or what would be borne from it, images of Egypt lay at my feet.
Elucidating Babylon seems generally unpalpable--giving it the "gate's" word technology, makes it less the contemptible concretized spaceship, and relays the ideal as "sublime porte."
Rasping ironic mountains, there in the West Bank, inwardly I'm assuming magical space, but these Middle-easterners are vomitted from its sure embrace: under the desert sun & traduced voidant skies, a dead rat once living in these banana canopies, gets consumed less by the elements than ubiquitous ants harvesting the carnal moshav denizen (moshav is a communal farm). Bionic Rats--the song--conducts my life charged w/Babylon falling in a symbolic way. It is plastic in my minds eye, and evidence of the rape humanity appropriated when folks get seduced by the stranger & his ackward lumber thru core-cultures.
Magdi -an Israeli Jew, rides the field manager's tractor--hauling the flatbed to unload into the lorry driven by his ill-contained neighbors, the Palestinians. Everytime we harvest, like once a week, inevitably it rains. 70lbs of bananas sawed off its mother tree stalk is the fruit hod, so to speak, we deliver to the flatbed. Rats nesting in the bunch leap to escape this frenetic jettisoning of its lair. If Babylon restrains us, demands our reliquishing of a kind of escape, then thru the semblance contrived of imminent loss, do I sing in a strange land. My feet are my bed--the dance is to downpress Babylon from its demented telos always supposed, always ego forlorned.
I have seen the voice stream. Definitely in night's chimera, but as if this mind media, tho' thoroughly reified, more than anything an elemental kind of body consciousness came out of me like breath and light thru my eyes. The context of at least a couple of dreams had Moses dwell within me, draped my countenance, with prophetic mantras, angry & unconvinced I would hear it wholly in a vertex of continuity where otherwise I should have been appopriating the suffering characterizing my demonic trials.
The trees' boughs embowered with all this precipitation create vistas of live scaffolding dripping w/mind milk. Its scrawl of their limbs is definitely the only perfect image one might conceive naturally of our mind's physical proliferation.
The sight of these trees giving these 'burbs character, their canopies wail in its remoteness, the leaves in swaying voices telling their subjects of the one place human industry won't reach. Trees look like they speak to the skies in their yawning arc up above, and these oaks with muscular trunks--now below, have housing architecture more to convene in fortitude. The pug marks of squirrels, the clawing scratches from robins, starlings et cetera--make dust on people's yard's approach clairovoyant, niche-like--the demands of my language gifted with new repositories: Seems like antiquated alliteration, but new language to me for the old & eternal!!!
Of course Buddha represents a just cause. He had respite within the King's court (his pops). He got experienced at the most acquisitive peace to suspire in days of succour--mind can't be discomfitted if learning has no tether to closed crowd. If it's just you and the rest of the world--then there's nothing really to turn off. (despite the melodrama riches were not his ambition, preponderant--ugly in its material success) He was an Egoist=his self-interest was fulminate, roiling just to be called by the report at once below the sea's frozen surface... Healing adduced. His education abideth a sabbath learning. Going out, his exiling, had been propitiated...
At one point, back in the 90s, I lost my voice. This was a symptom of intense scrutiny--self-scrutiny, and "how" I spoke was reeling and enumerating in mind's eye - the feeling was that I was serving it up for exasperating reasons, really unto a material success IN my condition downpressing my better intentions... My voice came out really high pitched, and it took a lot of good humor to see it as just one step toward knowing What Ought ever to be said--the language vehicle, my impelling motility *spontaneity, or modality *the ground from which expression is formed, in Expression couldn't any longer be handled in the same way. I needed the song in my heart and mind to come-correct. Just to say the right thing. The sense would otherwise round out a script with which everything said would have had immense consequences.
Walnuts and their fragrant tannins, this phala (broadly saying "fruit") is the rimmonim or pomegranates of a deep aside. Threaded thru psuedepigraphia the pomegranate draws one east, and is the color of splendor. Cite the Zohar here--written in the 1200s I think--meaning NOT in the 2nd century. If herb fi me wine has a libation recommended in paradise, the inside-myself florescence sees plaintive mind's wail absorbed in black fire and its white fire tabula rasa... Just senses bound to letters. I'd drink any offered, merciful milk, wine, honey, eternity's water. Good enough I see these symbols permutated, and people who actually got to clarified aeries--Orientalists--bring the east's language finessed just so. Verifying an academician's romance with IT had this given character that the ideal will get inverted anyway.
Any reading dealing w/LIGHT is a sense that we experience a proponet at our side, thru our senses--the orientation toward the Most-I. Inayat Khan, a contemporary Sufi, uses this higher ground subject, isn't showing the actionable success of theoria writing until the Ideal is represented. The light for sight, ire-ites, the countenances of energies, actually vessels, rooted to anthropos in our devotion to divulge valleys of indecision, releases us--the shadows vacous and regressed so that solarity makes one's struggle--into the field of possibilities--that it may be meditation unfoundered. If consciousness is to be deficit riddled, like a pile of gems having the beam of merely a flashlight to refract speciously, it is only that subjectivity w/o fulminate burnishing rays under the Perfect Source, which compels man to unmix the dross of its (light's) restraints that would brave restitution in the World with less meaning than its conduct we suffer.
Woke up one morning w/the still background of my room in my silent chimerical repair in all kinds of white noise vibratory properties--the walls thicker, more uniform, weirdly stultifying... Valerie in her suspiring repose looks loved and consumately halotosis wealthy--I kissed her lips anyway. The feeling from dream-scapes tacitly emptying, without this lens, without walls colorless dry & heavy, usually makes the mind have impetus (the compulsion of novel expressions, language re-emerging)---and factors-in the projected mean (=life revivified); the sense that my room became such an evident intermediary meditation pushes self-emptying into a mental-scape landmark...: I was certain that the dream of existence was unwed by anykind of awakening. My world just reified dream-time--a proliferate motive if dreams loose none of its retreat in temporal awakening!!
Before the Intifada of '87, a signifier of the devolved state of numinal examples, social expectations spited...expiring in humanity's thwarted key to enlist my rally, in Jerusalem around ben Yehuda blvd, my ego-strife got shorned of distraction, and Rob & I dosed half a blotter of A a piece. The morning after, if anything be told that liquid sky is beheld, an emblem of whose life in one well of time, just a Jew, raises my head toward the Way (halakhah), where he'd been acceding unto. Yes, I dooo ask--and what is to fulfill me in yielding to an Absolute is more a nod of a concession he allows, and I go and be received et al, particularly w/o reifying his formal meditation in the memorialized space of his Chosen* Way. Chosen is just the mythic commerce of a theodicy product worthy of anyone, yet dharma is precisely IT. He steps out of Meir She'arim--a night's day opens like fire, or lotus--the community is next to the hostel where we stayed... Sustained reverence but at the expense of anything else appreciating in my senses is critical for my repair. This next-day-after expunged the immanent retreat one can simply imagine in mind-sore psychedelia--it has to be eVer a retreat, and still mundane temporance cans something more instructive - but after, I know aFter! To reckon renewal is to take exception, but observation of what profundity my fealty to life as reliable felt like, was rightfully framed in the belched calvacade of the Religious (strict minds, strickened spirits somewhere amongst)--to this man into my immediate sphere. The sky had mouthfuls of fire, stars, and the valley of tongues is language sounding like the peal of a bell and the world stands as serene; a point at the ground of being where emanate days are wed.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Native Congregations deny National irreality
Things get brighter and louder as the battle gets harder, and bottle gets hotter (everytime it is reached for). The tear of light, that very intensity, may be a light in mourning, the lament that never gives way--something solidifying integ...rity with what is only a deep aside. Senses do peak and are measurable in solitarian inquiry: for me ambling down old roads, haunting places, like the ghost-town is the last place we experience til the government comes along and pushes it down... I'm haunting myself like my alterior ghostly peer, observations within, answering to the most Self found in the deficit of self-duty demanding the necessary change. Finding OUT is one thing, tho' recompence is demanded by seeing the Outward Fact pregnant with demands for our attention AND is after, only after we hope down from up above... Finding Out references in the bridge toward transcendental awareness, make the path beckon assiduous gaits in mega-transect toward prone repose--Opened Up to chaossssssss, and its proportional gravid development.
Trees say, I am the people--do the right thing; "the health of crowd consciousness is indefinite prayers, and convincing pilgrimages with imparticular holy days." A kind of true democracy is the institute of nature's "cabala." The "reception" of land to sea, rivers bisecting universe, mother's heart as a trek to immanent release from nature to its annihilating propensity. Born of it, cycling and consciousness as its accidental excrescence, consciousness of the furtive voyager in light and chthonian reception--the trees deign man to wander its precincts with pentant slights of impermanence.
Devotion (in seasonal fading dawn!) actionable among the elect is in respiring clement days, & trees gainsay the sabbatical into waned energies, darker days, dormant or viscous sky. Walnut trees and all the bombast of black resinates proliferate around Fallon Rd in my old neighborhood. A place detracting the volition of my changes now, was the places of my Becoming then--in the certainty skies of my youth. Architecture of the trees-line tops at suburb's coalescent mean, Beaumont Park, have birds overcoming, taking to blue pleroma like smoke out of home's hearth, the philosophical thwarting of fires into heady arborial aeries... Dissipating some of the smoke's evidence in our parlor repose--white smoke exhalation (from the woody black smoke sighs) posits roads willfully bound since all that is required is a walk-about.
Castaneda's A Yaqui Way of Knowledge has a few moments of precise content, fulminate, but furtive and fluctuating from kaleidoscopic drug romance..., which has someone Experienced in advanced objective repose. The reader of such content evolves with the tide of considerable astral temptations--the canine witnessed while it lapped up water is my inquiry. How light florescences shower off of the animal, placing it in smart painted desert night as its anomaly--it is Lighting up the night! This self-same water trough across the garage from where I had lain, had obscure radiance of moon's allure--milky but neon on its comely surface, watching me watching it (the moon, the proffering water etc.), etching out the well of time: 25 minutes of life in transcendent bridge, is the conjuration of a life striven for meaning--so the sun always exigent behind, voids are becoming substance. Crowley's illicit repute never could traduce the light and shadow play in my forlorn solicitude--still his lens rapt of danger has night deliberative and judgmental, and yet I parsed qualia from his memoir (til much later when I threw it away into the recycling)--things like Buddhist contemplation never bedeviling me with raven's on gallows for shoulders, as other fiery meditations represented in the different genres, or his...
Subject: blueberries for breakfast--the fruits of hearing=my new mix: It ain't me, babe--the ethiopians--desmond Dekker--Bombino!!!-
Propositions contingent upon necessity, importance, non-importance, if "modality" is true or false (defined thusly in Websters), have to answer if the mores from social-ego paradigm is in effect the Compassionate Edifice. If in repair, that something is good for meditation, makes cessation from non-skillful grasping for modality always-in-flux, contentment and the genesis positing of answers, rather than power over necessities (and any further value statements): this being a thread to hope as it IS in a path but whose goal is negligible, since a path is all one can hope for.
Modes pedestrian in nature, man-free in dire reckoning to go far over, way over--damned goal oriented to Place, finds modality in coves of blue slumber Night purdah, physical map impressed as in subtler thresholds. In & out under deciduous boughs, the shadows impelling mind (w/lucidity) into tree's non-space in silent folds stuttered all along the "thrum of the sidewalk," (all but frayed til goal's reception is no longer the concern). But silent nod is affected-mind, apophasis rallied, and peace is made WITH whom transition can't be rallied: our "open-crowd" in the Hero's dementia of transition (his own), are yet receptacles (they are) to the inconsistant relief of his control. He'll only know to care--this compassionate edifice--in light of his considerable singularity. Shadows make him liberated in
singularity--no one else is defined by the squeeze of night's attrition!
Matter is an Efficient Cause when we suss Form (the Place, as if when speaking of the Absolute.)--matter proliferates actualization--the Observer is destined to reduce his assertions, since Form holds sway. Form requires less reason than it does a disclaimer on our aimlessness, & only after thwarting causelessness caloused misintuited Essense, Meaning meaning Form founds a Natural Congregation, as opposed to a National Cause. The pattern placed in effect from authority speaks of "security" the heathen must be ever more vigilant in appreciation. Psychological restraints are intra-mantra slavery that encourages interest in something immanent, when one rather should begin to use the cues of language as he hears them--Outwardly, rather than as he names his feelings.
Material void is Time--timeliness if What-Is sours from the misfortunate machinations of revision, always refuting authority "psychologically misapprehended," would have minds relish the shame that makes the heirophant (likeness of which he's made a nation of One) high (cleverly clinging to life undeveloped).
Listening to music with a stayed theme--bringing summer days of having been in the country-Catskill mts back to holistic emotion. The streams up in wooded D. Boone Forest ambiguation had still waters receiving wrought confessions--tarrywealthy consolation: enough ebb off of stepping stone banks... Here, in sensei fraught back room, a porch, has the same smell of my now past Aunt's house--and a making of that dialect relating to the Jewy atmosphere fulminate if only in its 0 sum rescue. Spirits are higher, vision of motives and clarity, the project of self-worth I can capture in just a couple of words "the tyrant of mind's vitae, a subtle form in solicitude, but undeniably the uncarved block."
The sigh of first moments observation of chattel mouldering, lying down--its shadow cast, shows the Joy frequently unannounced in man's. Still moonsoaked it (man's) would be and just as likely vacuously unearthed, tho' a cow sees an ally in its own! Mine is too paced, but body consciousness placed just so sky-prone, piles of stars make my margins in a pitch tone, colored like wet sand on top of dry. Ubiquitous by degrees, and present as humidity strati on summer's hillocky roads.
I stink like the black smoke respired, I mark black smudges on the pleroma from negativity invasive--Buddhist matreya-like; the white marks come with my volition thru this ground of being, and are the posit of jettisoned complacency...
Mom, just remember,it ain't news to me -or you- this place is become old.
The spiritual man is mad, I told her & the cement porch floor. And imagining absurdity/madness with sky liminal restraints, is Order enough, a vesseled prodigious carpeted sky instilling antiquity imminent but unapproachable. Rhythm bubble bouncing, depths in pitch, and home languishes remotely--with the lens of the former residents to the Place where I get received, the having-to-catch-up always in profiles from yawn in continuity: I eat what they've eaten. If the gravy-train train was public domain, it is gray water, say bio-waste, making me stink in hotel-like domicile--the first question raised! How long down the end of lonely street? Isn't love circumventing my mouldering solicit of motive to be the compassionate-dweller of another arabia's denizen?
Trees say, I am the people--do the right thing; "the health of crowd consciousness is indefinite prayers, and convincing pilgrimages with imparticular holy days." A kind of true democracy is the institute of nature's "cabala." The "reception" of land to sea, rivers bisecting universe, mother's heart as a trek to immanent release from nature to its annihilating propensity. Born of it, cycling and consciousness as its accidental excrescence, consciousness of the furtive voyager in light and chthonian reception--the trees deign man to wander its precincts with pentant slights of impermanence.
Devotion (in seasonal fading dawn!) actionable among the elect is in respiring clement days, & trees gainsay the sabbatical into waned energies, darker days, dormant or viscous sky. Walnut trees and all the bombast of black resinates proliferate around Fallon Rd in my old neighborhood. A place detracting the volition of my changes now, was the places of my Becoming then--in the certainty skies of my youth. Architecture of the trees-line tops at suburb's coalescent mean, Beaumont Park, have birds overcoming, taking to blue pleroma like smoke out of home's hearth, the philosophical thwarting of fires into heady arborial aeries... Dissipating some of the smoke's evidence in our parlor repose--white smoke exhalation (from the woody black smoke sighs) posits roads willfully bound since all that is required is a walk-about.
Castaneda's A Yaqui Way of Knowledge has a few moments of precise content, fulminate, but furtive and fluctuating from kaleidoscopic drug romance..., which has someone Experienced in advanced objective repose. The reader of such content evolves with the tide of considerable astral temptations--the canine witnessed while it lapped up water is my inquiry. How light florescences shower off of the animal, placing it in smart painted desert night as its anomaly--it is Lighting up the night! This self-same water trough across the garage from where I had lain, had obscure radiance of moon's allure--milky but neon on its comely surface, watching me watching it (the moon, the proffering water etc.), etching out the well of time: 25 minutes of life in transcendent bridge, is the conjuration of a life striven for meaning--so the sun always exigent behind, voids are becoming substance. Crowley's illicit repute never could traduce the light and shadow play in my forlorn solicitude--still his lens rapt of danger has night deliberative and judgmental, and yet I parsed qualia from his memoir (til much later when I threw it away into the recycling)--things like Buddhist contemplation never bedeviling me with raven's on gallows for shoulders, as other fiery meditations represented in the different genres, or his...
Subject: blueberries for breakfast--the fruits of hearing=my new mix: It ain't me, babe--the ethiopians--desmond Dekker--Bombino!!!-
Propositions contingent upon necessity, importance, non-importance, if "modality" is true or false (defined thusly in Websters), have to answer if the mores from social-ego paradigm is in effect the Compassionate Edifice. If in repair, that something is good for meditation, makes cessation from non-skillful grasping for modality always-in-flux, contentment and the genesis positing of answers, rather than power over necessities (and any further value statements): this being a thread to hope as it IS in a path but whose goal is negligible, since a path is all one can hope for.
Modes pedestrian in nature, man-free in dire reckoning to go far over, way over--damned goal oriented to Place, finds modality in coves of blue slumber Night purdah, physical map impressed as in subtler thresholds. In & out under deciduous boughs, the shadows impelling mind (w/lucidity) into tree's non-space in silent folds stuttered all along the "thrum of the sidewalk," (all but frayed til goal's reception is no longer the concern). But silent nod is affected-mind, apophasis rallied, and peace is made WITH whom transition can't be rallied: our "open-crowd" in the Hero's dementia of transition (his own), are yet receptacles (they are) to the inconsistant relief of his control. He'll only know to care--this compassionate edifice--in light of his considerable singularity. Shadows make him liberated in
singularity--no one else is defined by the squeeze of night's attrition!
Matter is an Efficient Cause when we suss Form (the Place, as if when speaking of the Absolute.)--matter proliferates actualization--the Observer is destined to reduce his assertions, since Form holds sway. Form requires less reason than it does a disclaimer on our aimlessness, & only after thwarting causelessness caloused misintuited Essense, Meaning meaning Form founds a Natural Congregation, as opposed to a National Cause. The pattern placed in effect from authority speaks of "security" the heathen must be ever more vigilant in appreciation. Psychological restraints are intra-mantra slavery that encourages interest in something immanent, when one rather should begin to use the cues of language as he hears them--Outwardly, rather than as he names his feelings.
Material void is Time--timeliness if What-Is sours from the misfortunate machinations of revision, always refuting authority "psychologically misapprehended," would have minds relish the shame that makes the heirophant (likeness of which he's made a nation of One) high (cleverly clinging to life undeveloped).
Listening to music with a stayed theme--bringing summer days of having been in the country-Catskill mts back to holistic emotion. The streams up in wooded D. Boone Forest ambiguation had still waters receiving wrought confessions--tarrywealthy consolation: enough ebb off of stepping stone banks... Here, in sensei fraught back room, a porch, has the same smell of my now past Aunt's house--and a making of that dialect relating to the Jewy atmosphere fulminate if only in its 0 sum rescue. Spirits are higher, vision of motives and clarity, the project of self-worth I can capture in just a couple of words "the tyrant of mind's vitae, a subtle form in solicitude, but undeniably the uncarved block."
The sigh of first moments observation of chattel mouldering, lying down--its shadow cast, shows the Joy frequently unannounced in man's. Still moonsoaked it (man's) would be and just as likely vacuously unearthed, tho' a cow sees an ally in its own! Mine is too paced, but body consciousness placed just so sky-prone, piles of stars make my margins in a pitch tone, colored like wet sand on top of dry. Ubiquitous by degrees, and present as humidity strati on summer's hillocky roads.
I stink like the black smoke respired, I mark black smudges on the pleroma from negativity invasive--Buddhist matreya-like; the white marks come with my volition thru this ground of being, and are the posit of jettisoned complacency...
Mom, just remember,it ain't news to me -or you- this place is become old.
The spiritual man is mad, I told her & the cement porch floor. And imagining absurdity/madness with sky liminal restraints, is Order enough, a vesseled prodigious carpeted sky instilling antiquity imminent but unapproachable. Rhythm bubble bouncing, depths in pitch, and home languishes remotely--with the lens of the former residents to the Place where I get received, the having-to-catch-up always in profiles from yawn in continuity: I eat what they've eaten. If the gravy-train train was public domain, it is gray water, say bio-waste, making me stink in hotel-like domicile--the first question raised! How long down the end of lonely street? Isn't love circumventing my mouldering solicit of motive to be the compassionate-dweller of another arabia's denizen?
Monday, June 13, 2011
THE "ABAD"==ornamentation w/hues of humanity *Arabic term
My urine piddle is a wrinkle in time; I only want to piss on spectral shores. Next to attritioning river of time (the irony of its slow fidelity takes earth's map into one penultimate direction--the ocean is never full, takes more & more & denies all the purchase of man's alliterating paths, padding thru dust=articulating it & washed of its precise content!), memory 'flect and thought tarries like light in waves of immense magnificate days...
Matter is an Efficient Cause when we suss Form (the Place, as if when speaking of the Absolute.)--matter proliferates actualization--the Observer is destined to reduce his assertions, since Form holds sway. Form requires less reason than it does a disclaimer on our aimlessness, & only after thwarting causelessness caloused misintuited Essense, Meaning meaning Form founds a Natural Congregation, as opposed to a National Cause. The pattern placed in effect from authority speaks of "security" the heathen must be ever more vigilant in appreciation. Psychological restraints are intra-mantra slavery that encourages interest in something immanent, when one rather should begin to use the cues of language as he hears them--Outwardly, rather than as he names his feelings.
Material void is Time--timeliness if What-Is sours from the misfortunate machinations of revision, always refuting authority "psychologically misapprehended," would have minds relish the shame that makes the heirophant (likeness of which he's made a nation of One) high (cleverly clinging to life undeveloped).
Sun's corona pushes my thoughts to the blue redeemed blanket, and starwealthy possibilities!
As some mystic heathen, solitude waiting for me to brave solarity, around the mid-teens of my life, I threaded the white horizon break as companion to katan Olam, the microcosm, healing contained Within, and its Meaning elusive but indicated Without
I am there but not less than her--more. Yet she so ooother, is the beatific exigent to all that world you ever leverage voluntas to work for. Still, her promise is in semblance, and not necessarily in union. Her formal throe into all my social resource, consumes me--consumes everything more than me. She's more than muse - she gives Emotional-soul, the one associated with Mercy, to the vehicle of expression. She is Spirit chorus--the wind commentator--and I am sullied by just a feeling... Without her is one thing, without me is quite another. I am sullied by just a feeling. She's its epiphany--at least I gainsay my fealty embowering thru powerlessness.
Blood spore dissipation, mind-sore apprehension is this one's and that one's utter inept rapture with the marvel of this world notably taken for soluable sensory data. The reserve any One-other has to desire more integrity in homeward loam has all the product of imagination of my vouchsafe in cedar clarified lair--thing actual.
Language is material--martyring its potent affection may be self-duty, a way to "save" yourself from the threat that the well of time, the conscious-pocket, is a reservoir of the Other's extremis in your center from Without.
Imagine that suspended feeling,when the road transpires really very linearly. For a moment hypnotic & freed up. Either the weird security that we attend to in its moment to moment nuance is jettisoned or not--but if it is, this state of mind--similar to the attention we sight in meditation, only reveals a feeling about MORE loss of control... Rather it is much like the daoists claim about fluidity, effortlessness! The road is matched in perfect glyphs self promoting ready to be scathed--an image adduces formally a book of rules--aspirations of imagination. But how the mind codifies the Efficient Cause has Shapeless Mass = Jah--in one spectral vessel, a moment, and just a pulse that nothing any longer is hidden.
PURITY's DECISOR...In death or in life, water ought to be our exigent incarnation. It IS merciful, has all the attributes of Eternality. Heaven is thought of as a fountain..."blue, blue windows behind the stars." N Young* And what is unique upon earth is ancestor revival mischief, but thru his/her source-=-messages showering us with rainy meaning. Its flowing mysterium makes the easily defined ubiquity as it posits the air the sun the buena vista, looks gravid when, say, a stream is met with a recent deluge--a pregnant translucent surface contrives this quality.
It is the big things, we answer for, that destroy intuition. Focus on a diminutive cause. The means are always letter permutations--analytic meditation, as recommended by his Holiness the Dalai Lama, for disambiguation to allay traduced passions, and to tether one to the Truth. The doctrinaire society however bound to integrity for their success, protects it at the cost of the praxis of awakening.
Last night I came up w/ a sense that the Observer is the extinguisher of freedom. Men seem emergent from space, where as women seem to refine Time as a pilgrimage thru space. If memorialized space has convenient thresholds where the intermediary is effective in man's need for a Roof (Rastas chant I need a Roof in Old Testament verity.), just as within a dream, had we looked, Mind is always predominant behind the drawn curtains enveloping our anthropos evol!!! Man hunts the provocateur of consciousness impulses--and one usually orients himself to what is the most evident, and most accessible moment of release...
For a time I decided not to look in a mirror. Other people telling me they've done that always seemed so contrived--like a strange concern over vanity had consumed them. In Jerusalem at the yeshiva I stayed at, went to classes over-together for just a few weeks, the men had no mirrors in the lavatories. (Odd, and compelling--tho' other and unevidenciary.) Driving down my neighborhood road anticipation of my visage now after a couple of months of avoiding my rreflection would have a continguous immanent quality. Not so much the obviate readying oneself for presentation in social oevre as we project and schedule, but what occurred was a feeling that the next time I look it would be a tremulous look under the veil--a purdah of distance strung... I waited til I thought I had seduced the most revealing facade of appearance--a tacit escounced moment -- then at a precise moment, instead of holding eyes into the steady gaze toward rear-view mirror, I pulled down the visor--having no mirror--and wallah, there I look back at myself all King Crimsony as if reflection should be coiled in stillness in the looking glass... The stranger was abated--I knew the red anthropositing of I Me Mine, yet the receiver of my cadence certainly was not withOut: it was wholly within.
Matter is an Efficient Cause when we suss Form (the Place, as if when speaking of the Absolute.)--matter proliferates actualization--the Observer is destined to reduce his assertions, since Form holds sway. Form requires less reason than it does a disclaimer on our aimlessness, & only after thwarting causelessness caloused misintuited Essense, Meaning meaning Form founds a Natural Congregation, as opposed to a National Cause. The pattern placed in effect from authority speaks of "security" the heathen must be ever more vigilant in appreciation. Psychological restraints are intra-mantra slavery that encourages interest in something immanent, when one rather should begin to use the cues of language as he hears them--Outwardly, rather than as he names his feelings.
Material void is Time--timeliness if What-Is sours from the misfortunate machinations of revision, always refuting authority "psychologically misapprehended," would have minds relish the shame that makes the heirophant (likeness of which he's made a nation of One) high (cleverly clinging to life undeveloped).
Sun's corona pushes my thoughts to the blue redeemed blanket, and starwealthy possibilities!
As some mystic heathen, solitude waiting for me to brave solarity, around the mid-teens of my life, I threaded the white horizon break as companion to katan Olam, the microcosm, healing contained Within, and its Meaning elusive but indicated Without
I am there but not less than her--more. Yet she so ooother, is the beatific exigent to all that world you ever leverage voluntas to work for. Still, her promise is in semblance, and not necessarily in union. Her formal throe into all my social resource, consumes me--consumes everything more than me. She's more than muse - she gives Emotional-soul, the one associated with Mercy, to the vehicle of expression. She is Spirit chorus--the wind commentator--and I am sullied by just a feeling... Without her is one thing, without me is quite another. I am sullied by just a feeling. She's its epiphany--at least I gainsay my fealty embowering thru powerlessness.
Blood spore dissipation, mind-sore apprehension is this one's and that one's utter inept rapture with the marvel of this world notably taken for soluable sensory data. The reserve any One-other has to desire more integrity in homeward loam has all the product of imagination of my vouchsafe in cedar clarified lair--thing actual.
Language is material--martyring its potent affection may be self-duty, a way to "save" yourself from the threat that the well of time, the conscious-pocket, is a reservoir of the Other's extremis in your center from Without.
Imagine that suspended feeling,when the road transpires really very linearly. For a moment hypnotic & freed up. Either the weird security that we attend to in its moment to moment nuance is jettisoned or not--but if it is, this state of mind--similar to the attention we sight in meditation, only reveals a feeling about MORE loss of control... Rather it is much like the daoists claim about fluidity, effortlessness! The road is matched in perfect glyphs self promoting ready to be scathed--an image adduces formally a book of rules--aspirations of imagination. But how the mind codifies the Efficient Cause has Shapeless Mass = Jah--in one spectral vessel, a moment, and just a pulse that nothing any longer is hidden.
PURITY's DECISOR...In death or in life, water ought to be our exigent incarnation. It IS merciful, has all the attributes of Eternality. Heaven is thought of as a fountain..."blue, blue windows behind the stars." N Young* And what is unique upon earth is ancestor revival mischief, but thru his/her source-=-messages showering us with rainy meaning. Its flowing mysterium makes the easily defined ubiquity as it posits the air the sun the buena vista, looks gravid when, say, a stream is met with a recent deluge--a pregnant translucent surface contrives this quality.
It is the big things, we answer for, that destroy intuition. Focus on a diminutive cause. The means are always letter permutations--analytic meditation, as recommended by his Holiness the Dalai Lama, for disambiguation to allay traduced passions, and to tether one to the Truth. The doctrinaire society however bound to integrity for their success, protects it at the cost of the praxis of awakening.
Last night I came up w/ a sense that the Observer is the extinguisher of freedom. Men seem emergent from space, where as women seem to refine Time as a pilgrimage thru space. If memorialized space has convenient thresholds where the intermediary is effective in man's need for a Roof (Rastas chant I need a Roof in Old Testament verity.), just as within a dream, had we looked, Mind is always predominant behind the drawn curtains enveloping our anthropos evol!!! Man hunts the provocateur of consciousness impulses--and one usually orients himself to what is the most evident, and most accessible moment of release...
For a time I decided not to look in a mirror. Other people telling me they've done that always seemed so contrived--like a strange concern over vanity had consumed them. In Jerusalem at the yeshiva I stayed at, went to classes over-together for just a few weeks, the men had no mirrors in the lavatories. (Odd, and compelling--tho' other and unevidenciary.) Driving down my neighborhood road anticipation of my visage now after a couple of months of avoiding my rreflection would have a continguous immanent quality. Not so much the obviate readying oneself for presentation in social oevre as we project and schedule, but what occurred was a feeling that the next time I look it would be a tremulous look under the veil--a purdah of distance strung... I waited til I thought I had seduced the most revealing facade of appearance--a tacit escounced moment -- then at a precise moment, instead of holding eyes into the steady gaze toward rear-view mirror, I pulled down the visor--having no mirror--and wallah, there I look back at myself all King Crimsony as if reflection should be coiled in stillness in the looking glass... The stranger was abated--I knew the red anthropositing of I Me Mine, yet the receiver of my cadence certainly was not withOut: it was wholly within.
Wednesday, June 08, 2011
June & the summer road apparitions proliferate
^^^^Krshnamurti's definition of meditation develops the point about attention, and not persisting on creating stronger focus. Thought content is trappings of frustrations and incomplete resignation on self-preservation--so content is not important. To reference thought w/any value statement is barbed w/his correct sense of the problem of escape unique to one's social-ego constraint. In Amongst White Clouds, a monk relates When he needs apparel--the demand of weather and health, clothes crawl upon his humble frame. Needs aren't invented, but are fulfilled precipitiously--the world, the path meet him. There is no yawn of distances to imagine relationship--instead the numinous and experiential are immanent (remains within!).
The Observer
The Observer is the extinguisher of the freedom...
occuring in mediacy, it doesn't matter according to its content.
What sublimates the Meaning of Outward Fact? What conveys our graduation (all mediate) to Awakening.
Religion?
Never flourishing in a temptor's face
Never in declination ill-contained & heavy,
prioritizing what is good for Meditation.
So, Gandhi's definition is Self-Actualization.
Dogma--this rhetoric of any intensified-transition
(we want revolution or revelation)
as it speaks to mischief abated,
just means lethargy in its legs to compel me.
I'm not typically assertive that way--ambition is only to relate, and the bread of self-knowledge has consequence and eternality to contend with.
Discipline frames nature
--nature aborts nothing
temporal=breath respiring
(waves and conditions... )
'A burning in my chest and in my lungs'
Freedom is clearly unique
--timeless--
no space in the comport between You and the Catharsist
--and stripped of its descriptors like still waters unimpressed by its deluge victim...
^#~~Reading Jack Kerouac, his first book, makes reflection--memory 'flect, things in shoals of night myth made in this case thru Trees' imagery again developing in fields of opportunity. How covetous minds are in the "million" leaves in sway, trees with a million coves to hide the ephemeral: my changes are literally nothing in the remonstrated day's long ends having only light-play to appertain tree presence--vital, observing, and earth's delivery of fractal awe. In Krshnamurti's To Himself, the underwhelm of tree's boughs but nigh in his meditation, keeps me in tight reigns that the dialect & thought transpiring goes one way...one is just appreciating the whiling arc of the sun as the lesson of other revolves within everytime, just within--it--the tree--does not congratulate its terrestrial associate.
^#~~Feeling the day's elements; languid in the garage. Summer seems the decisor at once then gone. Wish I was in the Catskills, that hideaway--those bungalows, across Casten st all up in the country by the blueberry patches--wholly regular in t...hese woods. Cool streams evading trafficked shitty city, I-man go to the mt. top!
I remember being up in NY w/your brother when we were around 15yrs old. Sitting here with only a handful of times in between brings on memoria in full effect!! My nephews and I would amble thru the forest, they'd smoke--making me feel a strange cause, even esoteric as in how consciousness narrows into semi-ecstatic contrivances. Here there's no tree boughs making umbrella canopy, sharding light and polygons obfuscating distances looking at its ground reception, but smoke philo-heady and retrieved just now makes Ky weather Other & available.
^#~~It is the big things, we answer for, that destroy intuition. Focus on a diminutive cause. The means are always letter permutations--analytic meditation, as recommended by his Holiness the Dalai Lama, for disambiguation to allay traduced passions, and to tether one to the Truth. The doctrinaire society however bound to integrity for their success, protects it at the cost of the praxis of awakening.
^#~~In death or in life, water ought to be our incarnation. It IS merciful, has all the attributes of Eternality. Heaven is thought of as a fountain..."blue, blue windows behind the stars." N Young*
And what is unique upon earth is ancestor revival mischief, but thru his/her source-=-messages showering us with rainy meaning. Its flowing mysterium makes the easily defined ubiquity as it posits the air the sun the buena vista, looks gravid when, say, a stream is met with a recent deluge--a pregnant translucent surface contrives this quality.
^#~~If one is at the peak of his/her experience, it may be when most crowd consciousness is left at bay. In R. Gere's book called Pilgrims, a Nepalese monk is asked of his perspective in light of the physical success the Outward Fact sublimates the acolyte: He says It is All Ego! Rather, what was simply asked was What is the answer in all endeavor toward self-actualization.
Last night I came up w/ a sense that the Observer is the extinguisher of freedom. Men seem emergent from space, where as women seem to refine Time as a pilgrimage thru space. If memorialized space has convenient thresholds where the intermediary is effective in man's need for a Roof (Rastas chant I need a Roof in Old Testament verity.), just as within a dream, had we looked, Mind is always predominant behind the drawn curtains enveloping our anthropos evol!!! Man hunts the provocateur of consciousness impulses--and one usually orients himself to what is the most evident, and most accessible moment of release...
The Observer
The Observer is the extinguisher of the freedom...
occuring in mediacy, it doesn't matter according to its content.
What sublimates the Meaning of Outward Fact? What conveys our graduation (all mediate) to Awakening.
Religion?
Never flourishing in a temptor's face
Never in declination ill-contained & heavy,
prioritizing what is good for Meditation.
So, Gandhi's definition is Self-Actualization.
Dogma--this rhetoric of any intensified-transition
(we want revolution or revelation)
as it speaks to mischief abated,
just means lethargy in its legs to compel me.
I'm not typically assertive that way--ambition is only to relate, and the bread of self-knowledge has consequence and eternality to contend with.
Discipline frames nature
--nature aborts nothing
temporal=breath respiring
(waves and conditions... )
'A burning in my chest and in my lungs'
Freedom is clearly unique
--timeless--
no space in the comport between You and the Catharsist
--and stripped of its descriptors like still waters unimpressed by its deluge victim...
^#~~Reading Jack Kerouac, his first book, makes reflection--memory 'flect, things in shoals of night myth made in this case thru Trees' imagery again developing in fields of opportunity. How covetous minds are in the "million" leaves in sway, trees with a million coves to hide the ephemeral: my changes are literally nothing in the remonstrated day's long ends having only light-play to appertain tree presence--vital, observing, and earth's delivery of fractal awe. In Krshnamurti's To Himself, the underwhelm of tree's boughs but nigh in his meditation, keeps me in tight reigns that the dialect & thought transpiring goes one way...one is just appreciating the whiling arc of the sun as the lesson of other revolves within everytime, just within--it--the tree--does not congratulate its terrestrial associate.
^#~~Feeling the day's elements; languid in the garage. Summer seems the decisor at once then gone. Wish I was in the Catskills, that hideaway--those bungalows, across Casten st all up in the country by the blueberry patches--wholly regular in t...hese woods. Cool streams evading trafficked shitty city, I-man go to the mt. top!
I remember being up in NY w/your brother when we were around 15yrs old. Sitting here with only a handful of times in between brings on memoria in full effect!! My nephews and I would amble thru the forest, they'd smoke--making me feel a strange cause, even esoteric as in how consciousness narrows into semi-ecstatic contrivances. Here there's no tree boughs making umbrella canopy, sharding light and polygons obfuscating distances looking at its ground reception, but smoke philo-heady and retrieved just now makes Ky weather Other & available.
^#~~It is the big things, we answer for, that destroy intuition. Focus on a diminutive cause. The means are always letter permutations--analytic meditation, as recommended by his Holiness the Dalai Lama, for disambiguation to allay traduced passions, and to tether one to the Truth. The doctrinaire society however bound to integrity for their success, protects it at the cost of the praxis of awakening.
^#~~In death or in life, water ought to be our incarnation. It IS merciful, has all the attributes of Eternality. Heaven is thought of as a fountain..."blue, blue windows behind the stars." N Young*
And what is unique upon earth is ancestor revival mischief, but thru his/her source-=-messages showering us with rainy meaning. Its flowing mysterium makes the easily defined ubiquity as it posits the air the sun the buena vista, looks gravid when, say, a stream is met with a recent deluge--a pregnant translucent surface contrives this quality.
^#~~If one is at the peak of his/her experience, it may be when most crowd consciousness is left at bay. In R. Gere's book called Pilgrims, a Nepalese monk is asked of his perspective in light of the physical success the Outward Fact sublimates the acolyte: He says It is All Ego! Rather, what was simply asked was What is the answer in all endeavor toward self-actualization.
Last night I came up w/ a sense that the Observer is the extinguisher of freedom. Men seem emergent from space, where as women seem to refine Time as a pilgrimage thru space. If memorialized space has convenient thresholds where the intermediary is effective in man's need for a Roof (Rastas chant I need a Roof in Old Testament verity.), just as within a dream, had we looked, Mind is always predominant behind the drawn curtains enveloping our anthropos evol!!! Man hunts the provocateur of consciousness impulses--and one usually orients himself to what is the most evident, and most accessible moment of release...
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Sleeping Waking Trodding Encamping............
***PURITY's DECISOR...In death or in life, water ought to be our exigent incarnation. It IS merciful, has all the attributes of Eternality. Heaven is thought of as a fountain..."blue, blue windows behind the stars." N Young* And what is unique upon earth is ancestor revival mischief, but thru his/her source-=-messages showering us with rainy meaning. Its flowing mysterium makes the easily defined ubiquity as it posits the air the sun the buena vista, looks gravid when, say, a stream is met with a recent deluge--a pregnant translucent surface contrives this quality.
^^^^When anyone leaves off with a sigh, the glance is where to begin. Early one morning up at what Zadie called Kruegers, in Gardenside--all the neighborhood flak with walnut trees giving up to shopping cntr drone, I sat up on a bench, rolled some Bugler, watched as if, face obscurred, dudes presence demonstrating light of my brother. He's closest in age, somewhat violent in nature, and self-replicates in Egyptian tombs when certain coool air brightens the sublime porte, something in me somewhere in abandonment...
*****Bad Muthas Goose & the bros. Grimm, these bluesy texan rappers--pretty ugly bunch, I big up (rasta), do it in the context of a Red fly Nation practice back in the day. Hard. I sEE it az many--as pissed, man. Anyway, that to identify with coarse and "night erupting in a hot blast" (Linton Kwesi Johnson), is just lotus mind having as much repute, yeah as much repute. I don't have to step in the fire (negativity has no place--Sight!), the fire we see just baptizes, orients the bleak vista conspired with one road. --Abraham unscathed in Nimrod's cauldron--a human sacrifice aborted... should be because it is the lowest common denominator. The flames magnificate like lotus pedals. But Abraham leaves family home ascesis as his clan soughts gods in those paradisaical throes. Lekh-lekha: he got thee out. Renunciation or privation the world made disciplined a mind of this once inspired Abram (a Friend of G-d? Arabs attest, Jews picked up on...or maybeee an antecedent somewhere.) World(s) extinguished, new dawns will fade! The West wants to see G-d, the East wants suffering to cease, so his/her G*d would reflect on his/her nature. If only thru expression, his name is thwarted from the East--but the word for breath is its root in Hebrew.
##########I wondered why even ask if Kerouac--a Metatrone kind of angel--would make known to me just the right view to the transcendental media; Writing me into his proscribed Americana, its cult of self-reliance and all the rest of his universal biblacy, when I couldn't resist anymore the appreciating solitarian day--Kerouac looked as busy as gravid loam all ventrally placed...and earth mummer as distant as his captive solicit in making its foci recognizably dear. I watch private motives in vain distillation because I'd been deceived that it pulled back with equal force. That magnificate probity of certainty draws sentience nigh, but nothing of its cause. Just way over, far over this path not like that path is meeting me but only at the survey of immensity.
****A gate at the side of the house, next to the log pile, may simply be a no departure plaintive way, the gate I'd hold open toward the concourse of spectral timelessness. An image of similar slumbering Autumnal gate--meaning utility in its intent for what rabbi Cooper processes thru in his narrative-"Journey into Sufism, Buddhism, & Judaism," appears on this book's front cover exactly as I remember it on Williamsburg Rd--my crystal palace that'd been heralded for so long as the mess having to make me honest. I douse it w/exuding light and I'm guaranteed misfortune from it, tho' never does it take notice what I'm convulsed with with equal force. Kicking It Over, indeed...! The gate keeper may be holding it open toward this as terminally as a life expanse appropriates, holding it now and perhaps thEn thE End whEn I see who the cap fits.
Kafka has our victim upon his death bed, enduring nothing shadows of rescue could have provided, and sees not the mediator of his born anew awareness, as nigh, instead the stranger-anointed waves him ON from outside his window at the roof's peak of the adjacent facing neighboring house. Mara with a thousand eyes - or any of his minion - just as ill-contained, has what we know to be our destiny with self-knowledge, but only after we no longer imagine it possible. Then thru his visage, unto light and light only, the old existent garment shed, a new body is donned.
****Molasses sadness no matter my penance surrendered. Why is it a pilgrimage whenever I don't wear a wristwatch? I'm raw and cursed with nothing to blame for this attrition. "I want to bomb a church," Bob says, look for the tall trees--and I feel like a small axe. I saw this book mentioned--one written by one of Maimonides's elite, it's called The Work on the Voice of Humanity. I'm used to one word foundering in a stream of exigency, consequences enumerated from decorating the ego-list but I cut the valence from careening voluble inward projection... One word and the fire relevence cannot be anymore sublime, can't make lotus leaves in cool throne asana moment anything but a lament for Ibrahim collated in Islamic typos--a Friend of G^d, they say--steps in fire but does not get burned. What else do I lament but my proxy to material void, material nothing, unforgettable fire--not in my control? In one scrawl of my hand beckoning the night, I might discover an eternal glyph--but until then sorrow is rewarded with unknowing.
####My school portrays a strict teacher, so if silence ensues, the sand pallette-media school-paraphernalia just got handed out. And not only am I before the writ, I am yet seized upon it from behind the top of the page, in the grip of its author. Or scruple counselor, who deigns its purport more authentic. Teachers' Strange from populist thought coupled with hero's happenstance to care about much more than the conscious crowd's frozen sea of perfect lack of intent, distills psychologic passions...if studying the soul's rational health convalescence gets recommended in each instance of strife.
##########I'm upon a hill, just a talking head in dream-scape, & words like world is the companion to--a mediator of--the unfurled tongue in valleys of language strife, is that venacular of iconographic convention with no reach into another reservoir of nations' babel. Just provincial: we are doomed to convey animal appetites, because intra-mantra slavery can't be adduced.
####I'm a consequencialist. The last thing that seems opportune has the toppling effect of reason that only announces that the present IS been resumed, but is not necessarily resuming. Sight: Sam Harris here. A deification of someOne inviting his own impermanent salience, still leaves the best of what suffering has to offer with the living--speak of a living G*d Jews tout. Yet that acolyte's (a Jew's)god vitiates the regard for inward journeying in favor of social agency, if inward journeying is to court experiments into consciousness. Say doing what is best toward meditation-- well-being is convened at its behest since there are more likely possibilities that core-communities in the least of their demise have the exemplar macrobiotic intentions.
^^^^When anyone leaves off with a sigh, the glance is where to begin. Early one morning up at what Zadie called Kruegers, in Gardenside--all the neighborhood flak with walnut trees giving up to shopping cntr drone, I sat up on a bench, rolled some Bugler, watched as if, face obscurred, dudes presence demonstrating light of my brother. He's closest in age, somewhat violent in nature, and self-replicates in Egyptian tombs when certain coool air brightens the sublime porte, something in me somewhere in abandonment...
*****Bad Muthas Goose & the bros. Grimm, these bluesy texan rappers--pretty ugly bunch, I big up (rasta), do it in the context of a Red fly Nation practice back in the day. Hard. I sEE it az many--as pissed, man. Anyway, that to identify with coarse and "night erupting in a hot blast" (Linton Kwesi Johnson), is just lotus mind having as much repute, yeah as much repute. I don't have to step in the fire (negativity has no place--Sight!), the fire we see just baptizes, orients the bleak vista conspired with one road. --Abraham unscathed in Nimrod's cauldron--a human sacrifice aborted... should be because it is the lowest common denominator. The flames magnificate like lotus pedals. But Abraham leaves family home ascesis as his clan soughts gods in those paradisaical throes. Lekh-lekha: he got thee out. Renunciation or privation the world made disciplined a mind of this once inspired Abram (a Friend of G-d? Arabs attest, Jews picked up on...or maybeee an antecedent somewhere.) World(s) extinguished, new dawns will fade! The West wants to see G-d, the East wants suffering to cease, so his/her G*d would reflect on his/her nature. If only thru expression, his name is thwarted from the East--but the word for breath is its root in Hebrew.
##########I wondered why even ask if Kerouac--a Metatrone kind of angel--would make known to me just the right view to the transcendental media; Writing me into his proscribed Americana, its cult of self-reliance and all the rest of his universal biblacy, when I couldn't resist anymore the appreciating solitarian day--Kerouac looked as busy as gravid loam all ventrally placed...and earth mummer as distant as his captive solicit in making its foci recognizably dear. I watch private motives in vain distillation because I'd been deceived that it pulled back with equal force. That magnificate probity of certainty draws sentience nigh, but nothing of its cause. Just way over, far over this path not like that path is meeting me but only at the survey of immensity.
****A gate at the side of the house, next to the log pile, may simply be a no departure plaintive way, the gate I'd hold open toward the concourse of spectral timelessness. An image of similar slumbering Autumnal gate--meaning utility in its intent for what rabbi Cooper processes thru in his narrative-"Journey into Sufism, Buddhism, & Judaism," appears on this book's front cover exactly as I remember it on Williamsburg Rd--my crystal palace that'd been heralded for so long as the mess having to make me honest. I douse it w/exuding light and I'm guaranteed misfortune from it, tho' never does it take notice what I'm convulsed with with equal force. Kicking It Over, indeed...! The gate keeper may be holding it open toward this as terminally as a life expanse appropriates, holding it now and perhaps thEn thE End whEn I see who the cap fits.
Kafka has our victim upon his death bed, enduring nothing shadows of rescue could have provided, and sees not the mediator of his born anew awareness, as nigh, instead the stranger-anointed waves him ON from outside his window at the roof's peak of the adjacent facing neighboring house. Mara with a thousand eyes - or any of his minion - just as ill-contained, has what we know to be our destiny with self-knowledge, but only after we no longer imagine it possible. Then thru his visage, unto light and light only, the old existent garment shed, a new body is donned.
****Molasses sadness no matter my penance surrendered. Why is it a pilgrimage whenever I don't wear a wristwatch? I'm raw and cursed with nothing to blame for this attrition. "I want to bomb a church," Bob says, look for the tall trees--and I feel like a small axe. I saw this book mentioned--one written by one of Maimonides's elite, it's called The Work on the Voice of Humanity. I'm used to one word foundering in a stream of exigency, consequences enumerated from decorating the ego-list but I cut the valence from careening voluble inward projection... One word and the fire relevence cannot be anymore sublime, can't make lotus leaves in cool throne asana moment anything but a lament for Ibrahim collated in Islamic typos--a Friend of G^d, they say--steps in fire but does not get burned. What else do I lament but my proxy to material void, material nothing, unforgettable fire--not in my control? In one scrawl of my hand beckoning the night, I might discover an eternal glyph--but until then sorrow is rewarded with unknowing.
####My school portrays a strict teacher, so if silence ensues, the sand pallette-media school-paraphernalia just got handed out. And not only am I before the writ, I am yet seized upon it from behind the top of the page, in the grip of its author. Or scruple counselor, who deigns its purport more authentic. Teachers' Strange from populist thought coupled with hero's happenstance to care about much more than the conscious crowd's frozen sea of perfect lack of intent, distills psychologic passions...if studying the soul's rational health convalescence gets recommended in each instance of strife.
##########I'm upon a hill, just a talking head in dream-scape, & words like world is the companion to--a mediator of--the unfurled tongue in valleys of language strife, is that venacular of iconographic convention with no reach into another reservoir of nations' babel. Just provincial: we are doomed to convey animal appetites, because intra-mantra slavery can't be adduced.
####I'm a consequencialist. The last thing that seems opportune has the toppling effect of reason that only announces that the present IS been resumed, but is not necessarily resuming. Sight: Sam Harris here. A deification of someOne inviting his own impermanent salience, still leaves the best of what suffering has to offer with the living--speak of a living G*d Jews tout. Yet that acolyte's (a Jew's)god vitiates the regard for inward journeying in favor of social agency, if inward journeying is to court experiments into consciousness. Say doing what is best toward meditation-- well-being is convened at its behest since there are more likely possibilities that core-communities in the least of their demise have the exemplar macrobiotic intentions.
Sunday, May 08, 2011
ZINDAPIR-- the mind sore ain't black, it's Green--Mr Green
^^Probably the most identifiable unreconciably known smell to man & beast is dust. Exquisite dust underfoot. Molds and viroids, half-worlds, between worlds... DusT to dusT if dusK to dusK proved an ashen Sun, giving up what I need--I run to it, shadows of rescue. The dust on the soul weighting down its ascending destiny, the world's excresence wafts and is born illimitable like This One & That One.
^^^^The requirement of meditation is ones beseeching an inward journey, and the inward journey reconciled when we merely entertain the frozen sea within--before and after the retreat. Maimonides says this to the effect, but "frozen sea" is Kafka. In Maimonides' --the foremost Jewish theologian, the Book of Adoration: purity is the goal of attention and the profane cleaved into what initially Mind resolves--a world of fragmentation. I read that we Jews face east too, yet the cold rear door of the synagogue I experienced, its classroom corridor leading to the arbor, brought me to conjure all the expanse withOut, turning toward the west. If western skies had truth to verify an awakening, it's coming around. It would have to, because what I suspired in knowing was that damnable sleeping thru life's dream, and losing its intervallic cessation. There's one long ascending slumber night, encumbered, fluid even nuanced, anticipating the requisite change that has the self-same character in volition in our Exile thru these dormancy wastes.
^^Theosophical writings, a sun's deluge--irradiant but remote, marks the antiquity of watery realms in saints' propitiation--Mr Green--tendered in roiling skies. The relicky stones tarry, jump into the sky in strange Hebraic accounts of Sambatyon at rivulet's edge, prohibitive at the penultimate margins till entrance can't any longer have denied you--Shangralah emblems get notice here. Paradise sundered in Awakening--Moses' left no Exile of Self, or Nation behind. Moses who didn't accede to Promised land, was a rational choice for hagiography since he enjoyed tacit blessing to seize water's ubiquity. This victory, near The Victorious, al-Kahir, Cairo, still him in the microcosm--deigning the Macrocosm, is to be enervating, because Higher Will wasn't contiguous, now it is prohibitive. =Judgment, and still ablutional pale water is merciful, as yet (restricting *adj.) Truth would be compelling adulterated, so fluid but viscous & gravid, because it is shed of messages from antediluvial spirits hidden in fountains, sky born or earth clothed.
^^Religion reckoned! Not spirituality like folks contenting themselves w/--eVerYone dEEp down has gOOd in them, are propitiating something clearly like no-view impeding their sorry lofty gaze... Public apostasy is Religion--it's spiritual now! It's not backward anymore than the width of a coin wholly marks the dynamism of the human condition, and once-flipped doesn't reconcile whither in illusionary mind or elucidated heart. In defense had I a need to demonstrate to a Believer that No I'm not doing the same thing, & as such missionizing, I'd say where is this Received Knowledge whose proselytes entertain my initiation? A x-tian witnesses, jews pity--they both are self-annihilating, because to witness is to martyr, to pity is to empty yourself. They both judge.
If you forget life is just to die, then the sooner will you go away. Incarnations abound to the extent that we aren't distracted over authorial incantations: luckily I had a rabbi who believed in evolution and the communications from the ancients that predicted Jewish lore. Had he known I never was acquisitive over traditional terms of identity, I may have made a better student: one can only talk to g*d being amongst, otherwise we maybe dealing with his attributable vessels, like the night's moon-soaked shade (the dialect is appreciable, but indifferent. The voidant anticipation of long days gotten through, is the requiem of change on behalf of your brothers and sisters who are here to intercede 'pon the theoria that comes with silence & apophases... I'm on my way with job-1 relieved of my attention...soon. Escape? "You smoke weed, it makes your eyes sharp." is Revolution propounded by Linton Kwesi Johnson.
^^^I'm a consequencialist. The last thing that seems opportune has the toppling effect of reason that only announces that the present IS been resumed, but is not necessarily resuming. Sight: Sam Harris here. A deification of someOne inviting his own impermanent salience, still leaves the best of what suffering has to offer with the living--speak of a living G*d Jews tout. Yet that acolyte's (a Jew's)god vitiates the regard for inward journeying in favor of social agency, if inward journeying is to court experiments into consciousness. Say doing what is best toward meditation-- well-being is convened at its behest since there are more likely possibilities that core-communities in the least of their demise have the exemplar macrobiotic intentions.
^^^I feel approached by even the most benevolent of peers with the assumption they need to know if I am dawdling along -- constancy reviewed. It must mean that I get to a valley corridor, veils proliferating & folks just want to peer underneath. The guy who did the artwork on the Apples in Stereo last album cover stopped by the shop today--he's a neighbor. He deals with a sense that if he had his way he'd catch up with me or just anyone: ageist and circumspect, evolving in his interests, but missing out in the other's more free air. The same sensitivity alights in MY thinking, and I call it thought and never warrant a grasp of egoism that a friend could divulge my interests anymore convened than the irresolute defines me. It's simple and we're all getting that somewhat. I leapt to the notion in intra-mantra slavery that really I'm not going anywhere--and persisting over what I'll ever be doing next week, year, or lifetime is only focus prayers on poignant emptiness. Numinous reactions to friends get eclipsed by ocular migraines occasionally anyway--it is succour to imagine there is no way out in those moments, not even to relate over this condition in the hotch-potch of daily trials appealling to the goof that I was expected and needed to be reassured.
Buddhist's might imagine salvation as non-negotiable. If we are liberated from birth, death, and proud land trod, then this reconcile we adduce to be liberated is contingent upon suffering's noble cause. The Buddhist would say cessation is goal--and to the extent that desires are untried makes a peak experience in the outward fact the sense that nothing need be done, particularly a foundering principle on salvation's retreat. I have read that even love would be jettisoned if it performs meditation's entreaty-- I love, but am ill-contained if hope is the game= One only hopes we he is Without.
^^^^The requirement of meditation is ones beseeching an inward journey, and the inward journey reconciled when we merely entertain the frozen sea within--before and after the retreat. Maimonides says this to the effect, but "frozen sea" is Kafka. In Maimonides' --the foremost Jewish theologian, the Book of Adoration: purity is the goal of attention and the profane cleaved into what initially Mind resolves--a world of fragmentation. I read that we Jews face east too, yet the cold rear door of the synagogue I experienced, its classroom corridor leading to the arbor, brought me to conjure all the expanse withOut, turning toward the west. If western skies had truth to verify an awakening, it's coming around. It would have to, because what I suspired in knowing was that damnable sleeping thru life's dream, and losing its intervallic cessation. There's one long ascending slumber night, encumbered, fluid even nuanced, anticipating the requisite change that has the self-same character in volition in our Exile thru these dormancy wastes.
^^Theosophical writings, a sun's deluge--irradiant but remote, marks the antiquity of watery realms in saints' propitiation--Mr Green--tendered in roiling skies. The relicky stones tarry, jump into the sky in strange Hebraic accounts of Sambatyon at rivulet's edge, prohibitive at the penultimate margins till entrance can't any longer have denied you--Shangralah emblems get notice here. Paradise sundered in Awakening--Moses' left no Exile of Self, or Nation behind. Moses who didn't accede to Promised land, was a rational choice for hagiography since he enjoyed tacit blessing to seize water's ubiquity. This victory, near The Victorious, al-Kahir, Cairo, still him in the microcosm--deigning the Macrocosm, is to be enervating, because Higher Will wasn't contiguous, now it is prohibitive. =Judgment, and still ablutional pale water is merciful, as yet (restricting *adj.) Truth would be compelling adulterated, so fluid but viscous & gravid, because it is shed of messages from antediluvial spirits hidden in fountains, sky born or earth clothed.
^^Religion reckoned! Not spirituality like folks contenting themselves w/--eVerYone dEEp down has gOOd in them, are propitiating something clearly like no-view impeding their sorry lofty gaze... Public apostasy is Religion--it's spiritual now! It's not backward anymore than the width of a coin wholly marks the dynamism of the human condition, and once-flipped doesn't reconcile whither in illusionary mind or elucidated heart. In defense had I a need to demonstrate to a Believer that No I'm not doing the same thing, & as such missionizing, I'd say where is this Received Knowledge whose proselytes entertain my initiation? A x-tian witnesses, jews pity--they both are self-annihilating, because to witness is to martyr, to pity is to empty yourself. They both judge.
If you forget life is just to die, then the sooner will you go away. Incarnations abound to the extent that we aren't distracted over authorial incantations: luckily I had a rabbi who believed in evolution and the communications from the ancients that predicted Jewish lore. Had he known I never was acquisitive over traditional terms of identity, I may have made a better student: one can only talk to g*d being amongst, otherwise we maybe dealing with his attributable vessels, like the night's moon-soaked shade (the dialect is appreciable, but indifferent. The voidant anticipation of long days gotten through, is the requiem of change on behalf of your brothers and sisters who are here to intercede 'pon the theoria that comes with silence & apophases... I'm on my way with job-1 relieved of my attention...soon. Escape? "You smoke weed, it makes your eyes sharp." is Revolution propounded by Linton Kwesi Johnson.
^^^I'm a consequencialist. The last thing that seems opportune has the toppling effect of reason that only announces that the present IS been resumed, but is not necessarily resuming. Sight: Sam Harris here. A deification of someOne inviting his own impermanent salience, still leaves the best of what suffering has to offer with the living--speak of a living G*d Jews tout. Yet that acolyte's (a Jew's)god vitiates the regard for inward journeying in favor of social agency, if inward journeying is to court experiments into consciousness. Say doing what is best toward meditation-- well-being is convened at its behest since there are more likely possibilities that core-communities in the least of their demise have the exemplar macrobiotic intentions.
^^^I feel approached by even the most benevolent of peers with the assumption they need to know if I am dawdling along -- constancy reviewed. It must mean that I get to a valley corridor, veils proliferating & folks just want to peer underneath. The guy who did the artwork on the Apples in Stereo last album cover stopped by the shop today--he's a neighbor. He deals with a sense that if he had his way he'd catch up with me or just anyone: ageist and circumspect, evolving in his interests, but missing out in the other's more free air. The same sensitivity alights in MY thinking, and I call it thought and never warrant a grasp of egoism that a friend could divulge my interests anymore convened than the irresolute defines me. It's simple and we're all getting that somewhat. I leapt to the notion in intra-mantra slavery that really I'm not going anywhere--and persisting over what I'll ever be doing next week, year, or lifetime is only focus prayers on poignant emptiness. Numinous reactions to friends get eclipsed by ocular migraines occasionally anyway--it is succour to imagine there is no way out in those moments, not even to relate over this condition in the hotch-potch of daily trials appealling to the goof that I was expected and needed to be reassured.
Buddhist's might imagine salvation as non-negotiable. If we are liberated from birth, death, and proud land trod, then this reconcile we adduce to be liberated is contingent upon suffering's noble cause. The Buddhist would say cessation is goal--and to the extent that desires are untried makes a peak experience in the outward fact the sense that nothing need be done, particularly a foundering principle on salvation's retreat. I have read that even love would be jettisoned if it performs meditation's entreaty-- I love, but am ill-contained if hope is the game= One only hopes we he is Without.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
In this yah Neighborhood--the sojourn to departed person's precincts
^^^Out behind my cousin's old house, rt. there on Nich'ville rd are interred bodies--grave sites exciting the possibilities that I can recommend other semi-permanent conscious crowds, something possible taking place that Observers had observed..., will detail a path in & out of these environs... Stale consecration libations were only cheap beer parties--in backyard treehouse, poured out to poor lives relieved of this Station in life--I'm presenting just then; their consideration was palpable. The sequestered field of possibilities--the little rock, fenced-in graveyard at the entrance of old people's domicile-apts, by the Burger King, by the Weiner King, by Racket Time, by my last paned threshold window, looking off to empty day's promisory: vague ablutions THESE deceased propose to meet me in Due time-my due! I believe it vehemently then--and want a similar introduction as if a sensual personae is made known.
^^The tin peal of all the sing-song rhetoric, here at its media borne moment has to make sublimation now, my sublimation--corrupting language as dogged as appearances. Once and for all there's a dialect, because I can't any longer sequester talk bound to emotion. Their emotions. It seems more oratory is stony percussion, & telegraphed. I want vox ambulating like white sands' paths meeting me, orienting me toward an opportunity of its greatest dissipation. A view to its roil. Brahmins proscribing in the aeries of air-wave graves, tableaus of What is Said and at the bridge of the day's long ends, alert like a muezzin--hundreds of thousands of Bilals, Muhammed's first crier--are only chanting Presence--& in grammars of bird song, and human dance, still only saying I'm Here, Yea! Over Here.
^^To assess perhaps a deep aside--it can't be at your center--I used to throw against the mindwall a few things: Something conceptual to develop using mantras including words like Kavvanot--Focus Meditation, Kabbalah--Received, & Enoch--the strange temporal transitions one may go thru.
A friend mentioned Enoch--this prophet for critical meditation, the kind where letter permutation is theoria in mediate happenstance. If life (eventuality) is to process, then articulating it is the dross pen lying fallow until chthonian forces brandish new tableaux. So toward Metatrone's Book of zzz Life - his agency is to enscribe the acolyte into the "transcendental bridge of awareness" - this is also Enoch, as is told, sublimating the profane, meaning the astral aeries or our cosmic interest of it, into the Microcosm. It's called Restoration. =tikkun. Words to exalt have this root. Language is the profession of prophets' ordeal, and is what strangers dream at its best when mysterium is vindicated as the totem nears...like their animicule symbols, energy vessels, bodies sentience awakening.
^^Hallucinations in Jerusalem: I was 20--but now just Watched a documentary on the first production of A, and its Mood & Mind Science, say for cluster migraines--which are, I am told, the worst...
It is Nat. Geo. doc on LSD. That it delivers the norm apostate to refuse desire... In Jerusalem Rob & I split a hit--and wandered in cooler Fall rain--light shower. I think I wanted to see emotions' procession finally laid out, but still bound to machine probity makes observable release an *immediate* pay-off--I couldn't finesse a way forward that my abysmal jump would have been a perfect compulsion: long times to contemplate. Long times to contemplate aren't in fact timely... I'm just realizing in that ambiance I still have infinitum more empty bottles to fill, with an answer the bottle-sought provides but not in its acquisition. Just my reach for it. Tea that night helped to make the mentoring of moments suspiring, suspire mercurially.
^^When I was 6yrs old at the neighboring st. in Laurel Grove Austin, Texas--I sought to be conveyed in a few moments the thoughts that constituted what was to me My lifetime. So to be articulated into something not so easily defined, I thought I should start At-the-End of the path/those thoughts/that day/This life. My query involves as follows: we tend to sort out the last 5mins in any kind of constancy, our life's totality i.e. generalities supposing some inertia that there is some Grand design to our efforts. This usually means something epiphenomenal like the image of the rabbi, in my mind, that has the dust of archetypes upon it (life's exquisite dust--the halotosis of institutions & Rabbi Schwab's weathered dross stimulation.) --rather a motivating emotion I suppose in meditation. Is this K'fitsas haderekh? Translation: "Skipping," what one does w/visions & thus the experience of presence made known. I'm here yet also and within grasp at some point in temporal elsewheres at once?
^^^There's only +he dream of existence & +hen +he exegete from +he awakening from +he dream of existence. All we have to go on. So when a sage says self-knowledge is sooo eclipsed, lapsed because now one considers that it is the valley-limned ...really long time coming--shadowy depths denied as merely a surfeit of memoria, now no different than our dearly departed days of youth, maybe intensity--as much as embraced blue slumber comfort that every bit of me is become sacrificed--I ! But it's not that now years into the lairs of conscious satelites (receiving...) we endure helplessness anew, but rather it - these empirical throes of annihilation - were remarkable right out youth's convening. Then -- blue to black, green to earth's slumbering colours--change . From just knowing who's registering our angst and then allowing real suggestions in what direction we go, to irreconciled languish in our minds lit! BUT LIT it is. Now to validate cornering even the solace expectations were met. In that corner the heathen back Yea, on the wall. Late for festival, but enjoining the same release as festivals contend--at what point does 432,000 yrs my piligrimage thru some woodlands of this passing, make 10,ooo things of what is manifest---earth nomenclature, exquisite dust 'pon clay man's hoof, at fractured trees... birds over-taking, architecture in the skyline--make Unity Unique--a garden of no path. Truth is at the dukka (conflict) da'ath (knowledge) deled (door), at the ocean margins *fountain sky above*, & no further. (?) ttttthere is No Path.
^^The tin peal of all the sing-song rhetoric, here at its media borne moment has to make sublimation now, my sublimation--corrupting language as dogged as appearances. Once and for all there's a dialect, because I can't any longer sequester talk bound to emotion. Their emotions. It seems more oratory is stony percussion, & telegraphed. I want vox ambulating like white sands' paths meeting me, orienting me toward an opportunity of its greatest dissipation. A view to its roil. Brahmins proscribing in the aeries of air-wave graves, tableaus of What is Said and at the bridge of the day's long ends, alert like a muezzin--hundreds of thousands of Bilals, Muhammed's first crier--are only chanting Presence--& in grammars of bird song, and human dance, still only saying I'm Here, Yea! Over Here.
^^To assess perhaps a deep aside--it can't be at your center--I used to throw against the mindwall a few things: Something conceptual to develop using mantras including words like Kavvanot--Focus Meditation, Kabbalah--Received, & Enoch--the strange temporal transitions one may go thru.
A friend mentioned Enoch--this prophet for critical meditation, the kind where letter permutation is theoria in mediate happenstance. If life (eventuality) is to process, then articulating it is the dross pen lying fallow until chthonian forces brandish new tableaux. So toward Metatrone's Book of zzz Life - his agency is to enscribe the acolyte into the "transcendental bridge of awareness" - this is also Enoch, as is told, sublimating the profane, meaning the astral aeries or our cosmic interest of it, into the Microcosm. It's called Restoration. =tikkun. Words to exalt have this root. Language is the profession of prophets' ordeal, and is what strangers dream at its best when mysterium is vindicated as the totem nears...like their animicule symbols, energy vessels, bodies sentience awakening.
^^Hallucinations in Jerusalem: I was 20--but now just Watched a documentary on the first production of A, and its Mood & Mind Science, say for cluster migraines--which are, I am told, the worst...
It is Nat. Geo. doc on LSD. That it delivers the norm apostate to refuse desire... In Jerusalem Rob & I split a hit--and wandered in cooler Fall rain--light shower. I think I wanted to see emotions' procession finally laid out, but still bound to machine probity makes observable release an *immediate* pay-off--I couldn't finesse a way forward that my abysmal jump would have been a perfect compulsion: long times to contemplate. Long times to contemplate aren't in fact timely... I'm just realizing in that ambiance I still have infinitum more empty bottles to fill, with an answer the bottle-sought provides but not in its acquisition. Just my reach for it. Tea that night helped to make the mentoring of moments suspiring, suspire mercurially.
^^When I was 6yrs old at the neighboring st. in Laurel Grove Austin, Texas--I sought to be conveyed in a few moments the thoughts that constituted what was to me My lifetime. So to be articulated into something not so easily defined, I thought I should start At-the-End of the path/those thoughts/that day/This life. My query involves as follows: we tend to sort out the last 5mins in any kind of constancy, our life's totality i.e. generalities supposing some inertia that there is some Grand design to our efforts. This usually means something epiphenomenal like the image of the rabbi, in my mind, that has the dust of archetypes upon it (life's exquisite dust--the halotosis of institutions & Rabbi Schwab's weathered dross stimulation.) --rather a motivating emotion I suppose in meditation. Is this K'fitsas haderekh? Translation: "Skipping," what one does w/visions & thus the experience of presence made known. I'm here yet also and within grasp at some point in temporal elsewheres at once?
^^^There's only +he dream of existence & +hen +he exegete from +he awakening from +he dream of existence. All we have to go on. So when a sage says self-knowledge is sooo eclipsed, lapsed because now one considers that it is the valley-limned ...really long time coming--shadowy depths denied as merely a surfeit of memoria, now no different than our dearly departed days of youth, maybe intensity--as much as embraced blue slumber comfort that every bit of me is become sacrificed--I ! But it's not that now years into the lairs of conscious satelites (receiving...) we endure helplessness anew, but rather it - these empirical throes of annihilation - were remarkable right out youth's convening. Then -- blue to black, green to earth's slumbering colours--change . From just knowing who's registering our angst and then allowing real suggestions in what direction we go, to irreconciled languish in our minds lit! BUT LIT it is. Now to validate cornering even the solace expectations were met. In that corner the heathen back Yea, on the wall. Late for festival, but enjoining the same release as festivals contend--at what point does 432,000 yrs my piligrimage thru some woodlands of this passing, make 10,ooo things of what is manifest---earth nomenclature, exquisite dust 'pon clay man's hoof, at fractured trees... birds over-taking, architecture in the skyline--make Unity Unique--a garden of no path. Truth is at the dukka (conflict) da'ath (knowledge) deled (door), at the ocean margins *fountain sky above*, & no further. (?) ttttthere is No Path.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
To the Extent I've become the Other Brother
A black american might say in a striking excelsior bout of self-consciousness, "My G-d My G-d people just like these around us, had my nation in links and chains--"they're dressed in the same pollution" says Marley in horse trot riddim indicating the judgment before halelujah time. Even blood knowing the attendant norm as Core-Culture wouldn't naturally be as prohibitive... So, he's self conscious, not in fear, but in that which brings wisdom. And whose numina is the wealth of Identity, I-dren, Sistren...his conscious crowd? Not yours perhaps, but consider his embrace outside our loosening world-savy contentment, and consider our embrace outside that too.
***I was looking for something to do, so I came over to your house. I think then over in the vicinity where the WT Young library was put up. I know Kakie was over that way too, but you too somewhere living with Leslie, and only Leslie was at home where I ended up in that dusk of consistantly symbolic night in Lexington: one could be certain of the escape of time's efforts--the season brought me into the terminus of Autumnal tumult, while my studies in a fluid draft (like a draft horse) anchored me to music's release with the certainty that anything could be as true. You'd gone to a gig, and I see your hat on your bed's backboard. Leslie is sitting on the bed, but I'm reticent to sit around and bullshit with her, like I am invited to something beyond the given rappore. It's winter and at any rate I sit on a cold stoop at the entrance to the bedroom, wanting to light a cig. In the tale of conscious crowd in my mind I had it that folks were on healthy awareness experiments, I assumed ya'll's reserve for that then--but I had no way to verify. I consider the apposite of an event of convalescence, eating right, to have the expectation of drugged conduct beckoned, but when I'm patiently trialing consciousness--so reading awhile, taking in music otherly, whatever it may be--it's through smoking in convened moments that has a day spirited in giant leaps--so to the victory of physical liberation, a volley of power over time's reins!!
**Attention appreciating, unthwarted, wanting Dostoevskii's K bro to entreat my need to Turn-Around!!!
I'm not subdued by the fact that many of my trials were deliberative. It may mean everything is self-duty with the key to self available in loss of motive in as much as one might have been certain. Again, when the course of my life seems liminal, then at least orienting myself toward the ineffable is evidence of probabilities endless indicated right out of our reach. I know mostly *what-is* is out of my control--even the decisor mental event. But what stands out is the distance between my convulsed self and the semblance - the idea - the motive NOT to act. Things are; I'm becoming; G^d is complex, intricate, so my sense is not to justify acting in IT's behalf, but to be the convergence of time place & community. That way the narrative that says I've alone manufactured the dialect with What-Is (Immense) is not so dear that I would be damned for capturing Otherness--w/the intent to deny it's responsibility upon me adjured. Solemnity expected in my mind, not authorially placating my ignorance.
**That there would be a statute that suggests a culture can't advance because it is a vehicle for a mission, has little to do with an acolyte toward his her appreciation of what resourcefulness they have been reduced down to consider. A worthy World View, propitious self-knowledge, is not one that elaborates one's conflict w/an ambiguous claimant's surmise. No prophets typically avail an adherent were they'd most likely have had their most sober efforts staged for a fractal event. Theoria is finding In ('side the fluid thoughtlessness), the liberation of ourselves in this temporal actionable cause, is finding Out. Love Kerouac's use of The Great Awakening to the Dream of Existence--his letter, to my Mutazila's faylasuf *philosophy*: To dream thereby we exist, to deign meaning for the dream's observer is gaining access to his her teacher. The Teacher or Prophet's lives are chimera activities...
^^Theoria is finding In ('side the fluid thoughtlessness), & the liberation of ourselves in this temporal actionable cause, is finding Out. The Dao monk rations out the practical appeal toward Effortlessness. When it occurred to me that I find myself sitting, asana unpuzzled legs indian style, memorialized space is glossy unscattered, inviting me to run into it. Fluidity--thus, repentant--and no frontiers for knowledge, temporate non-self in momentum of torpor-esque persona hushing floutist nuances is the only thing held in the mirror.
**Idols are silent, but the gods are noisy***
This babel falling with it's gravity pulling us with it's reins is more like a voidant possibility. Drawing us into distances strewn with lousy promises, like food as "resolved" sustenance--Babel as what's been deficated, yet nothing in evidence that gives life strong sensory data. Bowels empty, and these lives in transformation yet out of our control--this very message from Without, fortifies nothing. Stillness achieved is just the fable of man's mind that silence is by measure & force his due. It is all so obvious to me that some little limb--divined mind shore--the silence, is in fact tacit and not auditory or sound-appreciating the hue and lack therein, because I looked at it. It is the tethered fealty to propriety of release--in our heads, yet we are indeed a collective unto experience until thru observation the fray is the won-overed motive that delivers the Commiserate to the truth that NOTHING IS IN FACT happening. Not silence, not sound in its fluid appeal to corporeal auditive phonic furniture.
***I was looking for something to do, so I came over to your house. I think then over in the vicinity where the WT Young library was put up. I know Kakie was over that way too, but you too somewhere living with Leslie, and only Leslie was at home where I ended up in that dusk of consistantly symbolic night in Lexington: one could be certain of the escape of time's efforts--the season brought me into the terminus of Autumnal tumult, while my studies in a fluid draft (like a draft horse) anchored me to music's release with the certainty that anything could be as true. You'd gone to a gig, and I see your hat on your bed's backboard. Leslie is sitting on the bed, but I'm reticent to sit around and bullshit with her, like I am invited to something beyond the given rappore. It's winter and at any rate I sit on a cold stoop at the entrance to the bedroom, wanting to light a cig. In the tale of conscious crowd in my mind I had it that folks were on healthy awareness experiments, I assumed ya'll's reserve for that then--but I had no way to verify. I consider the apposite of an event of convalescence, eating right, to have the expectation of drugged conduct beckoned, but when I'm patiently trialing consciousness--so reading awhile, taking in music otherly, whatever it may be--it's through smoking in convened moments that has a day spirited in giant leaps--so to the victory of physical liberation, a volley of power over time's reins!!
**Attention appreciating, unthwarted, wanting Dostoevskii's K bro to entreat my need to Turn-Around!!!
I'm not subdued by the fact that many of my trials were deliberative. It may mean everything is self-duty with the key to self available in loss of motive in as much as one might have been certain. Again, when the course of my life seems liminal, then at least orienting myself toward the ineffable is evidence of probabilities endless indicated right out of our reach. I know mostly *what-is* is out of my control--even the decisor mental event. But what stands out is the distance between my convulsed self and the semblance - the idea - the motive NOT to act. Things are; I'm becoming; G^d is complex, intricate, so my sense is not to justify acting in IT's behalf, but to be the convergence of time place & community. That way the narrative that says I've alone manufactured the dialect with What-Is (Immense) is not so dear that I would be damned for capturing Otherness--w/the intent to deny it's responsibility upon me adjured. Solemnity expected in my mind, not authorially placating my ignorance.
**That there would be a statute that suggests a culture can't advance because it is a vehicle for a mission, has little to do with an acolyte toward his her appreciation of what resourcefulness they have been reduced down to consider. A worthy World View, propitious self-knowledge, is not one that elaborates one's conflict w/an ambiguous claimant's surmise. No prophets typically avail an adherent were they'd most likely have had their most sober efforts staged for a fractal event. Theoria is finding In ('side the fluid thoughtlessness), the liberation of ourselves in this temporal actionable cause, is finding Out. Love Kerouac's use of The Great Awakening to the Dream of Existence--his letter, to my Mutazila's faylasuf *philosophy*: To dream thereby we exist, to deign meaning for the dream's observer is gaining access to his her teacher. The Teacher or Prophet's lives are chimera activities...
^^Theoria is finding In ('side the fluid thoughtlessness), & the liberation of ourselves in this temporal actionable cause, is finding Out. The Dao monk rations out the practical appeal toward Effortlessness. When it occurred to me that I find myself sitting, asana unpuzzled legs indian style, memorialized space is glossy unscattered, inviting me to run into it. Fluidity--thus, repentant--and no frontiers for knowledge, temporate non-self in momentum of torpor-esque persona hushing floutist nuances is the only thing held in the mirror.
**Idols are silent, but the gods are noisy***
This babel falling with it's gravity pulling us with it's reins is more like a voidant possibility. Drawing us into distances strewn with lousy promises, like food as "resolved" sustenance--Babel as what's been deficated, yet nothing in evidence that gives life strong sensory data. Bowels empty, and these lives in transformation yet out of our control--this very message from Without, fortifies nothing. Stillness achieved is just the fable of man's mind that silence is by measure & force his due. It is all so obvious to me that some little limb--divined mind shore--the silence, is in fact tacit and not auditory or sound-appreciating the hue and lack therein, because I looked at it. It is the tethered fealty to propriety of release--in our heads, yet we are indeed a collective unto experience until thru observation the fray is the won-overed motive that delivers the Commiserate to the truth that NOTHING IS IN FACT happening. Not silence, not sound in its fluid appeal to corporeal auditive phonic furniture.
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