Telling on the daemon to Mom & Zadie

I, the reader, want to notice "outward fact" slipped in here at the beginning of the following. It's crucial to imagine being committed to the climate of the power, weird power, totally, of the exile messianism contrives to resolve. So, talking about it serves to illustrate just that and nothing dialled up spiritually like a saint that would cover my back. (so as to personify) :: I'm starting to h ave a messianic sight (like Dharma orienting the way toward Brahma who manifests what-is, & Nothing outside the known) into outward fact in simple levering inversion, at once before me (scale tipping inevitably), and then gratuity of self (now terminal & efficient) standing, peaking, yawning every bit with all distances railling relationship in the guise of my intentions. **To think, endorse the sense that sighs, glances, and whispers start as woven garments, kaleidoscopic as finding seat of awareness, raised perspective, as under a cold lamp, maybe a deflated winter's sun, with antiquated reasons to revel in obuscated shadows under summer's bright pleroma eye.********************* The night stabbed a somewhat draining dispensation--but it is never as bad as it seems. Still, I felt this way. Painted my thoughts into the moon spiritually true... I write an ode to you, one word, "Sad." I'm thinking and imagining your philosophy works. Just very sad today--emptied. Wanted to try but my mind wouldn't forfeit a reason my spirit would believe. I don't know why I'm here. Odd and un ambitious objective reality, life slipping into nowhere I want to be. I don't want to look at people--nobody seeems knowable. My conscious map is dangerous--my sarcasm meets nothing liminal--I can't incite progress as I understand it. Nothing sets me apart from what I'd espouse. At the moment I go under somehow I'm washed ashore, stillness, solitarian, unworthy. An angel calls it finality vision. At the moment a plane flies overhead and the words, "steady as she goes" lodges in my head.************ *** One endures meditation, because there is never a time not right for prayer. Insight for candor that one would propound a preachment merely from the grandeur of the sage or the "absolute" quality painting a said doctrine unchallenged, is in the deficit of the illusory.************* **********Funny how this man's weapon (news article) rivals everything else toward his lost cause harnessing instincts, mounting the world with displayal primate ornaments of victim & victory. You'd think the arising possibilities would have intellection revered by more usually finding justice without merely the corrall of the agreeable, opting instead to cultivate becoming more prone, humbly available. A spectacle of self hanging off of body, industry self, "don't make me!" bullshit.************* *************Budget your theoria. Mental economy has all the graft of moving around leaden thought, savoring irrational sentient greed--getting it and putting it in you. Yet, the uncarved block is only paid off by nature. The most refined measure of nature is consciousness. Econonmize your philosophy by shortening the complexity of the worth THat you must know. No one is denying the intensity and sacrifice toward self-actualization, duty, self-awareness, but as Gandhi had said in his Experiments in Truth, the ascendant shouldn't keep a snake in one basket. Propitiation is giving away nothing so dear as clarion dispatchment of identities from empty boughs, empty boughs having reared season's personae unperturbed.*********** ***********Imagine my thread-voice like the wonky voice of Charlie Brown's teacher. That is the totallity of what this all could mean. A colliding morass of proverbial claims of a day's vain expression. ************* ************It occurs to me drawing meritable travel's memory while I sat in a village/town called Luxor, in Egypt, drinking black tea/chai, that a kind of distance strung of social conventions, fits a narrative over our being the first out the door in anything that one would experience. A cup of water scattered outside upon the dust of your threshold, is a threshold spilled out to a more receptive passer-by, if he or she would jump from parched dalliance to cross water.********* ************Seriously, imagine, if we could, any other species having the conversation of an understanding of their demise. In safe corralls of ideology & monies, we are still positting social even cosmic telos of extinction. We examine it palpably--biblically, ecologically, institutionally, & in violent revolutions. And that animal, whose intentions are obvious here, sight this feeling in your mind again of just such a tremor of impermanence: of course the lame dog, wasted kitty, scavenging polar bears if you've tuned into documentaries of the circumstance, this increasingly hotter planet... Do you think these creatures need to consort with authors of self-realization, a book, your G*d, anything other than a dramatic sunrise, to award or deny their spirit? Look at what we have in common--we are in the throes of the same intuition.********* ***********Remember these words, I tell myself in the fascinans of unfurling path into a valley with the solace of solitarian shadow, "I'm frail but stoic--concerned about life." Reason & beauty are always going rival misapprehensive mind, derision of acquisitive behavior. The purples and opaque pith of mind only remark on transparent coves s addling the outward fact with thoughts an entertaining mind expects to embrace alighting to what is just beyond. If thought traduced a gemini dream, the anthropos archetypes of self-reference, ranks theoria "epicurean" (secular), as opposed to implicit tethers strangling the skillful attention on "musterion narratives" to support reflexive tendencies in its least expression--finding oneself in relationship without.******* ******** In the school of life, the student is locked up in associations of egalitarian media; the guru moulders ineffectively as one's dull concern a thought subject is elusive - the lullaby of a graduate's concern ! It makes sense if I want it to imagine. A dialect defined by ad absurdum teacherly, academician stern-talk, making little appreciation beyond chil'run in a bubble of human breath mantram meaning "made-up" words! - primate endeavors over word-permutations, making content "pigeon" (liguistically) at best, bird-song at best too, like the untranslatable Brahmin liturgy in the Vedas. Expression is untrialled (we don't get to know content & authentic motive), relevant as what goes along with Expression: Spirit, Mind, & Body--but language wafts spry & in flux with soul dynamo, a triune of capsulate witnesses, victims, & unlikely victors. I'm starting to have a messianic sight into outward fact in simple levering inversion, at once before me (scale tipping inevitably), and then gratuity of self (now terminal & efficient) standing, peaking, yawning every bit with all distances railling relationship in the guise of my intentions. Complex machinery in identity, instrument in my physical success is toward prising a piece of loamy surroundings--making it me. I expect a gift to contribute to this certain malaise. Language can't compete with my intentions.********** *********JUST do it right, confidence comes later, or not at all. My view is, when inspired, suspire. When intensity leads to a threshold of promise, make certain the token key is understood that intuited passage meant gradients alighted as the usual, is because the usual is actually excelsior & irresistable. And still life has been a mapped or alliterative accord laterally, like reflections in a golden-eye.************ ***********Watery maternal eternality - to dust unto dusk, every life lent to the night, sorry star tincture souls. But physical sensitivities are the decisor to eudaemonia: loving-kindness & balance. No smuggling away notions of superable identities in brain anomalous conceit of these ultimately pedestrian strides into the lap of Creator unfortunately with regimens of receding goals: this can't be done. Why goals of once Bronze age social hellion reach without a concept of our word technology but by luck?************** ************As if I still lived at the Russian House, aloft and calling down from the porch roof which my front bedroom was borne onto, Zadie stood in the overgrown yard, in this dream, hand extended like giving away what nobody agrees is ours to give away anyway, life & redolent perception of it. I asked him to stay "right there" - this Zadie identity ronching in the conceit I would ever matriculate reality again with his stern grasp of my tarrying days. I only knew to develop concern that his slo-training watery personhood could ever feed me in mine--but it concretely wasn't enough to feel fathered & understood in these days no longer of his whiling bridge toward transcendent awareness, and alone in mine, incredulous nothing has changed. I sustained this sense of visitation like holding a theatre of diminutive chimera chromo values in a conscious pocket--my head, my only concern!--communicating to Grandfather I have the keys, & here "Keep your hand extended." The dream-catcher objector of these funerary thoughts redeemed, seems to nod affirmatively, while the turbillion of waking states was more likely his nod to the inevitable. I threw the keys to him, and like a gullet of some starved abyss and still enduring the shallow thought's tableau, they fell through his digital appeal offering or proffering into wet & tall black foresty foliage & grasses. Unreceived--I am--Zadie imparts my thorough-going possibilities, "Not yet," he says, and a kind of, "You'll see."************ ************Like a whine in a pattern of splaying row upon row of houses, I'm in wrought gait nothing in the world slowing for affect. A long-distance run of the mill life is beyond grasping its polluted relic of end-days--I'm trialled by a report of immediacy, 3 in the morning going up to Gardenside. A steady and painful ease stumbling into the self-knowledge everyone yields to dreams, while I'm in conscious? life, and thought I was dreaming too.******* ***********The dream left me to convey one mask. It was a warmed lost-in-domicile mask, but futile to characterize anything but dun corners, spider valleys, highwire fragments of sun in day's long-ending. The lure of translator faces restores even unremarkable introductions to my historical souled evidently slightly closer to her-life abiding self. To observe unassuming constants are also deliberately an adornment-free tho' reliable dream "coat," which is to say If-only I were some damned samyasin (ascetic) and clothes crawled on my body as needed... at any rate, the light alighting as garments ready to be shed, is prayed for - as potent as the need for some kind of hallelujah.*********** ***********The Golden Age: In my dream, the Hebrew I expected to be read & shared by the rabbi, turned out to be an Arabic recitation. Call & response seemed tentative just as my formative yrs' rabbi would have it, a nerve lit and a feeling radicalized of wizened scholars to drag the student into the white fire page, and poisoned in rich succor by the black fire ink. The younger language had preminence in Go itien's Geniza translations and Bernard Lewis' histories, what I had been reading, so not having to go around the corner to grasp certain prayer technology, left this dream, maybe two others, proximal in an intimate train of contemplation. In fortunate orientation, my interest in these studies, were tracked in convivencia to its authors of bellowing lives exchanging histories aloft and mercurial in the past, nigh and readied.********** **********Black tea: Chagal intones the Hasid in himself as a purveyor of felaheen, Arab farmer--as in Palestinian considerations, for me, and with the Arabia found elsewhere, and hopefully a nod to a variety of primacies, these lives of eastern Europe. His green agrarian lulls as wayfarer to the animal religion's love-damned glance. The shokhet (ritual slaughterer) in town--at his convenience, his kashrut (dietary laws) stress mercy, is enumerated in myth, because his blade is readied in theorias' reach of a gratuitous plan.********** **********Don't buy into the generation gap. The only self-profession is the very old in their imminent liberation, and when speaking of physical success. And in a vacuum they live outside machinery and devisement of transitive life, as examples toward impatience with deft withdrawal from the impermanent record.******** *******Anything that provides an excuse for aggression, people just lap it up. That one has the certain cloud hook, those who would imagine just once they had run for the whip--and not the whip to flagelate anybody but themselves to revere power, someones over you. Thinking about what it feeels like to route thought even at the expense of convenience.*********** ************Seriously, imagine, if we could, any other species having the conversation of an understanding of their demise. In safe corralls of ideology & monies, we are still positting social even cosmic telos of extinction. We examine it palpably--biblically, ecologically, institutionally, & in violent revolutions. And that animal, whose intentions are obvious here, sight this feeling in your mind again of just such a tremor of impermanence: of course the lame dog, wasted kitty, scavenging polar bears if you've tuned into documentaries of the circumstance, this increasingly hotter planet... Do you think these creatures need to consort with authors of self-realization, a book, your G*d, anything other than a dramatic sunrise, to award or deny their spirit? Look at what we have in common--we are in the throes of the same intuition*********** **********It occurs to me drawing meritable travel's memory while I sat in a village/town called Luxor, in Egypt, drinking black tea/chai, that a kind of distance strung of social conventions, fits a narrative over our being the first out the door in anything that one would experience. A cup of water scattered outside upon the dust of your threshold, is a threshold spilled out to a more receptive passer-by, if he or she would jump from parched dalliance to cross water.********* **********

Where is the insincere literalist? The Observer of linguistic thought

Having lived too damning of long-lived joy, just makes leaping into its sure grasp more immediate. And wisdom is witnessed unquestioned because it's ambient chariot had a sure concourse of reducing this wisdom, radical integrity alighting the other... to plain clarity, a thing just so. Tea clouded skies, colours twist in mercurial shadows, but I see joy in them - rife with identities one's mission it was to claim the nigh mother or the mother night, or reckoned saint covering my incumbent back of earth obfuscator of aeries shelter. ************** ***********I wonder if anyone else has ever been afraid to look at an image in their mind of just what is before them? So, not so much as a theophanic mantra inspiring roseate colors acclaimed behind the observer's eyes--nor as in a yantric object, tho' it could be and not of meditation in mandala emblems or gold cross upon a purple background... A pair of robins are my example at the moment, or the cigarette ashes spanning a coffee table, languidly observed, while regularly persistent artifacts are opposed by one's moderate appeal to the places of mean stimulation. Light arcing through a room in peaks from sufficiently obfuscated windows have the very voidant light tendrils, filtering ungathered at once, then for a willing acolyte, what is illuminated has the light shed as upon awareness--its irregular monadic fate.****** *********If you see creation fraught & sorrowful, not only is it ulitmately understood by traditions East, but Christians railled into (destructive European) oblivion were thinking as much (the Cathars). If choosing eudaemonia, a kind of harmony, is not at the expense of the half of you unrecognizably deferred from what-is-thought a salient given, then when can the ascendant find meditation relenting to sentient greed? Things like a desire & ignorance as if to sort out you have a Right in the goal of self-actualization--who particularly has handed that over? Myth is only good enough if truth makes no intentions on empirical currents rushing to your aid in your prone state upon its banks. One throws oneself there if discontent over water elementally verified, is mystifying the mercy ancients bear from this world's sky fountain. Reason can't hurt if your god hasn't been discreditted in the realm of our schools of life, astutely and from the constants of core cultures, has G*d of humilty recognized and not the god of the gaps.******** *********ok so this is what i do - i like a persistent image, a sky-criming moon, nothing to speak of in terms of pleroma (meaning): no blanket having mouthfuls of fires are committed to its belch into our sight or it lairs aromatic emulsed in the blue dome covers, endorsed by encounters more subtle... Nothing, I'm lying on a garage floor, burning cigs off of the electric heater, this night sky framed out of the backdoor, but only moon like one eye gathering its expositor in blind will. I'm fearing dumb deigned I'm as blind and Isaac Babel's reference to old ways old man getting revolutionized but good yet undeserved, the image is revived of eyes cut open. Discursively wept path of the human pack will inevitably exact sight.******** ******Amadeus is Latin for "the Love of G*d." Theophilus is the Greek. I've seen Theophile J. Meek, a scholar of note? who translated pseudepigraphia for instance. (clearly a pen name) Slavic is Bogomil. Looks right to me Hovel might be the Hebrew/Yiddish. "Ahavah" is Hebrew for love; "-el" is G*d. My Hebrew name is from the Aramaic into a Yiddish version, from Shraga (Aramaic) to what the rabbi calls me at my bris (circumcision) Shreg'ai, which has the denoted G*d in it too. The recommended unpronounced term for Creator rerouted to a maleable version--the "ai" for the tetragrammaton. My name means east. Whereas G*d may mean thatwhich occupies the indiscriminate thanks of the unknown while manifesting only the known. If only.******* *********As the ceiling fan whirled upstairs from me, at the nerve cntr kitchen, it painted all of my thought coves with one static rotation. Part of my journeling efforts then were mostly glyphs and memory 'flect images, so compartmentalizing glossy lumbering, assumed lighted, sensory threshold, happens to be the smooth flow of the fan. There is nothing like repair upon my ancient tiled floor to listen at music ending and book burning--this world is to be an academician sponser redound in my hopes it was definitively committed to me. If sounds-arriving, the tarry of breezes, are as good as finding a key lost in dross alleys, but found out under the street light, then senses appurtenance are derived in a mega-transect of patience and pitch numina.******** ********My cat just confided in me something very interesting. He said, Yes I killed the mouse--and it Was for G*d. If that seems from left field, I'm plying what an Imam in Aryan aspirations says over the US having gone to Iraq inevitably to exact instability. The Imam calls it his advantage. And yet as he tells it, the cat isn't a devotee while still rallying the defeat of an enemy. So here's a case of Literalist's equivocating, in fact. It not so fantastic that he well feeels he dispatched his prey for some special Higher Ground, rather, I know I haven't the ability to tell him what assignations of Higher Ground I would ever flout.******* ******If from sophism I complete an argument that a chair is in fact a chair, then my 1000 deaths upon it in its use of interment makes no definition of this place of repose other than the experience of a due awakening. ********* *********At what margin of where I usually drive, the quarrel with blanched roads still sympathetic, I peak as in an appointment kept - alighted tonite I sent my regards. In spaces that not even a verifiable query blaming mind in striven ellipses --I want to sort out just who is behind the next sabbath of this rarified day's season--and tho' I assume curiosity & enumeration, one can also see its other persona evoked--likely me inviting me, a me I could easily dispatch, toppling the intimacy. Like you, why care, or why the weariness damned determined as if to warrant me oblivious? In terms of unconscious impulses certain chimera is neo-scaffolding, at least had me believing, black balloons with scratched script of white fire, words of dread--and they do mean dread times: my evidence I would ever Evolve, maybe. They were extent in dreamscape of derivative sky-born animae giving colored content to timely event, a mystical land appreciated in a conscious map--me there on the road, at that decisor light, under that sun & this star. Streets fractalized like two dimensional forests, I feel inspired tho' in moments tonite--tethering bouyancy like limbs bough-ering, never to immolate because I'm pained, enduring trees getting lush emptiness done--doing "nothing" sometimes I feel if only for me justly in a glazy eye.************* **********Bubble bouncing ryddim cuss of thought, when I woke up, I thought I took habituation in your dream. In my dun colored tableau actionable in dreigh blue ceilings and walls, the morning looks training-in of live long night blanket of black solace, and sparks of day's introduction weren't arriving. Dreams are not my own authorship, and emotively still more intimate, so the nights belong to you, I think--and now the conscious allure, sun arisen, is a calvacade of comely unknown restoration. Inward landscapes bridge then populate a new sstate of attention, I'm appreciating it outwardly--I'm manacaled only to those chimera lens. The triune liminal human perspective has foundations like Gabriel of skybound strength, a ceiling with cloud hooks necessarily conscious-props having the perfect contagion to strap the perceiver.********* **********A large bee stung me when I pinched a foxglove flower cup last summer and I like the idea the lesson I & Nature imparts--my instincts, awareness and its credulity. Not just superficial, this season's herald, a bee making his rounds under notice of the climate of the greater will, seems to prescribe a right I would have of similar consternation to doubt all comers. The exacting hallowed searing thought verbage I yiped had me enduring a bell peal, like the sting was a quick and vapid argument. There's a wisdom accounting and a question in my nerve lit--mind rallying almost revenge except the sense the little bastard would have anything to say I'm otherwise translating into a his stranger idiom. But no action taken, tho' the lightning bolt & strickened adrenaline rush ambushed me--it made me laugh: I met the bee in heated conditions of forced thought scenario. The thought was, "Don't act." I did it on purpose.********* *********At what margin of where I usually drive, the quarrel with blanched roads still sympathetic, I peak as in an appointment kept - alighted tonite I sent my regards. In spaces that not even a verifiable query blaming mind in striven ellipses --I want to sort out just who is behind the next sabbath of this rarified day's season--and tho' I assume curiosity & enumeration, one can also see its other persona evoked--likely me inviting me, a me I could easily dispatch, toppling the intimacy. Like you, why care, or why the weariness damned determined as if to warrant me oblivious? In terms of unconscious impulses certain chimera is neo-scaffolding, at least had me believing, black balloons with scratched script of white fire, words of dread--and they do mean dread times: my evidence I would ever Evolve, maybe. They were extent in dreamscape of derivative sky-born animae giving colored content to timely event, a mystical land appreciated in a conscious map--me there on the road, at that decisor light, under that sun & this star. Streets fractalized like two dimensional forests, I feel inspired tho' in moments tonite--tethering bouyancy like limbs bough-ering, never to immolate because I'm pained, enduring trees getting lush emptiness done--doing "nothing" sometimes I feel if only for me justly in a glazy eye.******** ***********If the eye of the mind was now corrollary to the world-to-come later, a high, pleroma alighted greatest denominator to think one received what may be an unsorted heaven, for these purposes could be recommended as before the shrouded traveler. If. If eyes spoke, and verbatim toward a conscious life, they would merely say "soft machine" drawling belief in an intelligible universe. The Objective Reality. Sorry to feed you this but the idea enjoins clarity and sundering it descriptors of (life vessel) compassionate void, for instance, subtle places of theoria. Incredible perhaps as cosmic things nigh like a Creator, a seat of Compassion, even emptiness, within the envisioning sense organs, but placed with acuity Without. And why not just meditation on sighs glances and whispers, while surrender is its climate, "peace" comes to your lips.******* **********I couldn't really imagine feeding myself tonight--almost resigned to flight & not to eat, less prompting to field the day at all opportune, and an inevitable more concern that I'd faint. Calling my unconcern "choseisme" - alerted to a becoming (strange "thing"), but not positting it anymore than conjuring progress at its quick, I can't be frauded by the sense that it is lent me stunting rhetoric, unqualification, because had I real bread of discipline of course one should raft toward these sensitivities of privation less austere. And more humbly: real farm eggs, just picked jalepenos, & just picked hot banana peppers, in olive oil--and I ate it like dogfood...****** **************A memory: I'm indicating something on the fan light in the kitchen, Mom is cutting an onion for soup. "I'm looking for something spiritual," I say. She says, "the spiritual man is mad, my boy." Starved in restorative pleasing language awash, embarrassed to have continuity in the grammar of my concept, I plied wholeness in nothing much bound to reflect in likeness. I know, I can only offer my "confidence" in a sovereign. While flouting stylee & you'd have to know rasta themes; popular preachments, literally here, like one's style is too self-serving, thanks and praises over G*d & this Creator approached through absurdity, the madness is in any appeal, the driver behind spiritual nomenclature become logos then musterion again. Just so, it happens on this long-distance run, voluable times hand me the lit candle of pilgrimage when I've lain in the gradins pit, with only my daemon torn from the cauldron of self-scrutiny to say that there is anywhere to go.

My goal on Cloud 9: thwart the temporal reins!!

I'll have another, & hang from telephone wire's shadow cast, an avenue's plank toward confidence in my reductive dissonance. I wish creative exemplars, just in their reproach where I thought I got there before them - was me verifiably the social scientist I ought to be. But, all the while I thought my following into human perspective (an author, a wise grandparent...), me as a shapeless mass, made up for a lot of ground. Seeing the Exiled of mind appearance, close-up and intimated what ought to have been shuttering temple haunts, is what made up the travelstead exultant.****** ******* Leave this chapter out: If I've decided upon gathering the concept of my first siddur, then I have to imagine it has achieved a kind of recorded roseate past, its well-being, and convenience to throttle human history, human history where I'm damn freed to take morality into extirpation in inopportune moments, wanting words to taste sweet. Sauntering toward power-spots, space's assailant of the grip (mine to alight and grasp as a bookcase, therein such & such book...) that barely precipitates its marveling strength, this concept, ....I'm enduring the same trade peddling its breezy remonstration, but to restore what--and why imagine a book, any book nigh? I'm only present for a circumstance in approach toward my interest, not the appurtenance of an aweful approach--the modelling of self actually consumed by authorial self - one's affluence in attention, wakefulness: these reflections are tied to likeness, while nude image, raw soul or vain flesh, deny the reason to consider equality not a state of mind.******* *******1:21 am and a rolly to cow me in dreams asundering. nothing much intuition speaks for emotionally--no trials inside the gates of the forest, no trials at the foot of grandmother willow... I'm wondering at an evaporating corridor sense that I'd withdraw at all from the waiting, the revelry--its taunt and contagion--today not ok, but saccharine efficient--still a millionth day in million, pleroma extent... and then What! w/Valerie Abraham - the groovy muse, the rest of it? A threshold I'll cross whiling seeing a first step out the door, a singular embrace, and what-is to avail a splendid mystery.****** *******I wondered how to ask mOm about an insight, if I could tell her a time eclipsing visualization idea I felt I captured in dreamstate. The watery shapeless mass of self in dreamtime prompted me to redefine calendric shores, blighted by being left without the report of ocean totality, as in a desert. (oceans are compatible w/space, read void--interchangeable in semitic language) If vital, liberated & exiled from time, in the prodigy of self-poessession, I see a astrolabe but comely, unsymbolled and spinning, because it looked like the negative space just-as sky pleroma comes in clemency of night, and lighted days' ubiquity alternately orient the skies' observer to miasma of time rallied in emptiness. Not toward inducing stranded impulses surfacing in unknown futures forested in transcendence, while the individual wonders how to appropriate such & such new day--and her days waned.****** ******* *******Taking in a summery inclination, this star kept earth in sunny aerial filtering motes flew alighted while I restored my imagination. In the basement, incorporate stomach stretched, gravelly but appetite riddled navel of domicile tethers my mind all gem florid in some unhurried reflection: impossibly a silent din of the corner of the room gave-up its odd greed to look as squalid, as an odd allaying affect to jettison a sonar dialogue. I'd lay right down in my favorite place, smoking out breaths into the hearth--but in this favorite place was its assignation of more cultivated space - socializing in effect dreamt teachers, memorializing day's clemencies in & out of shallow walls *******bought a nehru political bio, smoke by turgenev, and the gandhis and nehrus by Tariq Ali w/Rushdie's intro, in Oxford In Oxford (Aug., 1987) at my youth hostel which remains closed during the assumed busy truck of the day, this afternoon, I sat outside, no reason to saunter into town. A tree growing like a huge water maple in the garden became a good perch to imagine a spot to absorb the Yiddish studies I was there in England to execute. After a few minutes reading and then burned by a shovelful of self-conscious...ness, it started to rain a bit, so I climbed (coffering healthy hesitant breaths as if to remain) the fire escape and slipped into my room anonymously. My reeling thought-disorder made things ironic, so humorous, and final if anything be granted from academician standards: so there was nothing but a box to check I was up to a good but useless task--achievement had a ridiculed charm. A couple of nights I'd sit in the woody halls to study (I was there exactly a month), but with an ideal self-reference, that I'm deposited into this time--freed up from a future of more excuses to care about the lens to see my way thru knowledge-succour per the sense that my peers were accomplished in just this. The Yiddish text, written by Dov Katz, a superb scholar--my professor, & gentle if effeminate man, laid open with my Yiddish dictionary, and all performed in my eyes like I belonged well mainly to me (and coarsely not it), but then toward another unresented convalescence which was an alliterative path stopping before an ocean wealthy in a cultivated project of self-worth. There was no suppressing or capsulating confusion if an advantage would appertain what looked like bluey glyphs of hebrew characters in my glazey eyes, to hold onto one word, allow the grammar of a concept alight memory mechanically...make thorough this culture with academic or historical sensitivities a content persuasion.******* *******Some bird flew across the immediate skyline & was a stark reminder of my sentience, consciousness bound by ignorance which slowly-terribly-intangibly I'd beck willingness to evolve from it. By evolve I mean make some final spire over a tree in tremendum personae, a mayhem tree, this bradford pear over at the university, pulsing with 100s of wrens like an irradiating nerve, dendrites rooted into a... morning sky. Bound to thoughts' continuity in aerial clemencies, birds are but once the song of the prodigy of self-profession, and then now in a calvacade of a lone but vehement piercing of a morning yawn. I thought the urea saturate gave airs in coves behind battled limbs, were places bearing weird sensitivities to inescapable array of thermal dew laden dawning breezes layering, layering. These animals leave no one wanting to share its seasonal prosecution of instincts in song and in woody resonance of dance, because its easy to see this represents terror from being mightily chased: they're chained to this tree, and the tree grows unannounced even to adjure its temporal presence . The morning silence only precipitates the riling creatures as ornaments--the certainty of space as an absolute value is its predeased night, tarrying if only into arising potency of sight.****** *******As just mentioned, sitting here threading constantly ego advancing some other yielding of rapport - Dostoievskian studious, my friend reaches across water, plashing impressions riling a sober box - spilling it out, makes me certain of something: He's saying, the crystaline affect of some appreciation say the subtle trialling of imagination music would have, and as if a portal offers now your-attenuating that artist or his/her improvement to frame the other, its progress has every bit the commitment, a constant now with it always into the field of possibilities.******* *******Wandering images on campus, upstairs, into hallways--transmogrifying into a squirrel--then defying physical categories and coming back, becoming the usual shapeless mass & a book-of-rules. I mean a coherence of a shapeless-mass, a body consciousness w/full "attention" say upon the elements of outward fact. This would be in opposition w/some fragment of self-image competing w/my better intentions. If I had not been a sh. mass, self-image would obviously have been frustrating/derivative, in the dream.... All too busy of a dream-scape was my presentiment of an interlocutor who hadn't the time to address me. I begin to fumble w/some writ, symbols on paper which avail my eyes only whence the eyes focus upon the opposite page. What I saw is only just committed to sounds-arriving - maybe to further the design, reifying something written in a dream by what drew me into more elements, chimera boundaries, is to move from wordy acquisitive ethos (a blindman's message in cleaving grip) to a pedestrian alliteration, "Forest of life underfoot" (Patti Smith) as I get to the perimeter of campus into My own. A Chinese man comes across the POT square w/the Red sun at his back. He's on his bike coming my direction, so I climb atop the (now gone) fountain, & take in distances academia has yet defined for me. The day is coldCool, steam coming from vents in places, but the bldgs are locked & rather it is the final day or days before the M.I. KING library would close for good (on the Univ of Ky's campus). Still the dream. Assuming some thoughtless Asana pose, my book called Pilgrims w/Dalai Lama's wordsAmongstimages-- tells of nirvana & refusing it to lasting resignation on earth--my telling of it: dream definitions. My sitting in this posture could be informed in the yogiclike practice of Abraham Abulafia--13th ce Seferad (Espana). My eyes' recused vision of ancient times always seeks Hebrew symbols, letters, especially as the lazy mind becomes delivered of the dearest cryptic scenario, where the heart lies. Nirvana may just be that chamberOFwisdom, the hekhalot of kabbalah, that presumes an advantage in intercession in the form of the community we identify w/most. OR that crowd we channel that may not be an organism of One-mind like gems refracting from the illumination of a flashlight, rather than the burnishing of the ultimate Solar-disc comely equally! Maybe I am you, he is she, and somehow someone is revealed as sun--as opposed to the zeitgeist of the media driven world. Read Iconoclast. Anywhere and there I find myself, a khalutzim, pioneer or pilgrim, on the way to the temporal kingdom. Only to find patterns of language, the way we constitute the onlyAttributes of G-d we may otherwise have no way of articulating. The Glory, as Gershom Sholem relates. When I was 6yrs old at the neighboring st. in Laurel Grove Austin, Texas--I sought to be conveyed in a few moments the thoughts that constituted what was to me My lifetime. So to be articulated into something not so easily defined, I thought I should start At-the-End of the path/those thoughts/that day/This life. My question is this: we tend to sort out the last 5mins in any kind of constancy, our life's totality i.e. generalities supposing some inertia that there is some Grand design to our efforts...usually means something epiphenomenal like the image of the rabbi, in my mind, that has the dust of archetypes upon it. Life's exquisite dust, assumed in the tea-maker's posture--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. ******************************​********************** I said to HannaH, my 19yr old niece: On good advice from rockdom, our hearts are stolen gems--illuminate your seat of joy with austere discernment. Rapt acquisition of the right amount of light, the sun's as opposed to neon's last gasp of human element gratifying like an unneeded salve - everybody's gotta live a life under the sun. Be happy. Be a slave to yourself with skillful effort. 3/4 of all that appears is adjured & buried like dross essense divulged in what is left to sight like hot icebergs. ***************************************************** The most cryptic of mind shore is past languish into the counsel of lazy mind: mind of this soft machine, "slouching toward nirvana," to quote Bukowskii. But unfurled (prone mind) is only to trial the heart at its turn to discover something terminal in the nature of the living osmoses from ocean salient life and its bitter elements just as in blood, and reflection in the still waters, dreams enduring, lose nothing - if the dreamer be consumed - from expectant emotion to appetite riddled passion. They're filled & replenished from what falls off my pale cheek, a callow tear. ****************************************************** A heart cleaned in snow--discussed in certain islamic hagiography, makes aweful (full of awe!) the animicule denizens we are made up of Mostly, people are another plurality form of life than us. And what conjured diminutive sentient cause the causeless are, if our hero pulls his heart out of his chest, exposing inner-scrutiny like a language of yes, cryptic though and it follows everything cryptic is upon the pool of a retiring mind.

OF Late---Only the NigHt

My f#&ked up dream of Romney, here, I can almost interpret. Katie Couric long ago may construe a more wakened familial portents, once. Here's the same kind of thing, to answer why me if to contend with governance toppling a final sociation, that of a ghost town: the haunts of mind (dreamt or lived) and its furniture dispatched a...s resource, bettered by provenance has one read Ghosts need little... My brother went up to Vatican City, rounded its walls (all the way?), and said kinda, fuck you to the devil. He hushed exhorted, "Not this Jew, mutha fuckers!" But imagine older brother! and he reeeally gives a damn, really does, and says something One time in this last 46 yrs *my age, almost vile, but clear about man's misdeeds, "People die for that." The power brokers of fraught & silly media don't even hide their humanity from me if I can imagine all their thwart of I & Nature passporte is just regimened nature, still nature. I'm disgusted with the likes and ranks of Rommelney, and who I reckon an alternative is luck, and better - Obama gave Dylan among others the Presidential Metal for Freedom just now--said tasteful things about Dylan, in a comprehensive tone - but I just can't apprehend this dis-ease of spirit and wholeness. These clever absolutes sometimes with empty gradins but you to sit and observe --aren't clarion till one suffers. Just making the man another hopeful and usually unfulfilled incarnate--inhumanity born to human perspective (...these politicos, as if). The transparent thing, me born in imminent surprise, I only know spirit (humanity) and wholeness is the only roof--an insight over being tied to a future, needing a roof, one can't run. The future is tHE pathless expectation--No place to be--I'm an incumbent dreamer inverted in an accord with truth without intentions upon me to condole any entity - an unviable self included. How can "they" have what is sooo dear perchance & a reason for fealty, and watery redound in buffered security, that I am stained hidden? Marley says of course, having no friends in high places is well a family affair, maybe, courting getting over the "little trouble."****** *******Soliciting silence: toasting the rest of it: If there is a G*d, solitude is to the credit of the adjured absolute. ******* ******On this special chair, I mean chariot--as from a place of study from an objective repose as I can suppose, I reason yet another 1000 expirations, dreams suppurating, and an angel to ask for potency in its homeopathy to remedy the dream's irreality. Fill in the ditch of what each one means w/a dose of its turn in nudging me wakened toward an authentic goal. Matriculating ground zero is upon a media spiting every glance--nothing helpful to ornament feelings of the foundering world. Before ones eyes hit the frozen sea within, the ground is your best friend, then it's not, and then later again it is.******** *******Mrs Delph, she was Thai, my social studies teacher--at 10-11 yrs old, and Mrs Chin, my Chinese piano teacher were the only teachers of the East I had, and to be romanticized. It was the key that unlocked the lightning, hitting the limb that held me, emboughering me, now has delivered me to the forest floor. The East's rally in compassion, a romance of discipline to imaginations' mercurial engine... After a sense of explanate-beings, that of lightning/thunder cosmogony described in its Thai's tale, made everything written looming in the same dirge. Yet, in lament, when the world stammers to complete one in exemplar reflection--doing as "I" do, a mourner sometimes lies near many sources to still waters. And after milky rain, the grass yields to to no law, but to be under a footfall as ubiquitously as destiny expecting a path to avail. What floor of slumber entitlement, dream repose in causes from wiles of subconscious impulse, stammer to be declared? How late in the night could it have been before vision and revelry alights quietude? And composure in nights bluey blankets, as under a forceless current--ocean having expectorated an eternity gratified, even in day's surrogate breaths, philosophy makes the air lighted. If I had legs, I'd be on the ground. But some fugue in unknowable self, trialing ambulations past my mind has elastic temporal gratis, granting only this & no other reason to don wandering catharses. *******3:43 am (last night) and it may as well be 4:20, and just now, I added sentences, in what I wrote the night of a lynaghs rock show--Friday Only the night:: I evolved from requiring sleep to dream--needing to sleep, to a derivative feeling of wanting to turn away. This I know. Once dreamt, I hoped these subconscious thrums would be answerable to the frozen-sea within, now with a shunt to self & wizened anew inner-essense. Attention is high, while stimulation without alights to a wealth of intentions redounding without. I wonder if some indefinite chorus - the paltry content that could've been said compared to the luck any one in call & response will say in florescence - is actually what I'm reduced to (the indefinite chorus)? Like a strong banister pulling me up from looming temporal lair into domiciles centre of gravity, the kitchen, Dostoevskii's The Possessed, makes me a riven ambulate toward the compliment in yet more that I'd retain from these meditations when life's bucket a go a well to the inanimate dialect.******* ************Voice was needed, after a deluge whet my tongue with only a single stone to tarry. Losing language is the same as being divided over one's loss in condoling whither he'd say. I lost expression & its too dear to break its margin's consignment. Images to intuit are in the mean of what seems a world with intentions to resume while at the pace of Minervan hope, and Sisyphusian solutioned. ****Minerva ? I've only just been introduced to some poetry in passing. Just read a brief note, so had this poetry been her Etruscan persona, I may have it rt that she expects the mind to be fed rapt truth & nothing much of war--in a light-crowded world, a pitch spiritual bloom reconciles self-consciousness. ****LasT nite--thinking, texting at the show, music justly excelsior : to my buddy--"It's a fairly light cloud, I mean crowd. Conscious crowd chimera, maybe. Something always behind this day's crest revealed, back when. Attention abounds, life feeding it--Imma eat, and some vultures don't eat meat. Culture swoops down like a vulture.*********** ***********Mentioning bookish hypnoses makes nothing doctrinaire about the following--rather hopefully poetic. Read dream--Eat shit---a mantram eliciting cheap language or fossilized watery emotions imminent. ( The very water whose future is become unsated & inhumanely absorbed. ) If the trees were the people, i'd be fated the life of an acacia (a tree living extent in more varied environments than any other), but only as in its written life, a mythic unfurling in a book about a nihilist vs believer vs a dispensation of a wealth of answers (Turgenev's Father & Sons). A "still" life in fiction, captured like the anonymity of real trees. Tree-tops in a row of my dream pith all head-lain insight managed in dreamtime, alighted above the temporal architecture in dream flight, makes arborial aerobatics a fount to evoke the sky's evident philosophy the same trove its paper diminuation falling silently with no one to witness.******** *********To get beyond some tiled floor remonstrated meditations--my coarse trials--to live up to music, Dylan's "Visions of..." song w/salient flights to ponder who is with/amongst my minion of ghosted selves (toward ego dispatched), what was begun had been teacherly light-glyphed figures in some kind of proxy. A social tether of what-all Life-academician would have me resolve in an agonist feat. No not talking to myself--tho' my Zadie I heard say, Who else is there to talk to? But to take an allusory sign in the climate of greater will--all that speaks to an earthly cuss, wind if only in the mind like beckoning natural language--a breath, the tune of expression, passion's "mention" in the seat of contemplation, making me see, "there's nothing really to turn off."*********** *******R. Shelomo Almoli is revealed, delimited in his reach from 500 yrs back--introduced in Potok's book In the Beginning. Core-culture (Christian) in its belched-out history - imminent in a dynamic succour - may provide content to a Jewish youth's confession in heretical mysticism... Almoli's dream intepretation survey wil have enthroned success I could ever have confronted w/evading psyche and the heat in wanting its night-insight fulfillment. Birds in arcs away out from shadowy seignorial figure dweet in the prodigy of self-possession: the Night-watcher, guardian in my respite, leaves very little thoughts drift to frame this my-doppleganger opposite self--languid at my margins' bluff, unconcerned--with mine fueled by a thousand advocates of splendor almost unredeemed. Such dreams with consoling bird messengers alighted must be an eponymy for this shuttering, hopping then resigned, starling creature--its glorific (to coin a word) prone cosmic moment, when my damnable brother cut it precisely in two. I saw my hand at the bearing down midnightish careen of the machete, like it was meant to take the blow. I smelled my veins. The birds of heaven deliver meaning to chimeras, that one may intuit why certain colors, or weak chromos, or throaty needs almost tacit, a cloudy wake but with pathos in the small soul's liquid sky. Outside my window, but walled-in dismally, the sense that there is more love than my gainsay to my inattention, I'm rescued, I'm overstood.******** *********** The fucked up dream of Romney, I can almost interpret. Katie Couric long ago may construe a more wakened familial portents, once. Rob, here's the same kind of thing, to answer why me if to contend with governance toppling a final sociation, that of a ghost town: the haunts of mind (dreamt or lived) and its furniture dispatched as resource, bettered by provenance has one read Ghosts need little... My brother went up to Vatican City, rounded its walls (all the way?), and said kinda, fuck you to the devil. He hushed exhorted, "Not this Jew, mutha fuckers!" (imagine older brother and he really gives a damn, really does, and says something One time in this last 46 yrs *my age, almost vile, but clear about man's misdeeds, "People die for that.") The power brokers of fraught & silly media don't even hide their humanity from me if I can imagine all their thwart of I & Nature passporte is just regimened nature, still nature. I'm disgusted with the likes and ranks of Rommelney, and who I reckon an alternative is luck, and better (Obama gave Dylan among others the Presidential Award for Freedom today--said tasteful things about Dylan, in a comprehensive tone), but I just can't apprehend this dis-ease of spirit and wholeness, until I'm clear one suffers. Just making the man another hopeful and usually unfulfilled incarnate--inhumanity born to human perspective. The transparent thing, me born in imminent surprise, I only know spirit (humanity) and wholeness is the only roof--the clarion of being tied to a future, needing a roof, one can't run. The future is tHE pathless expectation--No place to be--I'm an incumbent dreamer inverted in an accord with truth without intentions upon me to condole any entity - an unviable self included. How can "they" have what is sooo dear perchance, and watery redound in buffered security, that I am stained hidden?

Shapeless mass, I am--and a book of desert self

The child in a superman suit looks destined as an ubermensch--I'm relating like the wall of social ethos in my youthful self-discovery--it's inadequate or I just need to kick rocks. And a shrouded traveller to be. Maybe a child of light, who hears all, defies youthful certainty or get lucky & will in steelly attention, but knows love with relentless creativity, seizing me namelessly, in my begin to begin. ********Let me clarify: not hating as an end, of course, is jettisoning desire (tanha) and ignorance (avidya)--yet, the thing we fear, we hate, then if we hate it, we will love it--then perhaps love would make a commitment to getting past the adversarial you, into the standard of mutual arising. I exhaled the white smoke without having already breathed in the black. The thing corrupt within me is now just accompaniment to that of any other conscious furniture. Mental nomenclature--the organs of comnsciousness working with one and against itself, as Neitzsche puts it. It may have imminent cause of somethings without, but now I imagine that fog at my peripheral leisure, the ethereal I love, having come from fear then hate, into an affirmation: "How could I run around making room for what I imagined in pretense as a place of emotional atrophy?" Negativity, thinking philosophically, deliberating on how I am to comport overstanding, comport in self-knowing, has no places in the extent of unknowing, so Negativity has no legs. ********I don't know why I do it. Happy on a lark, skylarking that this emptiness doesn't actually mean that I'd relent being seen. The seen & unseen: I'm the crystal palace, pained in will bent from form to transparency--anything would think a sun's reflecting pool is a place of the seen. And arms akimbo I'm iconoclast bombast, unseen because I'm shattered, like a mulch of plastique photos--I'm framed in windows of this trans mission of light, but thrown from mirror-hold, fast promised, homeward reception. My movement thru weeklike yrs yield less what apropos assignation making leaves of grass sway in liquidly extent waves, an unknower's "long-distance" runner improsario knowing the river of life in slow fidelity ventrally reductively not from a catapult of tarrying style lived moments. Tarrying is different than happening upon this river while otherwise tarmac spited us with pathlessness or consoled us with no places to go. I bow psychologically to gates in the forest. I & I of Eastern bhakti, that the creative seeks us to arduous-foundering on-&-on from an event of solicitous vision, peak resolve shoulders an infinite task of expression, vapors to vapors: we're etched into horizons met, but only eeked mouselike writ of coves alighted over dreigh glimpses into the proscription. ******** ********In the mts, upstate Ny, I took a hike into the woods and reclined next to a clear stream. Then rejecting nicotine succour to peal back the serenity in such a remote & lucid stream, I wondered about the emptiness and facile resolve to be stimulated. I saw the scale of alternations from emotional tolls or intellection of my mind swarthy from compelling chemical romance. Just in my mental speak, I wouldn't level the escape I'd apprehended to not smoke. I remember how glad I was to find myself there, for fuck sake, so glad, but only had my immediate family to resolve my lament on then, my solitarian trajectory. The woods were haunted, but the threat wasn't descriptive other than some banal yankee thug conspiracy I heard in whining, unspirited urban world participating in my collapse, waiting for me, yawning in the prone luck of vacation displacement--I was tottering with little to blame wherein the tie that binds ranks me in this contagion. A fallen well up past my wooded ambulate, by the Vistula bungalow colony (Polish, named from a river in Poland), making the roughly formerly habitations around it look peavish, even annoyed that I wanted to populate the rocky, summer-browned grassy space with my nature-incarnational concerns. I told Igor it looked like a nice place to bury a child such as himself--he seemed unintimated at my gest - it wasn't a very mollifying comment. Consequently I felt even more haunted and silly.********* ********Looked into Book 4--an excellent survey of meditation if you want visual recommendations on meditation. Crowley never disabused me of-notions of my finesse to find the torn empath weeping of mystical stain to rivel the tarrying floe thru life in rallying stream: his razorlike conjurations once cursed, but blessed twice me--if the footfall of his certain confidences imparted, were the catalyst to ...imagine on my own behalf. I felt the hot slavish lashes, but I caught the wafting ashes in their emblematic fall of the votive fire as upon the ground of ubiquity--reeling time wouldn't have its way lest I record the event in the last relicks of flames consummation. Crowley's illicit repute never could traduce the light and shadow play in my forlorn solicitude--still his lens rapt of danger had night deliberative and judgmental, and yet I parsed qualia from his memoir (til much later when I threw it away into the recycling in a fit of reconciliation of required reading, I'd say.)--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 would have fed into this staved or gunned responsibility. A gravid forest, life underfoot--to this I owe the skein averred upon my eyes just because Crowley seemed to punish forward embrace of lucky matriculations that some one word is this or that field of light, a place of my reception, and that the real relish in spiritual thought was in the beyond of light & promised-goals.******** *********In Lithuania, the last European country to take on X-tianity, Jews having been there since before the 900s when there was no X-tianity, made Vilna the Jerusalem of the East. Eishyshok's history, denied since the Holocaust along w/much of Eastern Europe, is the place proffering histories' following synthesis. Cool water served to heder yingls, biblacy students, symbolizes sweet mercurial response one would have toward this life of study, condusive to better scholarship. Star's fluid radiance, the sky in hungry apt mouthfuls of fire, the tree of life might reckon a fount to make philosophy aerobatic bound in sky birth.******** I'm less a tree fount to reach philosophy, studied from merciful water sweet aerobatics born out of temporal release, sky lauded, than the mirror mica under moss, pedestrian in self-reflection. Rimbaud heather-crowned, made taunting memory 'flect in locations arranged superable to threading path toward ocean crushing hush.************ *************** Now Then In the myths Carlos Castaneda alliterates with Don Juan, he has a culturally sanctioned effort to unpack weirdness in alchemical self-scrutiny. Brujos, dogs, lizards, people, and most importantly plants whose excelsior animation by imagining negative space, its very shadow, blanketing blanket that awaits in steady breaths in cupped hands cultivating & captivating space of vitality where the plant in corporeal naked valence nods at more essense within. And on a blanket, as if requisitioned out of an ornamented antiquity, nature shows up with a pipe to share, so brahmodya, which is a kind of thing Kerouac calls patimokkha, a "comprehensive discussion" memorializes space. Psychological states, statements of presense, existential burden in auspices like the availing animal musterion (sacrament) (our being its worthy project)--is a way to defy conventional initial criterion to gratify relationship by inspiring meaning... The book sat in my brother's bookcase, ready at 1rst glance to avail the Beats lying just beyond, a praxis in rational crowd, having taught one not good ways to think, because maybe mind content isn't easy for authorial nom de guerre, but to get out of the game of adjurational Belief, "magical thinking" as if I deserve a coralled sentient greed--there's a better footfall!! If the lil' smoke is suppose to bring you toward supreme identity iconoclasm, then the little personality authenticator, my boy Cornel, my cat, is suppose to make an organic crowd awareness, a similar investment to imagine busy & not so busy minds.********* ***********I don't want to showcase myself damned, despoiled from a battle between us--all of us, but you & I mostly--our beatings in a habitat for whoever we guessed and imagined gave over in papillae space, close to the skin, someOne You & I knew, to ledger them ever to speak in, say, my behalf--yours in your behalf. I thought you heard me mention Jazz like a thousand relics of many lived calendar unburdened tapestries. Maybe you didn't--which kills me almost in biblical consequence as much as it was stolen from me. I listened to Coltrane once, while my get, which is a divorce writ, as in the symbolic agate stone w/anti-magnetic properties, in Jewish Thought left me in self-hypnosis. Meaning the mind is at once on in relationship, and then at once off. I was alternately having day-drream voices dropping expressions of skin-toned auditive images, I'm hearing language spoken superable to horns communicating. I can only guess calling & responding what denotes answering to you, what you asked me in my sleep. To muster the eliciting of your victory girding my illusory, divining I was suppose to hear you--& only felt you. Any symbol held in mind has every predilection to swell and implode before it surfaces. But, I was confiding in you underneath, understanding, while you sway prone overstanding.********** ********** A RAINBOW TEACHES Me With it Of it:::::The last time I went out west, visiting my brother, a good example over how I am taught an austere or pragmatic interlocution way to stay oriented and poignant with others availed when we stopped at the Univ of Az, a forum going-on, questioning a student about getting some regional maps advice. New Try-n-Save poncho in hand, we head to the motel at the outskirts of town orienting us toward the black lava obsidian fields. My brother called my attention to the most sky-deft, heavily architected in thick blue-dome tapestry of a rainbow--both its feet clearly landing. A therapeutic event if I were to rear wooden-lungs rasply suspiring into sun-extremis day's color of pitch nite engagements--gagged by pure opaque sky ebullience--as to paint nite & day rounding the same insight!! The stunted approach meeting and having dialect with a foreign student, or say, any non-American, has resonance with a lapse of unique continuities making what is said reverently polite--a strange phenomenon to Unassume the modalities brandished like conscious props. Speaking for myself, in the intellectual confliction of what-all I would know--this composure of reassurance that assumed cultural hints are nigh, capsulated americana passporte functionaries: the sense that any stranger has to be approached as tentatively becomes my new guide.

feeling very indo-european of late

I've become suspicious of liberating thought. If I were a writer of lives--Thoth or Metatrone--but namely mine (...today I am a fountain pen, or char and tree resin slashing empty slate w/perturbulent thought alliteration), I'd be fixated on the illusory. Like spirituality in the aspirant's victories from getting out of the way of nature. Nature says change apprehended, doesn't appreciate in our consolation. I needed convincing in bluey reception from soft ska harmonies saying, Go on man, lay your head. But, that I might in pared moments rear myself to engage these arriving sound benefactors, my account was decidely thoughtlessness--I'm there enough perhaps to fixate on the illusory giving it order, eudomonia in hard light, or soft machine struck by its mean formless morass--if to heed a well-meant (sweet) verse: ecstaticism at the crest of the inadvocate willful. I'm trying to be subject of a perfect inward query, while this mind enumerates thousands of 1rst vigilant steps to tear fate from its shadow--in the gloss slumber, I'll have only a path and its birth somewhere outlier to find some reckoning, like knowing which snowflake apropos of a silent winter demurred in emptiness is the key to it all. One may not apprehend nature, but only reflect it: the absurd is in the feeling of resuming to hang the ornament of self, while taking "a hammer to the frozen sea within," as Kafka subscribed.
***Little ocean drops spurious in their shunt across the tiled floor, as I sat relieving myself in an out of the way hostel in Luxor, made health, perhaps high blood pressure problems, querulous in focus, though I imagined, it may not be some malady. Almost sure, the geometric patterns left this green prone floor in deference to my senses painting metabolic rhythms--I knew vision romanced imminent material ties in fissures placated by sense organs placing me, somehow, in a median range to its fraught temporal absurdity. The apparition looked exactly like a round amoebic cells, transparent, and inwardly apprehended. When the same phenomenon occurred to me in grade school, it was certain to me mind tableaux needed what I'd adduce in very little regimen from what was assumed by what all the vacuous Other would wonder about in a similar event waning or thwarted in these contemporary spaces.
*********
Halucination or visualization technique? Either way, this solitarian moment--verily of monastate loneliness, was academic--I was riddled with a need for synthesis and record of my heady travail--the psychic event availing circa '96.***The resulting poison headache I had, actually painless, but as concommitant to my entire gord being obliviated in far-flung phenomenon, was a visual ride sluiced with its images yet unatmospheric--nothing around me was as animated. If you could imagine say a dozen framed graying kaleidoscopic mental images in shuttering project thru my face out of my eyes, then as before me in imitation of some musselmanner prayers caught in his hands, the seriousness of the sieve mind alighting to a strange temporal path, this would be the effect. Like a nerve in the sense organ mind had stowed intensity w/o evidence to what stimulated it, say nothing as ardent as a human visage, or garbage truck rifling slumbering am. distances occurring in spaces thwarted from my attention's convene--nothing anthropomorphic necessarily would otherwise give candor to memory. My only thought as the rattle of over-wrought fading visuals seeking imminence having me stand at attention & prone, was how will I ever get back to what expense I had gone to, to have such corporeal "signs" (of eclipsing foci) evaporate in such an ignorant stammer. *****I read, "he touched the lock, it fell open." S. Bellow. I was over sunning myself at Common Grounds--I sat next to some young thing, and she says, Fine, ..I'm skyping tho'. A sense that she'll be talking, but "no worries" like Aussy big milk bone confidence, naturally curious and automatically suspicious, pretty and annoyed. So, I'm there during the 5:15 breeze, while she's talking to her beau all laid out 2 am somewhere extra-continental. For some reason at one point she turned the laptop prone toward me, and there he was, looking intensified prolly pissed since his girl is making decisions for him-- he's not thinking of the course of lovely self-deception that's behind it. Her gift -- I'd be all marduk to her tiamah, world cleaved and made. (Confessed, I'm not this riffed or marauding to imagine, really.) She gets up, gathers her stuff and walks to a bike. My bike, I told her: exactly as old, same weary, worn lettering on once flecky maroon, dark color I thought, on a Fuji Sagres--good bike. In a small throe of my nostalgia, she's over in front of me now and takes the chain off. I fancied one woman, all women, just her--me just there, that it felt apropos of her gesturing to my locked heart and in her ridiculous (Assyrian) Astarte beworshipped sweet steps (Greek Aphrodite, Jewish Asherah, Egyption Isis) I believed her sugary power, fantisized seance communique orienting Valerie to my attention. Something for her to see: these thoughts like her passion benefactress' traipsing sisters, to her crest, and then she heralds...my love. G-d is what we chase to the margins. An island of sentient greed is what we hold in commonalities with folks when it is an excelsior retail service to our sincerity that discipline mitigates that fount of self-reserve. As to say this self-consciousness ought to have gone and warned us the sea around island self is the pity of ignorance. Therefore a likely enigma to call haShem, the Name, the proselyte invokes. The Name, the name is out there, the place and space we discriminate with evermore refined unknowing. The shore of imagination's limit gets evermore burdened by contriving that those odds (in mysteries of irreality) make valid presumptions of Observable Reality - what is known within the terrestrial imminence - is only what all the tremendum & fascinans of abject ocean voids in what a starry-eyed hopeful imagine implicit from belief. (...so that the unascertained be possible.) A similar cause to the rest of us but without the designs on ego's remnants in its glowering remonstration of intellectual authenticity: the high --it really lasted, knowing what it looks like to enumber, and be weary or wizened from however we'd observe in our ronching patterns of ego-riddled behavior, the artifacts of self-scrutiny--its humble richness. In the context, this life of sorrow--the rapproach to materialism--Belief's Control, and pigeon-holed communities in the vehement digression from a more rational event - identity is a product feeding an intent to expedite. Imagine: WE get to "know" when we are "witnessing" of Him/an Absolute of prescribed saved-self centricism. And that is when folks die for wish fulfillment. They'll witness (martyr & observe) to the death, meaning barely tolerating other wisdom traditions, or jettisoning, maybe dispatching the non-believer, when his (life) feels less likely the candidate (to his world-view) to give away=you'd be the next best thing. ***To reconcile within a language embarrassment moment, conceptually as Elie Wiesel or Gandhi's example, in the way they rallied something adept more to be said after an ideal perspective unpacked, the imminent fact reformed, is a kind of language divulged in the silence. Among proverbial teachers, an experience so-revealed is already in my visage, the emotive veil. And in sodden queries, even this stifling convene of mythos in its making, one may step out of acquiry of self-reflection, into unknown sense of his own emotional authenticity, and let the seignorial benevolence while denied communion, show him in his esteem for possibilities of what is to be resumed. ***The resulting poison headache I had, actually painless, but all-in-all extreme in far-flung phenomenon, was a visual ride sluiced with its images yet unatmospheric, steelly or frozen--nothing around me was as animated. If you could imagine say a dozen framed graying kaleidoscopic mental images in shuttering project thru my face out of my eyes, then as before me in imitation of some musselmanner prayers caught in his hands, the seriousness of the sieve mind alighting to a strange step upon dusty, unquenched by padded sufferable me, path, this would be the effect. Like a nerve in the sense organ mind had stowed intensity w/o evidence to what stimulated it, say nothing as ardent as a human visage, or garbage truck rifling slumbering am. distances occurring in spaces thwarted from my attention's convene--nothing anthropomorphic (nor fractal monsters, because things in this vision barely sustained in echolalia) necessarily would otherwise give candor to memory. My only thought as the rattle of over-wrought fading visuals seeking imminence having me stand at attention & prone, was how will I ever get back to what expense I had gone to, to have such corporeal "signs" (of eclipsing foci) evaporate in such an ignorant stammer. *** If the heart comes before the head, what we ascertain about the foreign culture where it is on offer, is the point at which we project emotional authenticity. If passions are rapt in dreamscape thru the chimera myth by way of the dream's subject with his heart proffered, it is likely the same as our industrial age whose "train" in same symbolism, suggests a journey with ticket to ride. Had I another chance to dine-on in the case beef heart, there in Cairo, I will have consumed the all important sentients' ditch of blood, throwing myself 'pon the banks of its burning chest, to wrestle intellection into relationship just proximal of those whose diet consciousness convenes a feast of culture. The ululations of blood magic roils in the seat of vitality, strangely halal, fly-drowned, and blessed by a tamborine playing insane man, banging the instrument head-high, spittle guffawed--spirit dissoluted, but adamantly sedentary in his availing precincts around the butcher shop. **************At the demise of the subconscious, awareness reproves attention as the ornament of scaffolding immeasurables, readied for a transparent exile into what-is. Leaden consciousness, known better in lighted fields of possiblilities, is met and reduced to a world normally getting louder, brighter, sharper in its thwart of our sentient appetites. In my habituating & weathering a philosophical excuse for my social break from the Mindful--those astride shrouded travelers' paths, a nod toward an Eastern hagiography, images as descriptors, a standard toward what one might only want to apprehend in never proven cosmogony, came to me projected into a footfall beyond the likely visual field. She looked devi-like and had many arms, perhaps merely a Rorschach glyph of physical success over appropriated theoria on what or who it is that would have reconciled this solitarian flood of circumstance. My eyes, rather, allied its receiving precincts to salutary neglect. That visualization definitely populated what otherwise had cold-lamping voidant demands on me, only glimpses at seignorial self-esteeming days, had continuities at the beck of my florid belief idealization would meet personae. Loneliness can't have left me alone. **************************In Zadie's old room, where my days were spent in the beck of where perspective in social-scapes I'd rather think upon being received--Mark's mural on the wall, and my futon next to Aunt Ginny's desk of antiquey smells destined to retire the ghosts I would host & reflect on... These studious theorias let no breathy domicile collusion alone left in reservois of seasons' vessel. Tiles (brown and institutional) clinically placed just so, the basement floor smothering in window's guffaw-belched tinctures of sun cumulation, my meditations were economies in higher ground purchase from flapping feet, ambulations, a dance to music making certain the neighborhood baring witness to the florescence of sounds arriving - the highway behind the houses, and a yield of jazz, lyrickless, until I heard the musician's recording speak in his voice thru the instruments piano, sax, drums, bass. To sit in any one place was a consignment some such read, like Geniza documents--translations of things 100s to a thousand yrs back, a pivot, this resolve over celestially Ignorant or spectral pilgrimages, travels' travails, men of vox mundi, speaking of nature, I & Nature, this lauding time that makes escape for Intellection on mood, not the mood of rapt quickly spent, our energies just to be heard--one may not feel relented of being seen. So, this 6th book of a canon, as if otherwise w/5, to stunt how the acolyte excels at his usual feat to oft recommend anointed of spiritual skill, at best makes a bridge between one & his being the first out the door. Lonely in the next man's shoes. Huge sway that her love, goddess love doesn't mean for her to repeat my woe like it is merely playful--she may know she can't see through me anymore. And I'll tell her what was immanent, insightful elicitor of dream's newer frame, she's my diminuation--a missed detail in my coarse project & moon's author, the trickster reflection on all the 4 brothers of 4 directions, and more clever than the stakes raised at what she ever wanted that he'd deliver, restore, have him seek votive languidly burning fire in her.

Violet tea--spring belches the florid relief

Walked over at the hilly park in my old neighborhood yesterday. The grass will be cut there soon, but the plethora of violets have never been so checkered throughout amongst the dandelions. Chromo values with such a distinguished heightening of the loam really had a neat florescent expression. They looked of heaped splashes in their bluegrass palette, looked like Rolling Stone tongue, belched into... spring anthem. I may have to go and pick a kroger's bag of them to dry to have flower tea-- I suppose it'll be chamomile-like. I may ask my botany biologist degreed brother if there is anything special I might do for preparation, knowing it's Just to dry them. While he's well-versed by enduring a slowly revealed nature-self like wisdom tradition, adjudging the polis in its impulsive corralling of evermore specters--its dis-ease is no beck to rally. Today, apace with stumbly grass, city-scape colludes in my resolve to be still, unshadowed postulate heady-me in nature's breathy ayurveda persona--
***Stars blinked, my eyes slouch to perceived movement from its orb.
The watcher of humanity winked, sooo through with meager devotional tithes from mouldering aspirants, by way of His impenetrable creative dynamo.
No fountain where I'd drink, makes what thought thinks.
I want to know how to think: the content never the rt intentions adjured. The scaffolding mind glyphs - assailing space industry of my increase in relationship, this reserve of potency, torn from decidely inevidence sky of no fissure; spirit of the blue dome at a glance in phantasmal feast as corporeal as that sup, allows thoughtless sight of their visage...my security in release.
***The happy event as one swore upon the stranger: we're the stranger--we've lost it, regarded a reality shift the pivotal moment toward a glad self-profession--pragmatic deliverance, a ritual dance that all compaternity wanes in authorial shadows, apollonian splendor too, powering stupendously blanched dream sovereigns, and ever self-emptying wakeful days, vascular-reaching as leaves on lucid stream surface--palimpsest lives tarried underneath. The meritable traveller stepping out of the fog, not afraid of getting-away with an un-natural narrative making culture out of nature's dubious event--an accurate telling of the imagination's limit: in meditation I may-not even feel g*d. So the alternative however unsuccessful we fault supreme identity, what is this life become. The hush hush rush convening aum tic toc "service" oNe ahimsa-s his risible (bad) luck to pursue progress, the success of enthronement on the eve of Maslow's heirarchy apprehended without my shit-gimme eponymy.
***hanks jones==lazy afternoon *nice jazz tune...I mean yes, yassss
Faust is ronching on an interesting sovereign in the intro of Dostoevskii's book The Dispossessed--it's the center, but from without that makes this !rst word a place to begin:
Minerals, like an inhuman indefinite chorus, seems what even the humble aspirant as he loses heart, a raison d'etre--this objectivity over sounds-arrival becomes his last best chance to translate his empirical burden out of the stolid tower of Babel's reign. The knotted tongues - languid and retiring --meandering in valleys, thorough-going--but away, lost expression in vain volleys bank to bank in the stream of life. While I walk into a room, thinking "Room" - It avails. A word to gather or importune a reason for the angel to speak thru me as that space grafittis with meaning, now stuns my brain into wordlessness, no chance to mask it with the parade of expression... One word in my head sets the pace of on-lookers composed in mundane approval by my readied project of self-worth, would have, and yet the immanent is sobered by the lax attendance of logoi. Not to jettison the open-crowd=oNe wOrd with probity that can't conflated, my word, if mantram is the ward star's dusty beginnings--a stammer in the world's 1rst vows. The political nerve unlit--no fealty makes sense: the partisans gather with doctrinaire simulacrum. Angels frame vox-mundi, burning in mother's brother's eyes, but it's my reflection--and if Aharon speaks for Moshe, language is burnt my tongue yet without such a surrogate.
***I think I'm crying too much. The volley into touch-feeling only occurred to me after I got on this low dosage psychetropic, risperdol, now going on since '93. Four mgs/a day. I have no side effects of mania or sleeplessness, sexual inconvenience, weight-gain etc. Nerves, perhaps--actually I'm certain. Though I know it's also a weird compliment in taking people seriously. With regard to anything from the rabbit I hit the other night, remonstrated in a glance and swallow, but more poingantly, watching these ancestry articles/reports, Who Do You think You Are? And news war reportage/docs, one which I only have to thread its time and place, and a poor child is deprecated (deprecare Fr., to ward off by prayer) all over again..., my lament in paucity, but also championed--so uncorraborated, I'd fear someone telling me I'm vindicated in my release. Seeing now that yrs back the same voice that answers "What do you want to do?," now answers the inquisitor pain of lives fallen, by saying, "Go on, have this Release." And just these plastic media images draw me toward congruent refinement with spectors of lives in reflex thru my door, me into theirs. Yet, waking up in the morning, I am tearful off and on for a couple of hours--I'm certain she leaves me as the dream dispels, into a lighter day where we would meet.
***Well there u have it boys. Our Y chromosome is exactly the same as a rheses (sp?) monkey--meaning it hasn't changed in 28 million yrs. So, the LADIES at least can't deny our existence evolutionarily--try as they may to smother us with LOVE. But IS she evolving. She definitely got more junk in the trunk: you know the prime purveyor of subtle reason to imagine the authentic. Religion with a price or not, tradition et al, moon painted spiritually true--candles lit with meaning alighting responsible appetites. How lush! Physical liberation with cultural instincts, "take your shoes off, truth is a pathless land"---but the nomenclature within (her house), such sleep inclined to soft corners, settling antiquities wrestling pedagogy with surprise gift novel chiding wishful, magical thinking...grandmother couch to "slouch toward nirvana" (*Bukowskii) 10,000 tomes to address just there 'And big floats take notice' (*bastardizing a few words of Kerouac), but she says take it Outside--live prone to everything bright or chthonian.
***This may not come out in a crest of silencing askesis, but it's as I see this day perceptibly resuming... Anyway. You know how if you wash your hands, this primacy ablution? Nothing to derive and revere: it's mercy, but, for example, the deer drinks replenishing water!!--Why say he does it for just anyone? What if it is discernable the voyeur you've become to imagine just how one "knows" what he/she does: our hand's acuity? Why memory would get eager to discard grave continuity--suppose. One may start rapidly, get most prone part of hand due to its tasks of regimens, then from fingers to palm... Tho' a hand doesn't care--it is digital scrutiny over escape, rapt but w/the ends out from the tie that binds. I'm a limby tree of furtive reaches. Assignations of I and Nature--I can look up to wonder the aweful in these enumerable relationships, anything would bespeak the strong eliciting of what small wisdom the spirit thru aerobatic concourse, has physical apprehension my goal. To know water. From dust, the physical, to the unknowing world--the physical, from which sentience suspends me now--it dominates in ever more referendum of my change. The feeling that a cat thinks your toes--she'll make her retreats or entreat us herding us, her sustenance provider? I'm terminated by the suspense she can ever tell me, any animal tell me, what it's like --my symbol petraglyphing on its gentle slope inclined to my attention propositioning her subtle tabla rasa.
***
Devised a theory on bullshit last night--3 in the am. The discursive is explanate as rhetoric, as in the book "On Bullshit" would incite (which I only had seen over an interview). Lee Scratch Perry would shit in champaigne glasses and hide it from his harpe Swiss wife. Jews took to graphic lingual bombast as a last name to oblige tsarist census takers. (taking the name Shiest or Drek in some cases, etc.) There is nothing rhetorical in mind. BS is. Jeremiah was asked by G*d to eat excrement as a way to imbibe the sorrow and demise of his people.

Rimbaud says, I watch what I see. The Other, as musterion a cry for getting out of your own way, is all the spiritual content you'll need to know, 'giving away what was never needed in the end."--paraphrasing a friends language. The savings grace "pending" reality (Who's gonna receive me into what everlasting arms?), can't merely be a campaign of identity--the career of identities, always mitigated by change, would have one ask What is this Life Become? as opposed to Who am I? Reason is query, just as equality, in our becoming thru relationship redounding, is not a state of mind--but prone states of passion & unknowing...which is the Question (very subtley we wonder at what is apropos, as luck would have it Someone cares?) Not the mind in rhetoric mendacity--even torpor is captured as upon a wall's white-noise vibratory properties. In some One as an answer, all things are possible when you are really unable--in all beginnings, anything is possible, perhaps as from chthonian sensitivity--the dreigh or lush site of life's exquisite dust "like a forest of life underfoot" *P. Smith--depending on your taste for self-reflection.
***
Letter to Pops: The condoling theatre, a son at the middle of the gradins, dreams his kaddish becalled identity. Kaddish is likely the holiest prayer in Judaism. "My son is my kaddish" says a father imagining the well-being of his history, part of a history's lost pace his son intones, but serves to reconcile, saying that prayer. His willingness to also right that timeless jumping off point as before a shadowed door withwhich his awakening was to bridge. There are two possible energetic exilic doors of perception, repelling us to middling success--alighted when we see there is "nothing" to wait for. Certainly an attribute of root-race lines met of souls into fates, leaving a new fire to kindle inspite of blanched memory. The quality, say this opportune experience resolves, is a plethora of symbols of eternality--imagining maybe thru belief, and likely found in our senses evoking the authentic--One can only manifest what is and there is nothing ouitside the known. Nothing - there to be discriminated...! In contemplation, in peace, in thwarted souls.

Let's do what we've come to do...

***Thru a kind of corridor in feverish salience, I could see the sky above as a general visage, or anything--I'm thinking walls--but through my eyelids. (In monastasis life as I would accord, in the 90s) Like the impulse to look-on to something mattered little if eyes were closed or intending glances were to suppose the empirical lay-of-the-land. My eyes were hands grasping in blinding light, or pitch night--there's no ascertaining what was all so provocative that I might see. Thinking back, it may have been 'round the time I'd left off looking upon myself in mirrors. The anticipation of moods were strained into a hint I may have still-waters to envisage character--I saw myself running in dream-lauded discernment. The mirror redounding as clarified chromo values was like something lighted yawns in echolalia, as if I was a considerable force, but now assumed really close up and looking upon transperancy, a gloss caricature, ...and in that nothing "space" my face gathered in replete red mask, emotive but unknown in any situation but monadic intensity. The G-d's eye we would make of yarn and sticks in Sunday school, left bluey thrum, spiritual lapis, its first mystic chromo "inner-sensei." (I think that's a word?) Nothing-s from sky mind-clouds had the relicky bold-step out of a few thousand yr box of withering time a pilgrimage refuge--to get there apace in furtive whispers.
***Talked to this ole black man down at G-d's Pantry. He's 71, moving around well I speculated to 'em. He told me he was muslim--but had not heard the more uniform and indicated ascendant's term in the koranic typical mentioning of the "mumin." He did seriously have a scholarly countenance--dark man and has blue irises. I told him, toward his interest in Hebrew, that "Maimon"ides, that word for "believer" in there, is a Judeo-arabic bridge. He seemed to accord his identity just like Jimmy Cliff, original Peoples conduct, not leaving certain particulars denied. He said he was talking to a dude once he says looked High yellow, that I did, kinda like him. World-view capsulated in his momentary "mission." Reminds me of some my poeple's urge overkill to be a political-jew--it's an open door to ugly servile heralding of dry contempt in their definitions of what is profane: I'm saying, they can't compete with the social prerogative, and then retrieve the learning so curious in fealty one almost relishes. Meanwhile they are getting things out of the way, including contrarians, because its his imagined universality sustaining an awe, somehow remonstrating his solemn campaigned rt. as before me.
***Checking the box, foundering in the fray:
Time is freedom,
if you control it. It may be said, time Out of One's Control, so up to some Thing else, is actually a conscious pocket, out of constraints: Tho' aweful in one regard, mental economy, a discipline? definitions of capsulating senses?--this sense of our mythos as liminal, may just be an agreeable constraint...
Time is place--if memory is studied.
Pilgrimage is change, if the ekstasis
--a stepping-out, is ascertained in an expression of Thoughts, Feelings, & Actions. In gratuity to time, place, and community, the aspirant would at least know the case of Observable Release.
***‎1rst an apologist remark. I'm no yogin, not even close. What I field is what I sense from "thought disorder" its exigency from "heated conditions of forced thought scenarios." So to speak.
...within the agonist debate

***I decided my footfall on one pt. of concentration: Sanskrit for this ideal conduct is ekagrata-- a rather concise lingual antecedent. Getting everything out of the way, not necessarily roiling lighted things, economized imprecisely in mind, these don't always have to elaborate over what truth lies just beyond. I get no gratification, yet will, in seeing I committedly performed this mind economy: like weeping willow limbs I looked to graft skylines--they grope ill-tacitly, rapt in winnowed shafts. I worked my way toward this in solitude. Thoughts refused were leaden and the rt sense of muse trough--a kind of agonist debate in my mind made senses disciplined in rank aquiry--its usual complexion. What is the day rt now, what does it mean? Negative-lands of language elite, symbols enumerating a self less superable--thems that hear a plaintive cry succumbed. It's already happened they suppose--they've burned the mind media, so anything left to measure in weak hearts have their haunts for their appeal. It's therapeutic to imagine my spirit took the Shankarcharya turn at samsara (incarnational cycling)--and now I just have to regard memorialized space as none other than temporal; I had to come back to it, and pedagogical esteem of something greater than me is the wind winking, stirring thought, as I breech outside, withdrawn...
***Big country speaks to some ante-political, maybe social referendum, all-doors-open demos convention, where like Elijah a sup seat in thru any domicile threshold awaits me. I wanted to test this, but since I had no choice but to gain willing access from complete strangers, which I'll elaborate on, sorting out such a constant refrain, remains untested.
A ritzi friend of the family had some x-mas party and we - my immediate family & I - headed out to Lakeshore. I was certain I'd be misrepresented, folks imagining my contempt for something--faux elegance (authentically bad breath), to be certain, but I wasn't a-wondering them as my confessors, not as acid as my anxiety would make folks jump with weird joyous salves. A death knell of "We've all be waiting for you," makes me pained (now less so). I leave the party, in the snow--yes, perfect molded white/gray skies, the heaviest as perhaps dust can be imagined weighing down what we hear or see - the emerging glances of atman/brahman, cloistered smell-less neighborhoods... I get over to Chinoe shopping cntr, having advanced from out somewhere behind the synagogue and saunter into a video store. The burb where the party lofted in revelries, unreal concerns, unreal apathies, in my sidelong glance, held no image I could sustain in mind maps--I didn't know how to get back once in the neighborhood.
When I walked out of the formaldehyde strickening plastic store, glittery and w/ strangely unhappy people... I mean these films can be really very entertaining! I stepped into the cold night-coming-on, and like that penial band on an earthworm, I felt something schooched into one serene wine channeling energy a garment cinched up and cut from my heretofore clothed self, torn from my arm. Pain-fuckin'-fully. I headed back up the way, and as soon I got to a near street, I saw a stormdoor without the maindoor shut in behind. I walked up and called from their phone. I couldn't see their faces...
***A smokey flotsam apparition levels me in weird bloated skein probities' of an artist crossing over from the time of this mandala in-its-making, to me in the artists illustration of the event chiming like mind clouds. The candor I approach is only toward self-consciousness, I'm leaving a frail irony, wanting to bridge blanched truth 'pon a cornerstone of fate's phantasmal force once removed. The air, even in a consistant registering from an aerobic acuity in respiring expression--the blood mind body by calibrating a questionably filled willing well of vital proffer, looks like throned silence, and no commands would have a world subject in anything but a shapeless mass, as yet a book of rules wanting its definition in anthropos symbology.
***(someone reminds me) Patti Smith is excellent, say, not in the usual theatre. I saw her sounds-arrive under red ceiling-lamp (inheriting my bro's b. room), mosaic on my b.r. wall, coral hanging from my mirror, metal ocean sheen sura-shir-sutra reflecting sun-shams-star (-mogen)... evasive & aquatic as she tells it. Castenada telling me to lay rt down in my favorite place: grappling with the flavors around her Babylon definitions. I need to dig that again. Radio Ethiopia of Patti's gave me a good intention with what studies in Kabbalah wrought, as I was then just approaching that material. Shooting holes into like acquisitive media targets--this trunk and mind, its/kabbalah's names (of Creator, angels, prophets) - that hagiography provide - making all that crowd of my schoolmates names whose herald was to only make the Tathagata targets an unusual proof of the sorrow of not knowing purusha-peers-junzi, like I thought striven meditations could charaterize, and characterize an unshod visage, lame. One may get burnt in having names no longer apace with his studies. I saw how my brother met her, gravitated Marxist then, I was left guessing, Mark had Janecek's or Roland's what-was-it Riasonovskii's History book, helping me get things out of the way about dog eat earth eat dog, the endangered dharma dog maybe, I was looking East with whatever "easts" could get ciphered out of Judentum, this occidental convene of symbols to immure me into it.
****In Texas, I was taken aback as a 6yr old boy, that Mr. Hall lived in the neighborhood (by Quail Creek, in our Laurel Grove 'burb) whose life's pleasure was clock-maker. Then yrs into Ky living, I found prone moments to reconcile the fuss over my body & humours, innards yearning, organs of consciousness working with one & against itself, where a filmy exigency of this design of awareness, kept a black northerly night-sky in a so-to-speak 2 dimensional gloss interspace den... Me the receiving space, committed to the rails of the train's (self-industry? !) meritable function to contrive adventure with my ticket to ride--luftmensch of machine flight in subterranean time signature, I followed pedestrian posts along the transect. Ante-ing up a penny to lay on the tracks, thoughts as flat as a concourse of constant media in wrought flourishes, I'm teased that body consciousness is sanguine in leading me where the herd orients, this horizon, where oblique thresholds traduce my responsible one, would invent me anew.

I feel I know her more than campaigns of identity exposes in any one moment, which is the surface that calls for all my refrain.
***The goat in the machine: I may be creaturely just as the average goat, but I sleep like the extraordinary ones - doing it in odd intervals. The ones with the weird genetic disposition whose existential praxis is to expect their sleep-time to actually deny waking life, as opposed to choosing to...
Sleep comes tumbling, and the room in its assumption yields particulars subconsciousness only delivers in opaque facades, verily humming a light that ought to stain the mundane in tacit relief, but is rendered to a morning's voluble day readied.
***The garage adjoined to the house from a kitchen door, takes shade and recesses from an ascendant's sensual mutual arising--she waits in the nighted room. A dream has it I conjured my mother waiting there for me, yrs later when the garage became a pitch room star-shimmering upon floors that await an exquisite dust in veils of silence and murmurs, glances, whispers..., tho' I had certain flexibility to contend any and all mothers, leaves to consternation my cinnamon girl. The ego has lit chambers enjoining my willingness for passorte social isonomia. Space adjournes at the other side of wonton social doctrine. Dark just one step in, I'm prone, but this car-hold demonstrating a cush escalante' breathing blue of sky dome making its worthy distances musterion, climaxing unknowns, so bleak as to a closer untallied map--like space nigh is unreachable space dominating anything I'm likely to watch in seer's self getting beyond.

A wasp/hornet mud hole of home, looked like a distended innocence of a rolly poley, an inch long, gray domcile, mouldering or developing w/o our seeing -- it is inside what is inside bumping around thermal cells I'm imagine as space in 20-50 yard blobby incriments. I remember precisely talking to breath and air--well, let's always have cool breaths like this, I chant, ....next to my garage seemed finally a cool little persona was born rt outside of the house. I saw the event as possibly punishing me by losing its important imminent artifact in a pregnant memory. I was doing something with memory even then that defied certain simple agencies. Memory was heavy-lifting incarnationally--I took Texas environs seriously. I came back to the the rock protuberating wall off the rt of the house & became resigned to knock the nest off with Dad's hammer. Mom was taking a couple of us boys somewhere making feel I hadn't much time. When I hit it I leapt out of space, guessing and imploring my lil babylon head of creaturely existence, that it wasn't jettisoned...
***
Pain is a great thing to cast blame rt at the fire. The fire, if cordoned in a question lit has what is open to its invulnerable transcendent libel against cool blue earthly partitioned ready world, the very established place of considerable ease, actually as essense heralded. Star attribute intensities create mts, deny lands' langour if time is unusual mystic and self-aware. In the context of cauldron unproxied something is incumbent in the ascendent to elaborate on a mean world. Mts in blue slumbers are good to sense this evening's hiding denizens. Shadowy inky lines of tree limbs, make house facades coarse as tableaux for heady medias' violence in chided eyes, ironically resuming. Vision left unrestored in paces not meant to be captured but only by naturally affected emanating-days, sliding by with only the subterranean, unresolved hint of self.