Intrigued Fascinans & My Open Nerve

Mnemosyne ambitions were my earliest incitement unpacking cloudy language, feeling everything ignorantly & stupendously walking around our Austin neighborhood styling myself an ideas' key collector. Now I'd wonder over conscious props & models of contentment. Memories work with one and against reinventing one's vessel enlisting presence over bubbling, ululating inexact confidences, flowing ideas of eternity. But then I thought I was stained with material things so imminently that what I set down earlier things-of-second-nature are energies remarkable through their sense culminating an interior me not quite thus-gone. If one visualizes what it is that feels and sees from within as self-being a shapeless mass in toto would be her senses in an amoebic sprawl. Thoughts are written in corporeal auditive horns blowing like the suspiring players tasting sounds of aerobatic fate. If dreams come from a dream organ and places in the world were at our beck, we'd see ourselves end to end, feet & legs in slight bowing bands reaching to our fingers from arms twining from an ever supine torso. Their enormative margins--in senses--poised upon our lucid holed up thought furniture are exceptions in appetite from reflections in a golden eye.*************I don't know you through an existential garment still worn amid the crowds of the bazaar marketing magical thinking. A god of the mind's eye blinks at collisions with impermanence whose cosmogonical reference is as elite as your wake into twilight painted of morning glyphs and redoundingly star-deferent horizons. Your meditations draw truth out of the same silent evanescence as mine. But your concerns, martial thresholds, plain ideation are triumphantly on offer. You are telling all of this-world's ascendents to wont & source how you should be discoverable in your condition. The who of an apex resolve upon the moral landscape makes inner-awareness the space of upheaval so that observable reality be joined. Notice the pronoun.**************I don't want life as we know it, so much sadness whence escape becomes the smallest of sense comforts. The potency of its way adorns the moment when the two threads black and white can be distinguished in the blue of earth's sky dome. Healing will be our education no matter what. One certainly knows what her mind demands, hopes for, where we feel unique promises, that intercession should happen. This is what confidence says of suffering between the ascendent & meaning.*****************I think Susie is a better critic to however mindless a praxis in expression I mile than she feels suited to argue. I feel I'm of worker ant egoity in this porch-sitting technocracy and she's one alluding to a bit more elegance with wings. Though now it's cold & I sit in this family room chair of my few lives spent, I want to absorb the rather glad escalante' light she senses, a world of Two scattering the kind orange light beams caught up in our ryddim bouncing, this world endures as coal to her luminescent sapphire's warmth. Our birth months are the same and I ask ole brown shoes what makes May lives fecund in Spring in the green of emeralds with splendor universalizing like self-same minds in slaving for wont to a coming drought to this-world's everyday waking signature, the Sun of lethal beauty, with Susie's smile in complement candle-light, her wink with hope, her night of new stars.*******************It isn't a kind of prayer in a traditional sense that I threw against the wall of my confidence for change. I realize some architecture in layer after layer of pieces to an internal conference on-going and that I am only meeting the event of one kind of inquiry on things with potent language awash--like warped pallets of words asleep--meshing over the stuff of mind as it concretizes with living burying another distance strung in living.. It only feels like parsimony in a long dialect on the pondering edge of consciousness rather at its imperfect embankments, and now meditations are imprecating in plain wishes.******************Look here at the world with its attempt on our thought values. Such an imperiled space to relent perspective, maybe so that one gets to the repair of relationship if only in your eyes turned to plants. Heated conditions of forced thoughts emplace--as though I've evolved--this more reasonable consent I have to have you change my mind. I thought closely in my Krishnamurti feet without having the contentment in being introduced to his non-guru-ism yet through what I heard on Rastaman Vibration. Bob Marley & the Wailers work it out saying: "They stab you in the back And they claim that you're not looking. But Jah have them in the region In the valley of decision." I heard this sensitivity in his poesis having what is terrible manifest as only the mechanics to portray a behavior ward of minds through One-drop music as the rigor or atrophy in one believing his/her thoughts make implicit the thinker's mission in a hopeful condition, (Jah's grace). Yass, I will, I do, & I want to better imagine things off-set in the valley of "indecision," and then having to rein in the pain of one's chattering mind whither to assume half-thoughts are meaningful enough. I think I can do this. Man.******************Kenosis means self-emptying. I imagine a lament with the accretion of awe from fear. Or just a kind of awe, really... Similar to catharsis but one is translating an Experience wholly incisive by her own essense. It is amazing how certain athletic feats make sense just per the competitive ego conquering by real physical chronometry. So, your own experience is the sort of compelling attitude, while the player is the artist of composure and kenosis. The competitions' ground are her ends of self, an apex observation she plays from the least integrated player's rhetoric on practice and her ingenuity to have the pack consent with harmonic moves.*****************Imagine, an unconscious sense to a harmonic background, the ryddims of things brought to light, light shed of paints making splendid continua from those elements now come as Source or Enflamed Fascinans to that of a tree, the sea, our moon, the horizon's mountain theater, are all meter to song.*****************Okay, so I felt down & out once and those who have been as humbled know that hell isn't made for them either of total concord for this moment's just escape, though you can bet it's not hard to imagine you felt a similar reserve like that then too. Socially not up to the salience behind the other not as endeavored to feel the change one needs, academically a world isn't becoming a figure of success where I could rely on personal victories, as a kind of parsimony these effacements easily assail the usual impinging world. Because I observed in rather healthy or plain lives going on around me, when those who have a pattern of getting into places of their making, those personalities will change toward real confidence. They don't have to pretend, or as I absorbed, one self-reflecting over the manufacture of his/her motivations, here are really big life-events feeding their concerns so poignantly adorning their ground of being. I realized if dynamic is what I wanted to become, it isn't only by my hand that I change, but it is recognizing the sure grace people can have without their minds in the way of their mind.******************Probably in my last year of elementary school is when I opened-up to the likes of Dylan or Marley. This Greatest Hits of Dylan's leaving me in solitarian content to his personae, that his being embraced by formidable crowds isn't somehow part of who I answer for, receiving and comtemplating real writing & poetry, that music, had been proffered for my remote inclination. I was only a boy and with whom he was speaking I rationed an imagination of salience. In the place of my making, my brother's room come mine, eyes flush against Mark's rider of his air-brushed flying carpet, two-toned black on yellow, turned away and wayward where dreams allude, I see Dylan also facing in contest to the myriad wrest of his sound. A Semitic purveyor upon Arabesque designs moving through swift aerobatic paint, while the dragon also on the wall lurches back into stillness to the in-between spaces, family machinations are only imperiled by green youth siphoning adult plain-ness of resolve. He's turned toward a world, alighting to more self-reflection from a translating face to that of musterion than his cadence spanning into this room, enjoining that he would be actually present. Which is a goal of his sounds-arriving.

*****************Presence claims drifty models and my getting caught up in redeeming attention, I'm of a piece. My eye plainly cuts open onto an inventive nature, as slate-air emptiness arraying in suspiring light discussant of clarion air. I'm Escher's Encounter, true to the bridge ambler purveying this and that toward splendid grass, over haunts of stream thrushing, a caprid meant to stammer upon his crossing. Or as it's drawn, the shadow opposite figure--the other inviting--and the all-lighted apposite one, union of turbillion meeting thoroughgoing of selves.

If you've never heard it before, Karen Armstrong truly discovers the Bronze, Iron Age G*d of Israel and the space He would've occupied in musterion thought.

This was my Zadie's scale. I know I have a 60 yr old pair of snub-nosed pliers around, and probably an even older pair of little cosmetic scissors which belonged to him, my Mom's "Daddy." Zadie is Yiddish for Grandfather. He and my Grandmother, Yetta Goldberg, whom none of my brothers knew nor I (though Mark was born and coddled), came to the US as infants, their families yet to enjoin this future, their immigration is right around 1900-02. I had the passport of the soon to be palimpsest Czarist Russia, Zadie's Father's, Russian as xenographia met in better than a century ago crises come bureaucracy and erasing what is beneath. Names like Veroba and Gubanko and Kasden are our patronymics, curious like this one of Ukranian ancestry in its ironical way. "Gubanko" means fat-lipped. And it may be one of many Jewish names meant to deflate the censuses in those days and before sometimes intensionally depicted the humility of being counted, so "drek" and "sheist" and perhaps Fat-lipped laterally gets imputed. I may be gratified to imagine an askesic purveyor of distances strung if only out of the gaze of reified Fu Manchu masks, these translators of a biologic clock greedy for the sun.

Ale 8s and Coomer's Ridge

Some late summer's day likely serving an irony of physical success, several years ago, I drive out to Red River Gorge intending on reading Kerouac's Big Sur in view of my version on a poignant spiritual exercise. Going through the entrance past Dessie Scott Orphanage, I serpentine through the Park till Coomer's Ridge looks to gainsay any further trail intrigue, so here like a half a dozen other times I amble down the ravine toward the creek. The ground beneath these feet in its saddling contours is my proud land, all in my ryddim-bluey heart pumping confidence wrought to bang a gong in Kerouac's defense of slacker or beat latitude. I sit at attention upon Corbin limestone, a rock of peak forest anonymity, thick carpeting leaves and organic detritus furl and keep the observer in sojourns to its human-empty haunts. I read a few pages, sweating on them, adorning caricature of these symbols in poesis meant in diffusion toward the bliss of insects buzzing raucously in fractal woody environs, try seeing it behind my eyes...probably do. On the way up I had inched through one leg of the trail with an eye like elephant trunk dragging on any exception the tapestry ground might appropriate, wanting the same hypnoses, that of leaves and inanimate chicken-feet pine impressions, rocks furrowing, the occasional ant colony machinations, anything and everything having made the pressed earth rather like a canvas lent to my senses, my leisure at its command to any article of thought and providential of mineral to my blood in the looking glass of clay.*************Food as culture becomes appetite appreciating at the same kind of consternation as renunciation behavior having diet explanate victuals reimagine a rather probably coarse intra-mantram growl arising as bite, bite, bite, gnash, savour, savory sensual intentions all floating upon the valley of our tongues. Some change in my senses filter exteriorizing bombast, the sharp edges to things perhaps actually not in the way, otherwise discoverable whither I feel I am running into them, the world pining to hit these shores, keeps coming, then it's over...come over swaggering into my consent, implicit that I am more of it than in recess ever reducible to it. When I eat, my food tastes rich, fecund by its premium, altogether too much, though I'm impeded by little other than fullness. Though Holy days have brought me into chance ritual in fasting, I vaguely assented while conscious goals on agreement with macrobiotic continuity make my eyes turn to plants, and wonder what it is that will eat me in the world to come.***************There have been times when in developing expression I knew whatever chimes resolute out of the top of my head that that is become my destiny. I want to see this experiential goal in the dark. A world incumbent as having elicted all its cost and content from a chthonian long-distance run, now with shadows newly embracing from the reach of my blue slumber. The darkness that's come to light is inverted--light streamy and coyly roseate--since daydreams made midnight into its clarion continuity to the sounds arriving with anti-clasms and softness to my thought-world.****************Home away from home is easily here on this road where I've come to live and work over the years since my youth described by its green adducement in making a cross town small trek, during those halcyon days, while only now I'm just down the street from our nineteen-eighties family destination. Into the 90s I come to live there, up the street, with my brother and his two thuggee sons. and may have had some impact on those boys, the place of their making & their world enduring then, because I had a clear, clear to me, goal in meditation, my brand of magisteria bringing visualization into some kind of consequence. "Touch the Earth" is a fantastic analytic piece (as it works for me) toward reconstituting good intentions acceding to power-spots, my habitation in chronometric gathering, touching the earth, the earth in how she chose to meet my footfall then. My body makes an allowance for our theoretically animated earth, pretends it reaches for me as I mellow prone on her yield to space. I would have the lighter of my two nephews walk across my back and legs after getting home from WRFL--I had been a DJ--while I had expression developing there, my feet generally brought me to and from this sociation & my transition from music awash ploying exoteric culture to that of an intimation of Jazz--a handful of really narrative rich artists I liked--crowns my thinking and was to interpret the good luck in an amazing cultivation of resource and source to it. My only hope to imagine how abject and vulnerable wherein a mind devolves had been to bring into contemplation for those boys as all things possible through the ear, that Bob Marley would have given a compassion and humanity not so evanescent to our bullish appreciation toward change.********************I would feel spiritual in starry accretions to antiquation, yielding to inventive memorial signatures of earthen habit and its barely belched troglodytic ralliers, that the conscious crowd has sky plurality berobed garment arighted in the existential, where I can shout in whispers that I am fecund, awake. But what sounds doctrinaire toward self-awareness is likely provenant only seeing once how I'm delivered to the shores of all-things-possible dreaming of truth and my pathetic, very human, exile from histories. Meanwhile as a need for community arises, thoughts on kinds of teachers may well easier lend to parsimony on this value-pained egoity, erring to remand who it is I glean the will to ask questions, and think on the huge regard for mindfulness outside the prise of this or that path with its issuant rites to codify Source. Ever-evolving in as much as a spirit is energetic over the auspices to observable reality, while enlisting our confidences is within the actionable state, having eschatons or promises Other Worldly can not prosper beyond an elaborate presence. One is tied to the sublime if the sublime endured is its purveyor transformed through the impermanent record.****************The being greater than that which nothing greater can be conceived? No, because one asks Who goes there, in case that bleary wind presages a real being, that being with whom your security remains inventive. A conscious prop thus-gone to the traducive Creative Being only because one hadn't asked more rarely, What is that or how does that happen? To whom, indeed. Remember the psychological value in the mirror of the Name one wouldn't question: Never you mind who I am, I am that I am. It fits our anthropic will so sweetly: "I would never question had it only been the wind." If you think that is your truth, how it's been warded off with revision after instinctual revision, there's a mind room where your imminent reception wasn't the guaranteed math of an acquisitive mind.***************I'm alighted as a specter, some kind of lepid chrysalis due toward a fate less than our sentience could assent, a record of impermanence being wiley to endure whither I imagine as auspicious one day, one direction east or west from the contours of this stream, ...now upon a bridge with antagonists inside its reach of my thoughts & tabula of light purveyor in her beat beauty transforming me into this hopeful mind that I could color. I've shut and locked my doors while there's a jetstream coming from these windows conferring in libertine space this room barely aroused. I've only just gotten here, starting what I've come in the room to do. The light glinting through fingering bush boughs at my window let enough sense of its pervasive quality having anyone imagine sunlight peeks at us & participates upon earthen thermals in mind-signatures of an ever-lighted day to author its contentment. A kind of an auditory hallucination? I can hear a flangy radio--Sweet Cherie's Craig, my brother agrees once, he said this house phenomenalizes antique radio audiences. The conversation in my head is of hearts and music, thus gone to preachment, a new silence entreating the vocal fountain now scrawling across some projected field around me would soon trail off, thereso with no clue but me biologic esteeming cellulose, an inner-voice is my recorded self, presence.***************I listen in my heart to issuant reading goals that arise in my thinking. I walk to the kitchen, think the epicurean is due in part for thoughts replete in that goal. In my slumbery repose, if night stillness shades my mind, I assume letters falling, words in assent, histories endorse a contemplation gluing light to reason. In high spirits I'm mentating in ways that can't happen till a book becomes licit internally; an author's dialect entreating my blotted mind's eye insists on capturing anything to say on cramped symbols & image for human voice, the purveying of emotions, audition, colors, and an underpinning of all my animicule nature as I borrow air from my face, barbarian webs of mantram-said pushing me into extremis, ideas awash while nothing blankets the shore. I'm whelmed at the shores of alliterating seas, while my feet dance over its report of wholly poesic blue plashing, inventively, grappling at the terminus sky adduced as a place to lean.********************Your eyes are loving, impresses beautiful footfall into the contentment of my loam, where it makes the unseen seeable, and a place of slumber dreamy. All your heart wails up while those acquisitive blue eyes la la la in reception. Anything greedy for intension is only a glow of sentience, courting our expanding moments in an arbor of love & plane of understanding, Your reason for being here isn't that it wouldn't have been, that now we can be deprecare, see how I made it... Instead both of us are down from the mountain, we're half-way home, finding the source in reflection all before us. My love is for you, Susie.************The neolithic culture is supposed in one resourceful model as beginning in Jericho, the Levant reaching back 10,000 years. I swear how lucky I feel to have rallied through there once, visiting water ciphoned from natural springs, only a strongly rigged canal coming from the hills, and an ancient synagogue with its consumate mosaic floor as scattered in definition to my fine appeal as it is with principle seemingly an incredible dance in my heels. Neolithic civilization gets behind us by 2000 BCE (before common era) though never entirely. Then Bronze Age, Iron Age. Later around 800 CE another industrial swathe in human chronometry of culture take them from the countryside. Country boy, city slicker, and the power in words like personhood or absolute spirit. The sense still so matriculate in something of contemporary vision on anthropos, its improbable embrace of techne is a newly colored thread to rejoin the horizon when the black and white ones become separate.. Industrial Age and Computer Age are in the eyes of living beholders. It's anecdotal and true, how nice having held the selah hand to have known my Pap born in 1896. Two centuries on and pollution is about us with arresting warrants.*************By the Episcopal church I look into the adjacent horse farm the rather vainly airy field lacking any trees until its hillocky inclination swings over past the back of the parking lot where I stand, has two horses out. Circle 4 just in view mummers & vrooooms in its clot of trafficking souls, and I thought it portrayed just as my caprice to laud an auditive theater radio frequency conventions, the very human plastique (transformational) world absorbed through equine senses. "The thoughts of a king are boundless. He thinks of horses and they become strong. The thoughts of a king are wholly correct. He thinks of horses and they break into a gallop." From "The Great Transformation," her book on the Axial Age, Karen Armstrong. A plurality to pastures locally informing mare & steed nerves in this spiritual poesis, above quoted, is the instruction of Right Order, one's "magical efficacy" in the climate of the power... its universal reign on seasons reciting cosmogony. An explanate sorta Will through ritual of the earliest known Sino-self-actualization effort, called "daode." Thought of as the potency in the way of heaven; the Way, Dao.***************

A Sun God on My Back

Aton, the Solar disc ancient Egyptian god, is mentioned in an Abba Eban guided documentary rarefying the Biblical one cocoa of effulgent succour Creator revealing the Hebrew G*d, and moreso before an adherent is granted magnanimity of belief, there's the sun. Of one piece in an ironic mind is all the suggestive space of light, that our sun is the emulsive promise of it. The natural distance strung can make its furthest reach here the solace room adducing dust motes in a Sisyphusian baptism of light, molten star conflations toward cool earthen loam. Energy niches are metrical to our cosmogony. If these plain memorial candles tending like saints of night and tree coves were starry heiroglyphs bouncing temporal vision into the drape of lithium & photons, its mood purveyors live-up to restore and be given sight. Nirvana, bliss, its diamond hand upon your brow... Theoria's gate into claxons of green enchantment, the ascendent is become arborial. A sense to egoity valiantly denied, the candle is blown out, or something brighter engulfs us, hither a kenosis to our shady promotion is the new dawn phasing. The sun can't be less than Wisdom. One realizes an ultimate commentary to her spirit that truth is a pathless land, wandering, leaving tracks if inner-language is language to inner-experience thus-gone?***************Monism over that one thing which consolidates memory may well be a breath's control and nothing of real world news, studies, the pregnant fact of school years in their cadence, is about as much a mystery as remembering from remote light-house qualias in the face of confusion enumerating a rather Holy word for the biblical G*d for some, Adonai through my fascinans in turbillion slaver out of the valley of tongues where langauge awash encants rhythmically I Don't Know, precisely the Never You Mind of Jah, relates Karen Armstrong defining I am that I am thusly the ancient idiom of a tremendum mean in the exoteric. Monism = of one piece.*************Of course G*d is the exception to origins, if one is up against presuming the moment to moment furl of certainty that an existential burden indicates one's journey as resource to his/her belief, though with whom his & her feeling is less than confident one should suppose the virtuosity of self-being is borrowed of temporal assent.*************The traveler in ryddim to footfall, being the auditive culling consumer so nice and refreshed of the merit thinking on Israel and Egypt now, this world-beat, meaning a comfortable, contemporary sound, feels close enough to the Samite, his "Waterfall" I once had on a mix Devastation International could see clear through, offering up rather "Into the Groove," Ciccone Youth, all damn-well mind blowing. But in that space if a metric to the Creative has me compelled in those halcyon years in and around academician floe--the world more spiritual--it's the song you may try to find out of this Samite subtlety, called "Waterfall."

Having read about the language war, Zolondek's book.

If it's not the lack of research, or incompetency you might enlist, deprecare wishlist to reason what is other, then, no doubt, it's conspiratorial, you know, aliens.*************TEA IS SERVED. Served up for the morning's embellishment of the day's totality. Black tea in its samovar, in the corner of the ablutional-hand washing part of the restroom, when I'm compelled there at the Ohr Somayach Yeshivah (means Light of Happiness)--getting solid with just what it may be these guys would never speak to--certainty & overstanding this prone egoity. Eggs baked on a big cookie sheet with slices of green pepper, bland as that in cafeteria settings one December, Jerusalem. I wanted to imagine what it was the Orthodox expect of me--to do it even--maybe the words Yo Evam Veda, Sanskrit for Who is Knowing This, is good mantra (and excellently Sanskrit) to take on the priorty of empirical studious days, everything past the draw of loyalties--I'm haunted standing up behind my eyes. Easy to do that, because I got good at walking away, drifting from anything that which I'd deign with confusing probity, my tracks banging up the spaces where I emerge from my own footfall over irreducible proud land. UPON my arrival at Ohr Somayach yeshivah in Jerusalem this healthy proximity to learning was something I wanted to witness. In the room where Torah and Talmudic learning commenced, I walk past, I'm on cold open-to-the-outside foyer floors, looked into the shul where the arc dominates, but only saw individual students davening (=swaying in prayer). My mnemotechnical reckoning was brandished from the thoughts of the only living Hasid I knew (then)--yet wayward and thus more-up-my-alley--a saint now of Orientallism (sic), who I could suppose digested these kinds of settings. He was my older brother's Arabic professor & my Islamic Civilization professor--the same Dr Leon Zolondek at the Univ. of Ky. MEMORY is the internalizing of a procession of thought i.e. time & observing parallel to experience, living then in my mind--as to say--then, which is a fallacy. You are either NOW or you are in conflict, there isn't any alternative to that. This particular trip to Israel wasn't for study however--rather I was going to meet up with my friend who in a few days would deplane at Ben Gurion airport. The Moshav, communal farm, would be our longest stay in any one place while travelling for the 3 or so months in Israel and Egypt--and Zolondek was in the survey of my mind at a poignant moment. I was out on the perimeter of the banana fields--there on Moshav Fatsa'il, Ma'ale Ephraim, facing the noon day sun, thinking w/self assertiveness that Zolondek had socialist or Zionist values not alien to what I could absorb for myself there in Israel, a calling for all Jews I'm conduced but emphatically assuming. Zolondek, raised Chasidic turned his critical eye toward Islamic studies, so my yeahs could not be in fact my yeahs. I'm a student more than the knowledge acquisitive instructor, hence the distraction and what came next, which I almost interpreted as my comeuppance. Though the minefield around Zolondek's "person-ality" is only a phantom assumption on my part. I'm thinking out there in the hot sun, "Yeah, Zolondek would... " but I don't know what (over & over again in my mind) & then whack, I cut my thumb with my machete, but good--leaving me the rest of the day to do nothing and imagining the damnable stereotype sense of (wo)man's finger pressuring the earth as upon the ground to one's side as if I am more or less passionately fecund in Damning something...something, but didn't know what, ...the infiltration of agricultural implements and dirt from a desert come green plantation, banana farm, into my permeable body.*********************"Concrete" stirrings of a Creator, says Sam Harris, (miraculously) almost don't exist in the minds of some Conservative rabbis. So concrete claims, he relates, can't complement wish fulfillment over the faithful impassioned implicitly! in the makings of our world granting his adjudged significance. Imagine doctrine that mythologizes unto the actionable patriot, who will act on it in assent to its literalism, that suggests the very earth will scream out that his enemy is to be vanquished---the earth, you know, Trees & Rocks who would've been temporal & exemplary. And if Religion is bound in competition for souls, I'd say a definition for a life in the haunts of our certainty in at least one world, while yielding to serve a paradise in the minds of the believer with the biggest stick whose imminent continuity with that paradise is in the place where you stand, then one must argue for the brighter meadows of human nature to be matriculated.*******************A little deer sprite of my castle, whose lair has been this property certainly since the early 60s. I think I'll name her Shaina Madel after her once sentient eponymy, my mysterious little Jack Russell, here suspended in feeling, some temporal record curiously as mute and poignant in this verdant array.********************Ibn Shayk al Libbi said al Qaeda was getting down for the count in making Bathist alliances while he had been tortured. Tho' inevitably this is one hand clapping the blood-expensive anthro-rhythm within the lot of Arabian Regimes. I'm throwing (alliterating) stones as if through any assenting martial crowds. Ok, this terrible cultural pathos means the Base, I see. Interesting, seriously the study of certain words' root are places to see definitions of the pure and the profane... that vain game religions suppose You'd better get with, while tribally what are the wiles to have assent of Faithful convivencia; your duty held in charming embrasure, gate of gates, you see. Adjudged or not, the ancient, ancient, I mean like Akkadian Assyro-Babylonian (and for a thousand years one waits for Psalms, for instance, to be written down), in Hebrew just as it arises as ..Quds in Arabic, Holy, there is tremendum incited in the verily agreed upon nature to an immanent Creator. The sense of judgment and Other. The G-d that is Other. As One Thing and not so soon called to court, or brahmodya (Sanskrit) isn't sometimes only silence.**********************So if down by the shuttering well of your lament, and in the vital fountain of your gladness, you want to stand up in your eyes, able even through evanescence visually leaving a mayfly's sorrow of one day's chimeric dance, a numen of tracks are as eyes observing a thud and fall, its weird evocation in the Lub of blue pears as indefinite while they clutter the Autumn orchard's ground where one trods, and a choral silent Dub from a congregate interweave of prone-reaching trees making new integers of the architecture in our skyline.***************Content race dialect with the yass psalmodies of her yeahs, brotherly regard to sister-mothers--open doors for her, salutory as the student to brother-teacher, whiling in humanist eponymy seeing myself in his shoes, superficiaties mount and burnt books are gainsaying-authors of splendid turbillion histories, so we're more and more open to the possibilities overstanding a tremendous past.*****************I'll complain through thoughts that they ought to survive my wonder as I narrate what might be prone in a thrush feeling passing trees un-ownable by the yards kept-up by suburban folks. The air clothes me, smells of a McAlpins' changing-room floor, causes an interior knowing of my friends dust and water in my breath making metrical these sauntering paces' embrace. I go all the way to record the environ spaces just before the frontiers of unknowing. Lush in its watery filtration, wagging water maples, all-too coiffed juniper bushes are redolent and nice, the crowdless sidewalks look properly grown-over and unswept by mullberry bushes whose aquaintance I made under its corridor along a neighbor's ubiquitous chainlink fence. Under Winter clouds, I challenge our mollified green world to be sensorially defeated by a palimpsest Nile green only to call Kentucky skies a mellowing eternity in nothing dissimilar in an appreciating numen. To think on pharaonic close precincts, down by the mercurial White Nile next to the Temple of Luxor, I wander as a ghost with Americana as experential entrails, a mind bloom of Siniatic Winter coming-on, 35 degrees warmer than here yesterday. However full-up in what this life is become may feel is from moments reclining on the hood of my car before an emboldening world-view in assent to Israel & Egypt, till now that the tote of a deep aside is my beat acclaim to our New World, only the 15 minutes registering, mentating, just deboarding from the train having come from Cairo, in Luxor now, and taking a rather rickety carriage through the village, erases beneath a garment of nigh cultural existence, for a new volume of blood to abra-cadabra this prodigy of here & now endurance. My arms phenomenalize behind active eyes, mind-hands cleave and offer-up things, and showcase how I awaken the daemon in my head to watch what I see. Leaves tasted by their dun colors are tea dregs, tannins becoming savory with rainfall, clotted and blending with earthen intension.*****************Here's this guy with a walk of unconscious parsimony over one conversation then into the regions of exasperation however slight on to the next chromo-conversation as it says he's complicit with the day. Probably an incapably controlled alcoholic and reimagines the world in continua with tear-lens on a feeling of being full-up in pure approximation. His yeahs are the yeahs in an intimate imprecation, nodding to himself, a world is appreciated, culture isn't a vulture tho' it swoops down, condones unknowing. My nod might take-on a stranger's ken of contrarian witness, he's stabbed by fractal rites...if I dance in his plaintive brown shoes hiding my beer out behind a vacuum tinkerer, I would end by breaking spiritus sustained blood from fundamental aerobatism, lit and fully suspended and sheer like dust motes, vibed at the surfeit of business mind ill-leading tumultuously I'm now adduced to muse.***************I think it is clarion & a good goal that when I think in half-thoughts (my usual conceptual grammar), and then act on them with feeling or expression, while talking out of the top of my head, Susie is immediate in the assent with a meditation on what I could have meant. Enjoining less ardor than letting go of a daliance of peers who wouldn't understand why she is the head cornerstone over how I relate to my world is hilarious that an explanation about the solace of her embrace wasn't assumed if relationship to them had ever been as creative.****************Gives me chills. The man was inspired in a way the world will have needed mid-20th century. I'd demur out of expecting the self-same change one in the cult of self-reliance endures if Religion looks as dated with its catching up to political/social equities if the Pope is become so conveniently revered. But change by all means, of course. Be mindful that, "If You Believe in Things You Don't Understand, You Suffer." So, the game of human fate needs the logician over compassion, a social scientist who compares meditation & the sensual againbit with our rational event. I thank few in socially powerful heirarchies, unless they're dead, while Malcolm spoke to the university of our grotesque social doctrine, if it could change.**************One is timely to become restored to an actionable state--human progress--culture which works as software mentations all alight as primates down from their tree destined like desert ships, maintaining technology born from the purveyors of astrolabes, GPS the tarmac respite, transfusing earthen petrol whose paint empties into ethylene oceans, if her assent through polymerized avians evoke the night of nights, scribe tremors in my unknowable sky, the advantage of football out of doors toward a good enough reason having worn the hat of the empirical given as the sleep of bears with a relative awakening to our season of fulmination & meaning.************Into 70,000 yrs or more from when humanity walked out of Africa makes a sense of cultural birth seem viable on the horizons of Mother India, where most of the world graduates out of the root of our language modalities. When I sit and appreciate the sounds of the world once convened from our ancestors, how is it that such a diminutive feeling unique to this historical nomenclature can fuel this sensitivity of the taste transferred from the pebble on the tongue of antiquity to mine that of technocracy's dispensation? I walk into the spanning shadow's bridge between streetlights sussing the ground to find the key to creativity, blissed into the cool night, suspended by the thought that I'm under monarchical clouds while they cuckold our moon becoming the effluvial rays underpinning this desire I have for learning as a freelance academician instead of one commissioned with direction as before the two shadowy sides of the same eternal world thus-gone containing this one.*************On some of the oldest bricks of UK I sit reading Rimbaud, consider my reckless behavior ward and his motives behind stirring the senses in confidences with the sensual if repair to the desolation of angels ...yes, those in the night of Americana, tho' more chimeric than mine. Heated thoughts tarrying into an ill-median out of coarse forms to the silence in my presence streaming the morning of university-life working for me at all post a few years of tuitions and stints at study-abroad a surfeit in goals to meditate, be happy in self-knowing get-going. Everything I could get done through thoughtful twilights, just awakened from dreamstate & a long blue-slumber, I wallow in beautiful gray surfs knowing the taste of hearing more internally, than seeing a prise to daliance-plain colors. Inner-scrutinies are only the intonations of hill & valley to the conversation mattering to thoughts filtrating into shadowy micro-theaters to that of flat walls, white-noise, hrmmph of eye-targets vanishing in city-traffic burying the drums of conscious suspense.****************A Mother's tongue is a hand. What she says is tacit. She speaks, I feel. The grabbing hands of approbating time is rather her leisurely caress to free the din of blood from its flangy banks. The lassooing visual of our on-looking to the spiritual moon whose presence is become the floe-skin atop Mother Ganges, meanders issuant like a tether to her feet purveying its approach by a yawn glimmer.***************Lost driving to Clay City, I worked for this coal co. office at the time, and for some reason doing highway side of the road weed-eating out in Richmond. Driving away rather than homeward I had to pull into any establishment to get help, feel oriented to this day as a just artifact to the exoteric or the surface; with my schizophrenia full-blown, I couldn't touch the ground if I had to. Pull-up to what looked to be a real-world gone furniture outlet and folks were sitting in chairs of many lives bullshittin' and holding court, all in their prone quietudes, glands filtrating, expression intendings, rednecks, breathing through them... I ask how I get back to Richmond, then of nothing novel surmise it's the way I came, they thumb at me the road's lone entreaty, these thoughts where they've been wiped out. I am a sad, sad brother then, clinical no doubt, and in a f--k all bliss I get my 1982 Ford F-150 in line to make way back into Lexington while just like a mercury tear I am only within me that I'm greedy for my shadowy thought's tableaux. And guaranteed a bit of wisdom, learning that a purveyor of thought is sight's Will toward this world of appearances...to be restored unto conscious goals, I only needed to look.*******************

FELT SHOT once.

Sitting out in front of the house on my lawn chair by the garage, trailing away from me is a world arupa, an existentially licit garment. ...trying to capture this one time out in front of the house on Williamsburg, when some inner-voice had come to a halt & I feel impelled of radiating hot reach of sunlight as through wind like a loud gun shot into my mind, then the requisite moment of dis-ease and I am floating away--damned frightening!! Guns were drawn, the iconography of the mind have the 10,000 TVs stupidly play--its antennae reflecting, alarmed. I am looking for a solid statement to presence, a peak moment that I was a part of a spiritual reckoning--and had kind of an auditory hallucination? I could hear a flangey radio--the conversation in my head threatening that the vocal fountain now scrawling across some projected field around me would soon trail off, thereso with no clue that an inner-voice is my recorded self, presence. Take the old man or woman on the block--how do they stand in self-conceptualization, how has it given them the mind over matter? There is something monarchical about being in that much control as one subject to what is yours closed behind eyelids is just as the sleeping physical world saying contentedly, "go ahead, lay your head--evanescent of irreality, licit of truth to believe in dreams!" This being a viable notion I feel ultimately determined to eclipse if impermanence were my due, as vast as a shadow behind the sun, rather than maybe my profile as casting a shadow yet by the sun--it has its own as in the field of reason. Some bird is flying across the immediate skyline, she's a stark reminder of my sentience bound by ignorance that slowly, terribly, intangibly I'd evolve from it. I look into space like it was as tactile as belched hot icebergs, 85 % of its life submerged, but evidenciary just so: I perk up, it threatens denial. I adjust on my haunches, it bobs forward. Then as if hands moulded from my consternation I imagined grabbing some mental nomenclature, a thought body reposed upon Grandma's couch and I am there till asked to go out, outside for awhile, quit lingering--is the roseate truth of spectral shore where a covenant is become warm & fuzzy & my languid posturing held high, then I peeked into brighter light and out of my material constraints. I watched what I saw...is the LIGHT plateau - dark CORRIDOR; white black white black: The last TIME we gave ourselves to the moment may have been our last reFLECTion before the veil of tears reMINDed us that IT had been a Karmic death.

Soul, does the creative goal redesign me upon the exoteric other shore?

In Why Kerouac Still Matters, John Leland, in Words on Fire, Dovid Katz, my professor's writing whose Oxford Intensive Study I attended, and in the just out Waking Up, by Sam Harris, I'm enjoined to be unblinded in the deprecare of my laziness and its slight to ignore my confidences, observing their authors' style in the project of sub-floors to reimagine the subject: Jazz toward Hiphop poeses, liturgical analyses in their folk meddling, and goals of meditation or consciousness for the hope of irreducible shores respectively. What makes a read more believable is obviously having made a choice where the author is noticeably a strange spirit, but when he/she cordons off part of a chapter by sculpting more concertedly a historical point of well-being to jump from, is to immediately feel you are a reader thus accessed toward more alliterative change. Accessed as more amenable for change is a kind of key to the intensity having brought the reader to assume navigating things in full just has the more finely meant details more white-fiery, those tableaux plains of experience, subtle & adducible.************* Instead of saying, "come on self, catch up, so doing things feel better," unfortunately I'm conduced by my suspicious inner-voice within intra-mantra slavery. I'm wishing force of nature would have me mean it, and I say, "...oh, go on, do what you want, I'm still carrying-on." As if "doing what You want" sorts out a control upon something superlative that self sees in self, while temporal journeys show deference in the merit of change, I can only imagine having nowhere to go.*************I imagined once some deference to thoughts-ablutional, that having this feeling survive in my thinking it needed to seem natural, eventual in its assent while whatever other thoughts pull me into action. In my version of a handful of years rather like a "retreat" however social or coarse in cultivating mental discipline, I've gotten in & out of the box of appreciating lessons common in commonalities from the people I grow to love. Sitting down by the fireplace, the loading is begun. This power spot renowns in my dreams, while other family members abra cadabra licit in strong theorias, with whom I may have managed to gain this insight, those elemental candles glow in plight to serve my eyes, and I feel like clouds mistaken as smoke, and thought cauldrons populate the heaviest of night chimeras. My room, effectively and solely a place of my making than anywhere or anywhen to present me as this prone ever again, takes on spiritual continuities with a transmogrifying fire which would be my waking ritual, and where I'm attending dream seances, reading a language I've only understood in musterion sum in transliterations. A rabbi (my cousin's husband, as I know him) has me stand just inside my room adjacent to the family room emplacing the hearth, and I read from a usual book of prayers, now with its writing as barely an image before my eyes, but in the sounds emanating from the cant my voice appraises. In the dream, I look over to gray gnashings, a couple of spent Rokeach candles (finger-width & white), feel tabooed from our stonewear owl of the fireplace and to the back wall of its concave permiss, realizing the outside world is viewable past the would-be fire, has an inside of domicile lens as through a dormant once-contemplative kindling to everything without.********************Is habit still creative? A tree is always fractalized, lets go into what distances sought feel like in the ply of vision, and always newly skyline architecture. A kind of observable release... Alighting for all intents a version of continuum.*******************How does our society reform into ways and machine making money ambushing in transitions where one is otherly denied the more intimate notion that he/she is out of its confliction? The world in transformation may have a shrouded traveller drag his/her feet while roads are built & wrought through our mountains and alien buildings begin to blink. One really commands that the in-between spaces are the means to the ends of our footfall. Memorialized spaces are verily attributing the theater of live crowds when they are only meeting horizons in anonymity, our world registering before the endless night sates in its sky guffaw a taste of our meaninglessness.**********************When we rode straight-away into the most effective education I've yet endured, travelling briefly through a passage into the Sinai, excitingly, to Cairo (w/ Robbie Loco), a view of myself at the feet of giants would become "vision" so as to instruct body-consciousness, my physical success. What is also true from apparitional thoughts are the creaturely examples to something which may be the strongest appeal to taking my next breath. Noticing nesting mallard ducks, here & now, the female yields into something more present while the male, like he is a kind of watchman, makes a relishing awe over those fine presumptive close-to-earth suspiring nods--what sweet oxygen might appear as when I'm colluding with I & Nature--their beauty in vitality. There's some kind of substance to keeping me alive, virtually, which is sometimes hard to imagine in that I think my inner-voice is become so weary saying in the few words that survival is to simplicity and concern, "Oh so that's a little better." As if I've intimated for those 5-6 yrs tearing up my lungs with tobacco too much of a conversation of mind over matter--tho' it still matters--how is it thinking becomes confliction over the trespass of self-knowing? I feel a new body consciousness while Susie frames that and with more love than I have ever known till futility is kicked into the star dust eternality I expect will be me one day and the what-if an incarnation has our embrace in pure union.********************There's some kind of substance to keeping me alive, virtually, which is sometimes hard to imagine in that I think my inner-voice is become so weary saying in the few words that survival is to simplicity and concern, "Oh so that's a little better." As if I've intimated for those 5-6 yrs tearing up my lungs with tobacco too much of a conversation of mind over matter--tho' it still matters--I feel a new body consciousness while Susie frames that and with more love than I have ever known till futility is kicked into the star dust eternality I expect will be me one day and the what-if an incarnation has our embrace in pure union.********************If the last relevant puzzlement to soul is expression when it is dearest, Spirit elicits truth from the wastes of infinitude in a plain field of few artifacts. Awash like pure blanketing sands, empty as the wells of fossil water, where earth lies willing to be regouged from our skies lightning lip, her fountain spangles. The Shhh of a void's chronometry is a sign from ill-matriculate terrain. My body lies end to end starting from a conscious map to the world extenuating the truth to the measure of presence. Spirit while it restores one to take notice of anywhen at the center from without is consciousness roiling as one wave to our fountain beginnings of lusty reflection to earth's terminal star theater.****************Learn new moral codes. Undo the learnt mummer of an emotional frontier of blind or threatening mythos. Our psychological continuities have novel sensitivities--the assent of what is personified may erase what is beneath--probably always new because conscience is againbit from a deficit in perspective: one is only in relationship to act on vitality guaranteed in that rarefied awe of consciousness over the light of content. Plagues & war seem to surprise everyone; while the mission of social change becomes the broken footfall as apraxia across the moral landscape, humanity would receive the ply in getting to the summit as a provincial education.***************If you have some mentational deprecare thing, and you have been self-medicating, (matriculate here hopefully wiles of your past resolved) I would imagine that there are enthused states of mind now good enough to keep you busy, perhaps, in a reserved presence of mind which reflects this condition, in those new/old shoes of unsatisfaction with this renewed dialect over the weight on your well-being. Your mind makes more opportunity for the capsulation of these concerns than just about anyone ever realizes, realize. Therapy may well be your renunciate cause, mind's economy relenting normally being bitten by a feeling derivative--these things you'd romance albeit without more archaic rite--to assume the nature of one's half-thoughts, and an inevitable submission. You'd be the dragoman of getting lifted, tho' naturally, an exceptionalist like gong-player of licit sounding bell tilting and swaying over Belched-Ever-ers and to something come correct.********************My oldest brother relates: "...I wish I believed in seances, I know that sounds strange. But, I wish I could communicate with her again." I say, "Man, that folks seem to realize however dispensationally they developed if forgotten old garments of existence, I look around and see Mom in my corner in this sad world anyway." Supper with overly boiled lipton tea, sometimes a better brand, her uniformally painted attention opens up this nerve center kitchen. She grew up living over their father's store, "Louis Cohen & Sons" in Kingston, NY, which stayed in business early to 3/4th thru the 20th century. Wandering in dusty corners of his, Zadie's, old building down by the Hudson River seems rich with impermanent records on Mom rallying everywhen & identities smiling in their frustration and loves' lost or won, a table is set for the guest of my imagination, standards of sincerity like holiness in a place of its making... Old archives in their millenium as world-power when the Turks with their bureaucratic concretion & power places my eyes over the shoulders of business mundaneity and give & play day's long ends to that of clerical purveyors, their daily coffees redolent, live just as this musky loam, animicule riddling environs past our garage guffaw & my office. Once, Mom in her light expression, looking on to the pyracantha bush next to the driveway is a sprite tho' usual day of my abyssal leap when real concern overcomes me in my thinking--I'm at what end of her tenure to those Motherly preachments, ever to hear again in her sweet voice? I see burnishing pathetic lights, lights auspicious as her warmth, good lights knowing in clarion steps she could have dreamt me here.*****************This envelope opener may have laid on my Grandfather's desk 10s of years. It says: "Albany Linoleum & Carpet co....Floor Coverings since 1883, Albany, Utica." And his "Louis Cohen & Sons" store was in Kingston, NY, early to 3/4th thru the 20th century. Wandering in dusty corners of his old building down by the Hudson River seems rich with impermanent records on personel and identities smiling in their frustrations and loves' lost or won. Old archives in the millenium when the Turks with their bureaucratic concretion & power places my eyes over the shoulders of business mundaneity and give & play day's long ends to that of clerical purveyors, their daily coffees redolent, live just as this musky loam, animicule riddling environs past our garage guffaw & my office.****************Human beings have trod devising their earthen senses probably in our present state for maybe 100,000 yrs. There are sharks who haven't changed in 250,000,000 yrs. The dragonfly has taken to the skies for 350,000,000 yrs. I'm awed to observe dragonflies just as when my first memories conduce moments in the natural world of our "lot" in Texas. Its chocolate, fecund, ronching, Summery invitation to my disappearance into a void of wilds to enjoin living creatures freely expressing whiling-away where my intuitions make me feel I am closer to that then, different & a geist to its ephemeral reality now. Over at our shop which breadwon while we hope & endure the place of our making, my family's business, all those years, entailed butterflies & dragonflies around overgrown spaces amongst the building's creaturely isle of mute reprise to their anonymous season's arrival. I notice dragonflies zoom & pivot across the newly painted blacktop on occasion and knowing there is nothing of a subjective need that makes the bizarro redolent taste as the high that really lasted for the ecstatic insect, it intensifies in definitions of its ill-certain victuals, it's weird the animal would prefer its toxic trip. Literally drawn there, the nitrogen from petroleum only stimulates her, while flowers with their same appeal just past the drive grow in our courtyard with the buried cat from Rebel Rd.

True and Now, What up is?

How that experience is become intuitive in my mind is no really verifiably subtle thing I would reify & see myself consumed in social reverence, that an unlived future is thought's consolation deigned daliance to revere anymore than listening well, knowing it is a thing to be enjoyed. You speak, I feel. You discover a direction multiplied. I assent a mind convulses willingly enough that it may appertain your dream as magical, the miracle to topple, again-bitten, this convenient array through our moment to moment distant strung, between us and on wallpaper intervening with the message you brought & bring into the room. I feel I do this even "for" us, but the space of your yeahs feeling like yeahs tho' the thing I reference wasn't an observation you will have made, lassooing mind tableaux where the deprecare is won is as near a truth, "inwit" emplaced only there, just saying you would.****************Cleaving to the progress of the creative in the world-to-come is designing the present moment into the mainstay of distantly plying light, but a frontier in theoria: Can I call this devekut (in Hebrew)? Googled and synthetic, it means: "...devekut, from the root davak, to cleave, denotes chiefly this constant being with G*d but sometimes also denotes the ecstatic state produced by such communion." Is this avidya & tanha (Sanskrit)? Ignorance & desire respectively, in threading an ideal circumstance to "clinging" materially, even to these words, doing something "spiritually" about it, is a way to convolve meaning in my perspective to the environment in which I'm invested to have continuity with its essence. Upadana is clinging in Sanskrit.**************The clasping guffaw opening alligator is Mom's sense of beauty, so beautiful. The heart rock my brother Mark Lakes may have found in eastern Ky somewhere. The pocked stone is one I brought back from the West Bank, Ma'ale Ephraim--it looked like one in every couple hundred with a former biosphere vapor emitting botanical life giving it a superlative pebble look. Our image to the antecedents on human sorrow come from The Last Two Million Years, a Readers Digest encyclopedian book--a yeah to dreamtime somehow. Human beings have trod devising their earthen senses probably in our present state for maybe 100,000 yrs. There are alligator species who have little changed in 200,000,000 yrs. The dragonfly has taken to the skies for 350,000,000 yrs. I'm awed to observe dragonflies just as when my first memories conduce moments in the natural world of our "lot" in Texas. Swamplike, its chocolate, fecund, ronching, Summery invitation to my disappearance into a void of wilds to enjoin living creatures freely expressing whiling-away where my intuitions make me feel I am closer to that then, different & a geist to its ephemeral reality now. Over at our shop which breadwon while we hope & endure the place of our making, my family's business, all those years, entailed butterflies & dragonflies around overgrown spaces amongst the building's creaturely isle of mute reprise to their anonymous season's arrival. I notice dragonflies zoom & pivot across the newly painted blacktop on occasion and knowing there is nothing of a subjective need that makes the bizarro redolent taste as the high that really lasted for the ecstatic insect, it intensifies in definitions of its ill-certain victuals, it's weird the animal would prefer its toxic trip. Literally drawn there, the nitrogen from petroleum only stimulates her, while flowers with their same appeal just past the drive grow in our courtyard with the buried cat from Rebel Rd.***************Sam Harris says something closely to this, giving me a riff on his "spiritual" consciousness in examination--his recent subject and book in focus: --If you were to wake up one morning and you felt now you'll know everything, and nothing is alright too in being boundless in your love, then you are likely only to have audience with an ancient wisdom tradition, so not usually contemporarily plaintive.**************Managing a Belief, G-d designs our approach to the graft of reason in shorelines, these frontiers, the awe before touchdown, into perceptibly a report to it all, has nothing conflating in following the creative, the mothership into the sea of possibilities even after parturience. So "birth," only-beginnings, are G-d. After that your frontier in knowledge is only intentions: G-d is your intention. The artifact to her deprecare plaintive unknowing is light; the awe of getting to know is hopeful, but a Creator's wish & mystery, luminally blind days with now an attention on light making observable that condition now becomes something necessarily not sky emanate, not G-d. Bernard Lewis, the linguist en superlative episteme efforts, relates "Gottinyu" in Yiddish, & only one other word is an "intimation" with that grammatical ending, in this case, that of the consummate vibe as fiddler on the roof & not a "diminutional" grammar of G*d. Intimate, interior, a reflection on something poignant, graver than light, the "blindmen" running through their pitch of chimera, self-knowing.*****************The stars are a spangly liquid agent to consciousness awash.**************The availability in cultivating your phantomic subtleties, this knowledge without whose preachment is it that tells you how to spend time does it make you what this life is become? How about now are your yeahs yeahs?**************A biological bias for beauty may be just the case for the appreciating phenomenon of contemplation. This is silent world in consciousness working with one and against beauty, itself, denying all inelegance before it. One wants to get into a place to think, true to an emotional schedule, intuitive. Thinking is self-preservation even fear, that our reserve to take up concern for relationship if only in our minds is in fact denying relationship, not only has one rally against where he or she is leading to their empirical given, but also perhaps the degree to which it is become manifest, the given unto the empirical duty. During a study of our genetically nearest primates (in Gombe, Jane Goodall's research) a certain chimpanzee is observed going during the overnight hours and sitting by a waterfall on occasion, only sitting, no resource imbibed. Enjoying subtleties in a thought world conduced to non-maligning change--plashing fresh & cool paradisiacal? water--perhaps, and in my view, like my Grandfather, Zadie, whose retreat it was to go sit in a dark room of the house, not to turn away, but turning toward his facility in a kind of release. Big comforts, like thought floats in shimmering night torrents, born of earthen wont from proud burdenable land is a beauty in catharses however an animal in liquid nature awashes in perspective.************Cleopatra brand cigarettes, not a treat in as much as a specter, in the nerve lit a face is translating nomenclature out of thoughtless lungs. Breathing in loam, twiggy particulate, what-tobacco, but as a taste of Egypt like I needed to resort to something other than the "hubbly-bubbly" pipe, ... Al-Salaam's restaurant owner emplaces such & such thing toward my conscious map. While we saunter past the Sphinx, it's corralled in a construction theater, we're told not to smoke among our averring vehemently antiquating pyramids, "Do not light your lighters underneath the pyramid, men," A guide there reckons--I remember because I entirely would have enjoyed that, thinking into the project of that day--we were staying at the ironically named Americana reverent & beat under north Africa's Siniatic sun. The next conceptual space, if I could figure it out, would tie "binah," meaning Understanding, from kabbalah mysticism, into the spiritual grammar where an extreme ranks Pte Indians (native) mythos, specifically Kaskurbeh & his wife whose body transmogrified to parturience of tobacco, their retreat into capsulate reality into our nature, a view through self-knowing, terribile in its last cultivating I gnash before it presents the world anew that I'd be dispatched. A concrete high, not mine--but in the bone enbowering weird standards to intensity. I scoff, but I'm serious, it was never me, not close and a stillness so blue, actually looking into a blue flame withwhich I conflagrated choice Bugler, lighting my punk off a gas stove, a 12 percent betterment in glowering moon sees to it I mark white decisors 'pon a graffitti real internal cove.

Zakkai--Sakyamuni

I believe in a Living Loam. A Loving Loam, whose harmonies are psalmodies of loving Rain. The type of loam that won't harsh my mellow, thereso the One and Many loam of threshold inconsequence. Landed proud visor Rock blue eyes like Rock Spirit evocating Inyan of Lakota myth, mountain folk wealthy in earthen embrace where telogenesis are still-dreams of real shrouded travelers' macrocosm, those of longer lived denizens, the diamonds of rougher rough mind in the way of the tote of minds, just below. And even the iconograph's theorian glad on the cover of a Western invention to their, the first peoples' unique narrative. my voodun of backyard qualia same-sea book, has cave-cove notable precious stones rightly before saintly Lakota spirit-guide, in my hand before me. In the night of origins, humanity's spelunking adamic first homes are our first temples too--why not one in the sky?************* It is wrong the margins of our eschaton begin with the sky as our limit. One isn't cosmogonical only in her water & consciousness, the leviathan underlying straitened forms of consciousness, which has an Unchanging to wrest the luxury of whiling away. In Wanderings, Chaim Potok's archaeologically slightly remiss history, still alights comely askesis. This roseate and informative book shares the life of a first century Jew, Jochanan ben Zakkai, brings-out visualization if only a sojourn to the once gathered concept, always a place to jump from, an interest in compassionate intentions. A coffin which bore the scholar from an embattled Jerusalem is a funerary surmise in Rum's certain attempt in denying Jewish continuities. Perhaps a strange thought-world with similar visualization in hope for Dalai Lama's ply through his surviving the gallows 1900 yrs later. With Rome disestablishing the Jewish Temple 2000 yrs ago--as exiles go from historical beginnings--or an agon of materialism from the Chinese having Tibetan continuity refrain in Dharamsala, this ledger of escape to that of Jewish learning in Yavneh, is the recorded shot--out of the Axial Age--across the bow against magical thinking. The Library of Tibetan Works and Archives wouldn't be a kind of Determinist contrivance anymore than change would be apprehended in the mind of a student to the great Martin Buber Ginzberg visited 60 some yrs ago in the Jewish homeland. Messianism is an entirely mystical circumstance toward an example of the Original Man, but if you are holding a sapling, as stated in our Talmud, Book of Ethics, in your hand and then told the Messiah has come, plant the tree first, then find your way through a fullfillment of musterion. Meaning be practical, ones devotion is immanent (within). *************Convened my ugly yet saccharin street outside of work--funerary cars-in-train in its usual blissing, ambulance commands the unfurling moment in someone's jump from the plank of humanity. Did my regular walk until I come around to the Parks & Rec facility, the bellybutton nigh place of an esoteric walnut tree to that of an outlier pace. Across the footbridge up onto school grounds I saw a boy in coarse but spare suggestion of whiling away. Unillustrating, I'm thinking, he must see raw nerve and banal socializing to revealed techne, like done with it to serve classical I & Nature, sludgy creek of seasonally excluded midge clouds, seems recent, then redounds in their absence. In me an angel hears dependent arising network in everything else, tells me circular Anasazi Suns are glooing me as moss onto temporal shores in its sociation with Wolff Run watershed.. Enlighten me to this green room, salience to the rock mentational looking glass in perfect stillness, as the fleck and radiant material void anoints meaning in suspiring measured breaths. I'm too thirsty, so one of the two outdoor water fountains make less of the thing breaking my thought's concern into idiosyncracies. Starting in earnest this regimen of exercise has a primary moment I like to reexperience in an acuity sense to footfall upon the confidence anyone has of their own physical success. Crickets launch in auditive little chimy doorbells, then the wooden trill of locusts take over in my first few steps among suburban lording waned-of-wilderness trees.****************Do you know first thoughts? You are somebody, and yeahs are yeahs even bent past the accord an academician self-being into whose allowance in our office challenges but cultivates betting on subtle meaning, if muthoi, so variable between the walls of our intellection's ward of well-being. I'm watching Abba Eban, a former Israeli politico and historian as he narrated Heritage: Civilization and the Jews, with my ear tuned to Mom's sublime cultural expectation sought and dreamt. It's a feeling no different than looking upon bright meadows, no choice but to feel a subtle belonging. It's Mom through and through in my approach toward the concept of literacy, certain books albeit, but student of life altogether. If one had grown up with Hollywood as an essense to Sunday langor, TV and sunny adducement, a Spaghetti Western conjures a similar feeling of silent house corners and the next thing to consume my mind. I haven't had any regimen explanate ever, tho' explained if I were to assume being sorta ritualized, just this kaleidoscopic vantage on cultural values where going around the corner had no ply attempt, laying-down right here in my favorite place. The very first thing shone in my mind that Jews were phenomenalized--finding out like I've been only then awakened to these origins--had Native American proximating in What-if this antiquation to be self-aware had been at all like that, and also aren't all these X-tians of core-culture up to my same unique self-realized reserve, anthemic with unsophisticated banners--I am You deigned in such replete crowd consciousness, tho' out of tremendum & reach. A question I still ask, perhaps, Native Americans getting the most accretion.******************Have an opinion. Realizing that you may always be reconciled is a given, so follow your heart through a lens of one's mind. Anything is an anywhen with invective neuroses just as our confidences can illustrate half our best. Study. Meditate. If one is deigned of identity, that you have a will is a mission impossible; ask and know incomplete daliance to her potent mind, it sets like Grandmother's couch of consciousness, covered in ephemerally creased upholstery.*****************There's this concensus like bird droppings hit their mark that someone has a contemporary entreaty of our toiled wont of self-reflecting to place our right of veritable cosmic concern into the palm loyalties this pleasant entertaining of self actualization purveyors would have smeared across banners and Americana, thereso not always a compliment to the odds you've weighed what-is actually exoteric to the frontiers in self-knowing. Rewording Kriwaczek's bone-smashing opening, then to Job: ...our responsibility is made-already, in the hands G-d. During the war and murdering, our role in the "decision" was almost zero. And ole Job endures bad spiritual music tearing up his flesh. I'd have my step's intellection easily wandering to the tents among midbar na'ot, oases, if somewhere solitarian clarifies the prodigy of self-possession one is become, nothing gets his back--and only the frontiers of mystery matters, a void of lull to roiling swathes of space. Yes, but there is One Space. If there is a G-d On-high, everywhere else is left vacant.**************A cat's life at my crib has interesting feng shui meridians, if only prone with Ozkent 'pon me as his cat perch. These directions multiply, the room more the jetstream aerobatic, than interior shitty city receiver of narratives in bldgs and food. These lovely cats, my hoss cat here, collude so easily in world infinities, than the ephemeral bleat of TV irreality. Walking while getting free time at work, around the near neighborhood, I imagine things I like to reintroduce in this nature's cultivating ethic: animal, nature, breath, sunlight, and both he and I a lens for subtleties and wrought willingness to fly through shared fascinans when I get home, his dynamic contentment. There is a limby overhang to a couple of mullberry trees along the sidewalk lining a yard straight into the park, makes a sense of woodsy environs of mountains in Upstate NY spilling into this langoring day's descriptors. I wonder just how such formidable empiricism crystalizes in the expediting little minds, conscious bindles of sweet only love knowing creatures?****************You are a kind of emanating change, a catalyst like water and light. Electricity comes from other planets & you are an impulse compelling me to be vital that I may reach them. I burn from your gospel over white fire, and the black fire of this musterion proscribing issuant days of our future beat & passporte splendor. You are a star of an emboldening new definition for a gilded sky-ocean. Rivers bisect the universe, as a Mother's heart, like all the oceans of sated effulgence with new beginnings.**************This pic of my brother may appertain a mystic once at the telos step to haKotel, the Wailing Wall, where Holiness is fully dependent on a macro-world, its looking glass diminution offering its unfortunate effort, hard-won blow-out & ekstases. I'm a marabout (sufi) carpenter ant on the blacktop surface enjoined to lolly gag toward a chthonic sluice. Or a righteous butterfly tsadik peddling pollen from our ubiquitous tupelo clover. And then perhaps a sadhu solar ray of terrific sheen from a dull Scion, an abstemious ride, exhaust-veiling in the acrylic breeze better than mundaneity neo-transporting an otherwise dyad shore to that of our day's long ends--where I intend to find reprieve--a Western Socratic lapsed elation in ebullient colors and greed of identity--I give you white bread, and flat windows, beat eshewal. In a kingdom, monarch to infinitude and small details--my repair is the green smile of yard beds. By the gutter, in an out-of-the-light lane, I trace meaning painting the interior of my eyes a poignant color of shadows to rest consciousness, to sleep this life, to dream without matriculate sense, to tend fascinans within this everywhen. Begin the begin of dawn is the donkeys' standard poise right in my sight between me and the sun rising has their prescient guise accede timely, suss of our eager dharma dog.********************I'm just blown away at that noble candor the little-big Jerusalem donkey (my brother's) really heartfully projects--real live peace. His antagonist, sweet Nawla, Craig's white German shepherd, gallops too and more primordially surviving as the punishing fittest, I thought, while she dives to taste the dusty, flowery, yellow-butterflies on her tongue. Inside the main house now, the donkeys' barn slowing down, down respite & convictions, I muse Isaac Bashevis Singer is represented in just-so a book of Mom's, I thought, short-stories, only to imagine damn-well motivations manufactured for the sentient greed of spirit effluvial running under the black fire, and over the white fire adducing a book's phantasamogoric stain in my brain, those characters. That getting on the page, the appreciating figure music takes-on, is luckily tethered in being able to respect a scholar whose intention it is of history's crystal palace broken at its iconoclastic necessary machination I invent at its bombast.****************I just want to testify what adjures this nature, and this woman here, Susie Quinn, having no other diversion, what her love does for me. Like the black ants in miraging heat plotting impermanence for my edification, still, here these sojourned lifetimes later from moments sitting at our garage guffaw looking at my flat, redounding homestead driveway, my 4th is spent once upon this sorrow jettisoned day around closest in age brother Craig's house--I'm reminiscently imperiled now with their stimulating success of seasonal ease and easily dismissed seasons et al. I'm mnemosyne lopped off from these vibrations usually, and taking in a Summery snowball of musterion, everything matters so dearly; Mom's Lowery piano, a rug burned visual insinuation of feral farm lands, these gotten-to catching upful reasons to think into elastic fates... I kissed Craig's Jerusalem donkey, & if porch-sitting is fazed to define true democracy, his two-rescued vital in & of equine symbolizing unconscious impulses (the Vedic "niyama," I hope I correctly read), allows something else in subtle mentation.******************On down around the park, heading up toward the biggest pine tree I know, two big pin oaks in their sprawl individually bigger than the house whose yard they set lived & fractal, all the romantic silent neighborhood, in those appreciating thwack steps, lead to their stalwart shade and vibe. My Zadie's little cottage home in Kingston, NY, on Lay St. takes on my reach and discernment, feels good to re-remember summery foliage, a willow tree by his backyard leading to dense woods figure in fascinans' entreaty--assuming all these shadowy gifts of memoria--Stewart's Icecream shop at the top of his street, where we bought sweets, the Bowery Dug-out is the fish restaurant where we never ate, and the rest of town fairly unknown to me. I am as consumed in domestic, monarchical release to that of my vacationing enticed thinking, adduced with senses to jump from back then to an everywhen subtlety, the old man presence luckily solitarian and cool, thoughtless cloister of dross things swept away from my comely streets. How can our older generations suppose the kindly redolence to that of nature in changeless time of empty bottles, cipher of here-here, To Life-llibations, while I grasp wishing to meet minds pouring-out their licit answers?****************

GEUSH URVAN

Interesting seeing the wrought (self-acclaimed) ubermensch actionable in a world he can't damage. It is pure soul in the ephemeral luck when a fool does things with attention and understanding. Merill Lynch with their bull meandering around the crystal shop offers subtlety to a bovine's clop clop clop in ironic reflecting-wholeness through this world-to-come, that his complaint lived of mute and brute mindless courage is assuring our fealty to a musterion will, willing itself across the razor's edge. Geush Urvan warns Zarathustra he would be incomplete, metamorphically denied while being befouled from his kind marauded & consumed unceremoniously.*************You read, in one act, one mind--a hopeful other--through your one voice and terminal through another. Only until your analytical meditation became iconoclast, then someone had to wordlessly, tunelessly, paint the distance strung of an unopened book, its concept gathered as if motivated toward its answer. But there, that space, potent and only willingly from 2000 yrs of literation to the 100,000 humankind is been trodding proud land inventing a thing to name it.*******************Quality is not material? I go to Oxford, once, like Ky in a green hillocky way, cool too, thus the season coming on in late August. I sense a different moment in one place in contrast to whiling away in the wash of light, live in an essense to elsewhere, and then memorialized space in thousands of known & unknown earthen changes. But intentions, relating in spirit to nature, like fundamental nomenclature exaggerating the ground beneath our feet, a world reaching for its temporal-mission-purveyor has divining consciousness as one moves into it - its portents anointed in rocks, the sky, an arbor, this world.*******************Thoughts on this fascinating discussion between Satish Kumar & Richard Dawkins: Our material contest over attention enduring our infected spirit with abyssal ambition through physical success (moving down, down, into experience, ever the sorrow of encumbrance) makes a proposition to that of an inanimate world ill-vital, if unconscious, observable reality as the gratuity of appearances part of a network, sharing energy opposed to ours in our mean advance to be changed by it.****************You are completely closed off; you're asking for a right to be seen in that condition. Your closing, sleepy eyes, aren't registering a revolution to come. Our translator mask, worn by the abiding cipher upon his watch-tower inhibition, have his eyes pass-over their newly painted interior, when they are cut open to your dream.****************Listening to a variety of music, that of African titles, I am grateful to be transfixed through mantram lure of spiritually passporte language. Eje nlo gba ara mi King Sunny Ade' dubs up without reggae, but close superlative, and the hypnoses is glad, watery, yellow of African wakes in deep infinite equator heat.. Inkunzi ayi hlabi ngokusima is a lamp on origins too, other-worldly in prone whirling noise in his instrument, South African Jonny Sipho, this song arises in similar vulnerability as Mali's Ali Farka Toure' which is posted here. And not to be left undone in the valley of tongues, Spear of the Nation, Umkhonto We Sizwe, Prince Far I's preachment, his answer in concensus trance chanting to call & respond in biblacy, is an Old Testament believer on a Living G-d, may see sorrow not only between he and a Creator. ***************In pacing past my pine stand mid-way through my walk, today its redolence isn't suffocating from heat, but a morning garment of dawn catchment (moist) air. I breath in the pine, full of lung appetite, and while I am known for a fast footfall, I receive three inhalations, designing the langor of the few trees as I pass in four broad steps. I sense the old man whose house this is, his unconscious approval in my eyes of plants. The weary urban patrons of frenzy (close Lexington traffic) reminding he & I, like a conversation remits, nowhere recommends truth in nowhere to be. Amongst graying clouds, necessity makes the ceiling high above compose civilization, this silent, lazy Sunday, enjoined to an appropriated wilderness tabernacle, trees becoming more gonglike in its wind-made tremors, its conversation is manifest in whispers.****************That a jagged edged phrase would arise in the Moderate's mind as to why she is moderating rather than mania of pretensions with a Literalist as their okay ambition (Faith) giving a fix in would-be salient ethos, that somehow her Believing may have ones thinking prone (if assessed), winding in attention is a condition perhaps not otherwise cultivated. The first mistake the mind makes in the truck toward our pass of compassionate void is making value statements. The wet stuff in our head's first state is fragmentation, however gratuitous of a deep aside.**************An Autumn morning's re-narration: Little flitting robin off of the driveway looks resident and folky, not whistling--I discover its detective spy v spy gawking at personae warm neighborhood houses. Its form taking up my perspective in a small life, approbation as some kind of creative ardor, I'm more a part of consciousness in today's viscera with avian conscious expediters. Outward fact guise of bee-catchers, in the power of this-light climate among the earth's dispossessed, psalmody-wind's history called & hallooed I'm Present. Wanting such poise, aiming to get full-up and suspiring, I watch mundi red-seeing sky nomenclature squawk, traffic elapses by Kerouac's thinking upside-down, blood-monastate languages of I Am Here, Avalokiteshvara biographic organs of consciousness are inward-acting. Blue exuding cool comes off these bluegrass yards in a helpless yelp of earthen shade: It holds the coolness like blood of the heart as a kind of effluvial ditch, lush of proud land, mused-wildly from off the beaten path.**************My walk takes me past the UFO looking church right after the utility road leading to it. A hoary pine stand at the top of the neighborhood beginning that leg of my wandering has stifling heat complain in my ciphering lungs. And through ecclesia, perhaps in an extensive parking lot that lays out after the church, & under a tree, I'll sometimes sit and record a thought. The other day here I ruminate over St Raphael's close to my old memorialized space, as if this newer pedestrian qualia is as freed up and timely. An SUV with plates assigning Middle-town, NY origins, all black and rank in anonymity is flat opposite the white Escalade which takes us year after year to her mountains. This and an aroma of kasha mixed with the florid hotch-potch of tupelo clover paint colors of real retreat in my eyes. I didn't walk yesterday and today in the bop of appreciating imminent map, I realize conscious satellites, or almost, as if I say condoling things put upon where I belong.*****************All that movement & sound has a second long cast at people imparting a feeling of transformation, while acting behind a sublime babylon veil motoring to unknown horizons met. Cavalcading traffic in lopped-off dialects underneath blearing metal, their power is in threatening earthen wretched paths, upon bloodless vascular tarmac. A suburban denizen in lone ant execution wearing his sky blue walking shoes slipped on for utility shores around his house, carries folded clothes to the back of an SUV, really alliterates through metallic thrum my refrain between his silent anonymous patter and the margins of his nevermind neighborhood. I sip water at the waterhose tasting fountain at the edge of Southland Park, swimming and baseball draws summery faithful nigh, and past me into the park a boy in atrophied expressions winding by is buried in daliance loams, humidity thermals... Spend your time doing strange things with weird people is good advice, brings me to this: Is weird a state of mind? The guise of mind purveyor with less than a looking glass than her frenzy in nature persistent in moulds giving contour to wrought life is to ones threshold the first god and interior solace, and over 'til appreciated as ambition however mundane and greedily inspired. Is the mind out of the way of mind weird, or is statement of presence letting go, so mindful and exilic, and soooo weird the dynamic is bodas oro, a day consumed into lifetimes?***************Spend your time doing strange things with weird people, my man Thom relates, brings me to this: Is weird a state of mind? Is the mind out of the way of mind weird, or is statement of presence letting go, so mindful and exilic, and soooo weird?*************Like I've swallowed anything a pen may reveal through my realism, a pen hardens appetite, can make everything a mean flavor--feels plastique in my gut. "Transformational" by identity equating phenomenalizing source to that of resource.****************On down around the park, heading up toward the biggest pine tree I know, two big pin oaks in their sprawl individually bigger than the house whose yard they set lived & fractal, all the romantic silent neighborhood, in those appreciating thwack steps, lead to their stalwart shade and vibe. My Zadie's little cottage home in Kingston, NY, on Lay St. takes on my reach and discernment, feels good to re-remember summery foliage, a willow tree by his backyard leading to dense woods figure in fascinans' entreaty--assuming all these shadowy gifts of memoria--Stewart's Icecream shop at the top of his street, where we bought sweets, the Bowery Dug-out is the fish restaurant where we never ate, and the rest of town fairly unknown to me. I am as consumed in domestic, monarchical release to that of my vacationing enticed thinking, adduced with senses to jump from back then to an everywhen subtlety, the old man presence luckily solitarian and cool, thoughtless cloister of dross things swept away from my comely streets. How can our older generations suppose the kindly redolence to that of nature in changeless time of empty bottles, cipher of here-here, To Life-llibations, while I grasp wishing to meet minds pouring-out their licit answers?*******************So easy to see all our thought values replete in subject world, somewhere of proliferate spaces barely the salt grain of succour, and what of its taste. There are guarantees & divining of culture and if ephemeral, so by luck, an artist's voice eliciting the rather strange anthem of love in this case sung in Amharic, Arabic, & Hebrew, is how I'd want to hear her chiming while I'm less prone. I'm adduced from sounds-arrival to the sauntering purity of quiet steps into the rain, through green smoothish, almost undetectable lapse of texture, tupelo clover like star shards... The yoga bright and a Floridian ocean-fated lady stand under a tree out of the drizzle in a rare dry space and all alight what features the flowery redolence just under this ole soul, some gloss of today's rain deepens its gone-ness, into my love of fascinan's deference, her embrace, a rather Californian loveliness awaiting this evening's beautiful embrace, I think..**************Those plaintive days can seem more usual, the feel of langor when roommates and friends all are launched into our city splay. And how does this city funk up in forms where I've once emerged looking through and upon an aerating white staticky tableau, before me, shoulder high, like Lexington is only this certain project of light? A vision truly, and as consistent in recollection in time's stream of internal calculus as letting-go of a world is observable. Lexington's evanescence and my decisor (-agency) advancing in less cumulate sense, magnifying personalities as immediate in hometown watchtowers leaves me well out of it. I think, Why feel lopped off of dynamic waves over identity, now carried on horses with no faces?****************THE shadow knows, and is proven because I ain't got enough her. Once sussing about wrought thru time in daliance meant to surface between us. Sometimes I am completely wooden, futilely animate, in a tear's thrall, but you just don't know. And not in those indefinite shores, so remote--I wouldn't languish. I'm concerned to get subtle approach, mindful just then.*****************Yass, Yes, Jazz, beyond now. Yeahs are yeahs, culture soooo not the vulture. She's tradition, but new. The new message, the get-full. The biblacy of torn bibles is beat and social dust live under the feet of the tea-makers, fugue-takers, sounds arrive for you and the hip toward her best affect in self-actualization. These are songs of vulnerable instruments, oblivion mentating vox recollecting, oh yeah, the purveyors to some soul..***************Yass, Yes, Jazz, beyond now. Yeahs are yeahs, culture soooo not the vulture. She's tradition, but new. The new message, the get-full. The biblacy of torn bibles is beat and social dust live under the feet of the tea-makers, fugue-takers, sounds arrive for you and the hip toward her best affect in self-actualization. These are songs of vulnerable instruments, oblivion mentating vox recollecting, oh yeah, the purveyors to some soul..****************Seems only right a year on from a tobacco habit impossible for me, so dissociative & final to imagine its succour, its drink, but now to think in thanks and praises. The upsetting rather banal dis-ease coming to the disease in a theater of my body at war with itself, framing it as I imagine "certain" physical success that those around prove ought to be my norm, is regained somewhat that I feel motivated, alive. A psychologist had been to our business, recognized her from the place where I go for counseling, and I wondered how severe my languish must have appeared to her that one day... And just then, 'pon her leave, I called the gloom and dust of work all the decisor of reason less evanescent and cigarettes only musterion answer to ego amplified by pathos execrated from the behavior ward.*****************I want to tell the sea to reach me. Whiling away is the sands of change in all it can do. The 10,000 things of the Dao is become a deluge wailing in awe over a fecund deep-aside. I vibrate on but everything seems to go away. I imagine a feast, but it will be the last. The phantom-wont in luminescence of sister moon takes any seat she likes. I fall asleep wishing for her spirit to traduce sorrow & mundaneity, & her fire burns; it's an arising morning whose reality is principle to every beginning, and in shades of this present moment under reifying boughs giving-out, furrows blind through into the two threads, black & white, of the new dawn.****************I pace through Raven's Run today with sweet Cami Watts, the olfaction in streamy effulgence from the creek past the old mill tastes like the rust in my blood. Imagining something of final form enduring in the truck of my blood, come earthen evidence to nothing ever to wonder on impermanent record again. That antiquation of senses amounting to a seat of a thousand deaths, flows through me, now into me educated in micro-sensed world, mattering little otherwise feeling content with I & Nature. A lens over all of brother sister woods, avian monarchies, deer scat missed in my footfall? is where I think of Ivan Turgenev's Fathers & Sons and his anarchist posit of a new day thus, assessing the acacias of Russian-pathetic lands, and I get to see these Ky adjured cedars.**************