The Way into Feeling, Feelableness Measured in a Creative sense-all things Touching.

The earth would pivot in front of me in hugely gratifying leaps, steps that old cloud assemblages of Native ghosts ponder and pace through. Somewhere in Canyon de Shelly, so alluring to one's sight, I played on the vexing land sure of its imminence by the leisure spirit bodies exude out of its cleft contours amounting to merely weather's palette in footfall, preachments and vanishings. If vanishing was a sign toward proud earth lush and relished in sight, right around Lafayette High School, riding past one evening of literati and ideas, I had to re-animate, come to the threshold of being present with the heat of feeling in my eyes and liquid language awash on my tongue. To do so the only thing coming to mind was an auspicious thing, a thing that occurs in the shadow of sound, becoming by participating in dreamtime from the bombast of waking state. The slow fidelity withwhom I'm sure is the one who has recorded all thoughtlesss primacy in fragmentation, generated in expression, martyred as meaning, I relate my Mom saying, soul tired and in banging throes competing to maintain openness in the face of the closing gates of a lifespan, "So, have you your Susie Q., ...huh?" I look over to her surprised in realizing that Mom doesn't know my Susie whose intensions like mine at that point were not fully thought out or mindfully revealed even to us then over a year away from taking up together, I say, "Yes, Mom, I know her."************ So, I've learned and dropped its preachment if indivisible with the stuff of culture that our prophets don't live today - we can dream them, become plenty guarded toward their glories and absolutes of emulation, but his and her encounter is erased beneath us. Here, diffuse of spirit, alienated to the proximate techne drowning of answers, blowin' into a neighborhood, maybe yours, it's New yet Old. Answers. Who's asking? Why desperate to venerate what is been said so clawingly laid upon your lap after several thousands of years in complimentary re-engineering to its reception? The Good Poetry still intoxicates but from inspirations not to enslave one another ...this is more than a pin-prick of light penetrating, it's called Modernity. And yet doctrine is contrarian, beyond this human idea-force, henotheistically, apprehending the god of Enlightenment, the sense of Truth, otherwise darkens with a perceptual creation called anything like divine, a thinking individual only knows as change: Nature is what I want to react to - it merits discovery, but I am thankful of life assonant to enough nurturing, only to aver life is an answer. The deep aside denies our mainstay, the meta-physical is promised at the invisive shore, but there is no getting-in. A recent more relevant sociology will operate to snuff out our dispossession. Imagine.*************A sadhu, renouncer, I spy in a fresh documentary, content as he even here sensing slight natural surroundings where in time and within modal expression I feel well aware that he touches the earth, replete as formaldehyde in furniture and paint on walls standing in my eyes, his naturalism is feelable. There in self's brackish counting of breaths, self-conscious but not -- that all the animating space and places of his meditation is recorded, so now to know breathing plain as a wilderness tabernacle may be visualized in sum of the specter of the unexpected. I do what I do anywhere supposed - my distractions are good enough - it's true, but having executed a travelogue, I would do what I do here realizing just the occasions to be plaino me there too. Fabling an encounter is portent in realizing this apparent philosophy that Not Much is Going On. A Brazilian sorta hippy, wanderer and stolid intuitor, dreamer of lent dreams looked on toward Israel's Negev desert, scanning it as to make it back the days and weeks before, where the scale of mountain friend in far off home was the opposite shoulder than the dreigh historical mountain range displayed beyond these Red Sea parts. I sat next to him waiting for work for several afternoons with 10s of other hobo types at the Freedom Cafe (me and Robbie Loco), southern-most Israel, and guaranteed inspiration with this dude's hopeful, rather watchtower poise, "someday" he seemed to illustrate, "...redemption," withal he came across in point blank zero caricature out of Religion, though an ecstatic is revealed.******************* Man, I can't help it, though as thoughts escape me, and then only to catch the flare off a self of molten rock, things I imagine a part of me, is becoming entranced with things for a kind of convenience, these existential conditions, imminently cultural, biased, but to explain, maybe you, the thinker, would see nothing complacent waking up and getting to personalities in the past, out of time, and rekindled, alive as somehow cosmic. Among the corral of writers I've tended toward, had they been Jewish, well, confessionally, culturally immersed as I please, my grasp on content impresses me more deeply than usually, but not always, otherwise: Be sure, I feel lucky thereso believing in plurality, the opening is yours. And still. I'm pretty confident a lateral move to suss out voices that ration a contemporary philosophy drive us into subjects well afar even the plain commerce of ideas Moms and Dads, family and nigh community toasts and boasts to our cups running over, our laments needing discovery, the coolest of wine or water for the sate of an enumerating commonality. I read these other historians, closely reserved for the instruction of histories not having me leave off our more intimated commonalities -- everclearly, they vibe a world beyond, and meanwhile their chimeric pen compels me down around the corner, the corner as to say where there are easy assumptions how I feel reached, identifying with them would be any reason to get in the door right off.

****************I just pick strawberries and read and get craggy from some internal fire for silence. I watch Susie narimee in bird-call mentioned - from Amoz Oz's "The Same Sea", narimee her love song. Rattle-up the mower, and mower says, Wha' wha', wafts blahs of stupid smoke - I'm getting on with its motor-battle. Vruum, turf is good doing it like that, that it's done and the illustrative time for me to count breaths in my lungs slowing back down. Just breathe in the elements--sworn to be guided by Nature electing its dweller in the forest of life, night's jangalled cosmopolitan--an expectation you've acted as galactic as imagining that the atoms of selves-being haunt their appending recent assemblage, denied but verily a sense of loss only to shed them one day truly becoming cosmic, here and now, motes for infinity, not merely in the give and play of catching up. *******************

***************Sweet Susie seems to read me well and her gospel plan to reimagine any one moment, probably equally as loose and libertine as I, are her ways of vibrating-on for the sake of anything needing a flourish coming from our reasons of contentment. And I love that. She says to me a couple of days ago, "Well, you have had a high sense of self-preservation." And though I've run around the mulberry bush as intent as all that, I knew what made me deprecare in the behavior ward, I mean, of course, I thought about it and under threat of many moons of distraction. At a young age, five or six rallies in figures I realized then that there were no small hints to an encounter with the world and my equality in it. However usual in its instruction the facts of my well-being still drew me to conclusions that I was self-conscious just as remonstratable as my walk down toward Quail Creek to my "ant tree" talking about "forever" to its canopy and "mutual emergence" with the near slurring creek, me and otherness, the sun in a sheltering sky but mostly anticipation of me there as goal oriented to awe over a mind full and good-enough till my middle aged-ness. Then with totemic eyes, I'm a conscious creature, I'm seeing that chronometric design on my thinking, knowing in images what I say to myself now when there lies the plank I jump from in a concept of self-reflection and skillful conduct, truths negotiated on sorrow's concourse, Doesn't everyone agree in sorrow?**********I feel I cross most 'flecting lines holding onto contemporary noise where any thought put to my diffidence withdrawn from echoing it is toward the rallying effect however sublime things become calling my provincial spiritualism the water, an ocean, anyone can get into. Kerouac faces a creek in the wee hours in Big Sur, so visually, down its gouge the Pacific plocks and flaps into the brink of morning - so to give up her vastness, soothed over a heavy tongue, he drinks from earth's belly while a Tathagatan god swears the ocean womb relays to me a catholic Truth, and his irreal fate. **************

*************Feeling like the shit gimme content from moment to moment is having become so allured in hope as to approach the dreamchair of 10,000 lives that I awaken to its auspice before I'd even gather myself there.*****************If only for a key to carbon fates gugged as emanation then sculpted from a compassionate void - we're made in dun colors like the mouldering daunt of heavens and canopy over Escher's Puddle hint of appearance, an invisive self, replete as sound matches muscular pick up trucks with its wonk of Big Country, maybe quadrad and lanky elephantine stole back from Victorian Age women beclothed in shields of high-esteem, dainty but elegantly operative to trod cleanly reporting roads, Zzzz Ggggrrrrrrr, sluicing toward a horizon before I feel stuffed into immediate goals, then emptied back into our dust animator glazy sun watchtower, meshed with all and cloudy inner-communication's swear, moment to moment sense redolent from moves pouring out one's crowded intuitions - I am spoiled, an' so egoitic to spread the meaning of I into the mile of Other, plaintiff of Dressed in This Lifespan v. Forever.***********

***********Thoughts on "Sapiens" Yuval Noah Harari's book on human origins, thatwhich one would write-down over human achievement and pain is called history. I attached a rather cartoony image from ancient Sumer for good effect as to keep in mind first Civilization's wonder of I & Nature, like in the relatable Gilgamesh lore, while our journey through techne and second nature objects change that reception to People verses Language, mutating our consent to Nature. Where the assent to origins take us are also ways of knowing how we know what we know. Homo rudolfensis in East Africa, Homo erectus in East Asia both would have been around when Homo neanderthalensis comported in their chain of lives toward and around mine, of whose DNA I carry close to 2% of these early Europeans (Neanderthal) due to the co-mingling with Sapiens, us. Down the street, through a perceptual past, away from home, what is homeward? I think-out this early re-occurring space of memory and first dreams, sensing peak resolve through all of my 5-6 years old grasp on fates--the age when most of us first develop and react to physical maps. I likely thought-over fundamental egoity, an animal with variable socialization, change and development, I'm only seeing the world demonstrate me and other. We humans apt to promote techne more usually underdeveloped at birth than other mammals, good through propiate relationship is the key in self-awareness, starts by being understanding and responsive. Big brained and represented by device or symbol to animate the present, one consumes what appertains as resource, incorporates it by dressing in its existential garment, mummers in condominium with its vitality and is hopefully realistic in detachment from it.*********

Like I'm saying this seven times born to this lifetime, marauding as someday's pillow armies, I approach the field where my "ant tree" grows usually negotiated with its weeds and sticker plants, grassy tufts, up-turned construction rapine on the dundering loam and curious sinking earth around ant piles. I'm in the tear of the morning to the translucence of all my life and as if warded off by prayer under sorrow's lights that our only keys are broken keys managing one into whose breach through the valley of tongues comes the stillness of observable reality's will over me, its subject. Our transitory world is evitable to expression and licit by the shadows of torpidity. The wonder having liquid language awash in the deluge of anything possible vulnerable to dialect, I could have eaten a burnt ember and been blessed at once by the Pharoah's minister, the prophet Balaam of Job's infamy. Wind sluices around me and it's a perfect day of Texas getting respected by the sun. I'll go to the far edge of the lot. The creek pours through the feral corner of the neighborhood and I wonder at the sky as some ocean. I thought about my tiny expediter ants in charge of what enumerable pieces of the world to which my mind cleaves that it would invariably be buried or just blown away, like dust begetting clouds, begetting precipitation in biologic thought and metaphor, air to fecund self-reflection.*************

I'm no maven of focus and intuitor in some great way of my emotional schedule, intellectual or otherwise. But thinking mainly and plainly on meditation, I see that it should be done for a sense agreeable to one's organs of consciousness working with one and against themselves and recognizing the inquiry in ameliorating somehow the grasping of our senses that would have one divine values had not something as salient as nothing asked of us become the contemplative within and been our driver. Primary to me if I could point to a place where I'm mindful and in assent to feeling unalienated from some inward inclination to become realized in the school of life manifold to this one world was and is only sitting back to view a mischievous mind moreso lauding centers from without like wet hillocks across a feral park on a wing breezing care-free loose to the reins in the plateau of time.*************In my thinking now I click better, more a content subject, than a couple of years ago with a similar reading schedule, when my middle-school aged niece and I would go to Central Christian Church that held classes for her and older students it seems to improve their reading discipline. They were a book discussion group. Well, I was on-track in the cult of self-reliance too, however remote from an out-going better philosophy that should rival this exoteric model when taking on the whole day at the end of the day in some weak pretense of completion. Reading is such a privilege to set free the fetters of our usual world and I would sit there even as I rally in analytical meditation and read like a sunflower bowed to these reliable thought worlds evoking readers who were wading deeper into good meditation than my ill focus otherwise appended. I can only say the alighting reason for continuity out of measured steps under plain-warm lamps, would-be answerable in patience, washed up and whelmed into the day's corners, created in me a glad founded shore of perseverance.******************There is a name of a once Big Man in Sumer that gives-up another phantom rite to ponder as more spooky transcendence avers a man who dines at the table of that lifetime's incarnation, that he was one who reserved an emigre's temporal habituation, with a mind superable as to live and dream, but could do well to survive all lifetimes, so myth portends a world-to-come, and he was called He Who Watches Life. Look back at the story coming from the Palaeolithic bard and into our biblacy, a deluge, the processions of water that she is humankind's mercy, and the cathartic earth is our parturience out of it. All we have is communication's fracturing lights, then we are merely Stone Age ...and all we have is steel chariots and the report of their wheels on man-made tarmacs 'pon earth, then rocks and trees become our shore of experience.***************Sweet Susie seems to read me well and her gospel plan to reimagine any one moment, probably equally as loose and libertine as I, are her ways of vibrating-on for the sake of anything needing a flourish coming from our reasons of contentment. And I love that. She says to me a couple of days ago, "Well, you have had a high sense of self-preservation." And though I've run around the mulberry bush as intent as all that, I knew what made me deprecare in the behavior ward, I mean, of course, I thought about it and under threat of many moons of distraction. At a young age, five or six rallies in figures I realized then that there were no small hints to an encounter with the world and my equality in it. However usual in its instruction the facts of my well-being still drew me to conclusions that I was self-conscious just as remonstratable as my walk down toward Quail Creek to my "ant tree" talking about "forever" to its canopy and "mutual emergence" with the near slurring creek, me and otherness, the sun in a sheltering sky but mostly anticipation of me there as goal oriented to awe over a mind full and good-enough till my middle aged-ness. Then with totemic eyes, I'm a conscious creature, I'm seeing that chronometric design on my thinking, knowing in images what I say to myself now when there lies the plank I jump from in a concept of self-reflection and skillful conduct, truths negotiated on sorrow's concourse, Doesn't everyone agree in sorrow?***************Of the several authors I read whose writing is elevating the discussion the arc first civilizations take, Palaeoliths till Technocrats, cultural impulses leaving behind or insistent upon macrobiotic accretions worn by apes of recent flourishing, Paul Kriwaczek and Wendy Doniger, from Babylon to India, respectively, and all the word permutations ready as the West is to affirm, so they tell, our cultures are implicitly living in a space of those worlds' continuum of facts. And to imagine borrowing from Sam Harris, these facts are reduced to our well-being--laudable moral landscapes or ones needing an amending breath of this late fin de siecle--perceptive of the change made in casus belli of biases, different facts appertaining the sliding scale as to what remains important in these environs of conscious creatures have a high bar of imagination that could be circumvented with one educated and deft axe of patience and understanding.*****************There must be a lush science to an escape, some moment to moment lucidity finding the rest of the day opened-up though I'd be hauling and moving around the horse farm where I worked briefly gainsaying the part of the day I am leaving. Once I imagined I was under the spell of a capable meditation watching sorrowful sleepwalking bovine drawing my eyes into the trace of their green dreams, temporal fetters, sunny loitering, their avidya (unknowing) unconsciousness. And whose grand dormancy could this have been but mine I submit myself into thinking? With a sunny heat on my face I look-on at the spaces of their wandering, and as it begins at my feet I sit and pull on a cigarette pained or educated at once at the vanity of an indulgent smoke imperative to the nowhere wafting of imagination. I'm a real nowhere man - I stood there and felt accused. Then, I had goals of skillful attention, right thinking, but meanwhile thinking my way out of a solitarian foreboding had matriculated in my head as a mask of teloi to a dried-up fountain. I was turning myself inside-out, changing with only this to survive as having encountered a light at the end of that tunnel. I'm glad to sit here and remember that day's sun as my friend, because it alliterates as solemn candles and this room arrayed in light from an insistent and lovely April.**************This thing occurring as some feeling of beginning the week notional reccess to time well spent, possibly hating work but more than that, amounted to some resolute couch where I lie prone to music and document, sensing things a long way off with walls around me almost giving up to the daylight and world pressing me back into some dear anthem of contentment. Walls falling, and in some thin vision of a guardian to this world's surprise of an intermedian mind, an angel evinces what I am only realistically going to imagine as a shadow. The detective of self has arrived, my silent appraisal of sensory torpidity is as plain as its neither dormant nor turned-on persona replacing my guffaw articulating room where I peal like alliterating chimeras. What would I give up if I could sacrifice this my usual physical teloi of transitory mazes out of this colorfield's temporal chance of self-reflection? Like Dostoevskii, prone upon a thoroughgoing epistemologic plank, maybe blissed into starlight, candle glare, yielding lamp, I think upon these moments, had I only the right tantra to move this leaden thought (world) around I would then see what it felt like to have all the answers, all things would be known.****************The smallness of our worlds are actually worlds colliding. That this weirdness of some empirical telling of our conscience, which works with one and against itself, is only natural that the world furls in on itself, the nigh resolution of egoity's finessing fire, white within black within physical reality may only yield no other place conceived and consumed by its temporal denizens, even moment to moment hardly objective as thinkers under the only light superable to perspective. One feels it shouldn't indict us in these riven or mounting flavors to the existential given, but it does by tethering us to Meaning - sometimes in context - easily indicating almost anything else with the graft of our attention, but as to content and values, that preachment so damn dear ...has merely ascendents running around elipsing with all things asunder saying over and over in their grasping ethos Good Bad Right Wrong True False. Hurray for my side, I watch flags catch fire like wind-horses. Egalitarian days of memorial's apex move 'pon the moral landscape can't still the human (long distance) race while democracy is in the hands of the monied and the penniless are decried as victims by their own hands. A mind of that see-saw stunt at the ready, and only awed to give way, assent like the yeahing of ever good resource, or one which plies her weary caprice against plain unknowing, done with it, oughta slam that jammy and make sure that it was broke.*************So, you had something to say? Oh, and I interupted, and you imagined you were suppose to have the floor, be listened to, fully explanate with all the emotional circuitry where you were going? Not that I don't care specifically about you. I do. This is caring. You are fine, really. Fine to shut your face like any body, and like me during most my life and learning to become a good listener as the primary sensitivity toward getting my point across or perhaps inspite of my true reach into a relative gospel. Because to wonder at any persuasive this-is-how-it's-gonna-be content to your myth of the minute is for me to interject. I'm gonna say what you just said, so you can hear it, and tell me how it sounds seeing your haughty bullshit a little more ironical. But that's to anyone - it really is knowing the words you use matter, and we're all gonna find out why.***********

Alfred Kazin, contemporary author with Bellows, Kerouac ...feels like an advising to matriculate Michael Wood's light on humanity.

I liked the good sarcastic poets on Saturday Night Live warying of summary depiction of women with an image of folded stoic hands. Would those hands be reaching us as hands across the water gainsaying this world whose gospel advisement is get out of its bustle and execution? They are true hands hitherto, but when I feel my way back to technocracies in her less megalomaniac morning before into histories' foliation to an old world and gone peoples, I'm encountering the energies of being present ...because it all matters, these lives matter and live on through me and you. I want to be the face of the rock traced with an Aboriginal hand blown in a signature's oral paint. The heat of his physical economy so vital like the days of a love he would have had and feeling in mnemosyne he scratches on his brow, wipes across expression with a gatherer's hand. I want to point with the hand that refines the difference, not resigns in clasping to categories, opens the pod to the beans given to Babylonian women several thousand years ago who propitiate the season's inundation by scattering them from baskets into the Euphrates River ...lived by funny stories' telling of edenic fruits, washed in the dust from touching the Earth, mythologizing the bulbul's song, listening to Earth.********M Train, Mmm, yass the mantram of a Sumerian's Meh, withwhom one imagines a world emplacing watchtower selves contriving merely you of rare thoughts' evocation, Patti's drink is sublime. I'm on the Darjeeling train; I'll walk the Grand Trunk Road to cipher your dervish vin. Go down Radio Ethiopia. Go down Rimbaud of our meshed grip to the fin de siecle, just one morning wink of a near yesterday. Go down Belief--where she ain't afraid to call the Still Waters a god's intellection--Go down Sister, haunt me.***********AJust as ISIS doubts any prescription to a more ancient past, and generally in the course Western archaeologists have taken (historians) stole, matriculated, bought and plundered from these cultures while "observing" as to care for its antecedents (our goal), their contemporary Players in these traditional societies sold relics with abandon caring nothing about memorial rocks as if to placate a sometimes licit fascinans. Americans need to wake up to our deficits, White self-promotion, banal cronyism and usual lack of culture flowing forth with their idiocracy who are probably the obvious assassins of Maryland's 13 bald-eagles in their mutated nativism training thoughtless weaponary toward sweet carefree, yet symbolic, birds.

********An Israeli is notably if not the oldest then among the oldest persons living in the world today. Like tear drops, his ocean of the dispossessed is someone, we know many, carried with a permutation of names and places wailing with lingering dialect. I like to imagine that it speaks to literacy fostering one's physical success. That it's really a complexion of my own ethos having gotten me as free as my room of cold and then warm lamps, so hopefully I might read into the black and white fire, then before that the layering of pulp and cellulose, through bark and the irrigation of the tree and willing symbols for life, life. It would be an analytical meditation, the Glory through some philosophical reach, feeling preachment to our impulses which reflect the world by dance and in parry of movement, living. And soon we're all urban folks... There, our narrative of birth and wandering becomes spiritualized perhaps or academic. And this.***********

A contemplative, the one one would be, is entertaining the long leisure in the awe of whiling away, patience given to our temporal saints, all John boys gawking at the spill-over out of this world's accretion to the mirth or calamity of change. So, the margins contenting his and her place of observation can be allegory in the eyes of our chil'runs. Imagine the sober stale concern of literalists--and that of Kerouac's sense of hallucination cultivating young minds had they played in dirt below bowed and splendid sunflowers, fully foliated--why is curiosity ever preempted in fettered emotions? Emotion that only answers the middling consciousness, sleepwalkers to the world promising everything between the tentpoles of reprieve--these days' eschewal, rootless vibe of its hustle and bustle--no reason but to reinvent in her common frustrations. Reinvent. Unless we dare the thoughtful spirit in our eyes to set us right down 'pon the burning sands as guests to the dreamy stuff of being, when will the other place you in its recurring attention.************************* Seems there's a going assumption that Thought is something in the way of presenting what is an intension and consensus monitoring our moment to moment little bump in the road. Krishnamurti famously related, Thought is self-preservation. Getting into a place where one can think is perhaps an attitude offering peak intension looming in some consolation upon the agonist bump. I feel in measured conjurations I went through avenues of so much productive and fecund thought that the higher I find myself in tenuous thinking the more interesting the complexion fully-compelled to reach back toward lush contentment or its complementizing dreigh in these temporal offings. If the Mothership is consciousness, we follow her and toward the eclipse of her movement. I always wonder but union with sight is consciousness reining an observer to the pleasance of release into it. Relationship is the nature of consciousness adducible to vision and mostly withwhich what sensories our minds stay busy fending for colors implicit to our wont and harmonies. Thought is subtly going to confirm over and over again we are rarefying the content of what-is with the dream of being present.******************

******************Turning toward a culture available while I optimate by staying prone to change as it occurs through their wonts and aesthetics, second-nature objects and talismans where I merely imagine I'm in the business of asking, their intensions wouldn't any longer be memory but in active dialect. I care to, while I wonder and be still in patience seating me in anonymity, just recording intensions, thereness, spiritual victuals that would be consumed, ready to toss the menu. So much to learn and absolute fools say more reasons to arm. Yass, no equivocation, security is all our interest. But condemning violence should be assailant more usually here in our communities, not shown to be just what those _____ deserve, as it is rationalized by actual fools getting all clotted up and loyal, sweatin' to be on the Right side, or Left s'posin' regressive Lefties who want to separate doctrine from those who tell us exactly what there is in store for you, mercies and judgments, per that doctrine. The Middle Ground is for moderates, but our goal is how nicely unexpected the equinox of the minds can be shown as an inviting metric in the climate to the Power of all the offenders sucking as they do in the Extreme. Birds of a feather, America.******************People tell me I wash dishes excellently, not just to get out of doing them, but after the dish-, silver- and glassware mitigate whether a new meal is up for preparation, sitting there mood-operative illumining home sweet home. Susie and I alternate getting our domicile's things done. She's keen with the compliments and I couldn't do anything again merely for myself, which I imagine in something piercing memory like evaded killing-floors among sleepwalking chattle and a fenceless precinct to my wandering is just been opened. Some neat tea cup or probably Mom's little Pyrex casserole dish emerges and I almost conversate with it - then telling my spirit I'm not actually this dish as my mouth in little unsalient or diminutional movement mummers unknowable phrases, pebble upon my tongue is visualized and birds of distress get lifted. Arraying of Mom's grace certainly these shined-out pots and pans, cleaned and ready with tradition toward diet consciousness and annual recipes are the foods I consume with culture as its revenue.**************

Kinnuyim, you mekkavanim.

People tell me I wash dishes excellently, not just to get out of doing them, but after the dish-, silver- and glassware mitigate whether a new meal is up for preparation, sitting there mood-operative illumining home sweet home. Susie and I alternate getting our domicile's things done. She's keen with the compliments and I couldn't do anything again merely for myself, which I imagine in something piercing memory like evaded killing-floors among sleepwalking chattle and a fenceless precinct to my wandering is just been opened. Some neat tea cup or probably Mom's little Pyrex casserole dish emerges and I almost conversate with it - then telling my spirit I'm not actually this dish as my mouth in little unsalient or diminutional movement mummers unknowable phrases, pebble upon my tongue is visualized and birds of distress get lifted. Arraying of Mom's grace certainly these shined-out pots and pans, cleaned and ready with tradition toward diet consciousness and annual recipes are the foods I consume with culture as its revenue.************I think sometimes one might see where no one is on this ride and transportation with us. But I wonder if like the blue slumber in Rimbaud's now evoked breach to the gate onto the starved geists merely our shadows found deserving to the cornucopia of an actionable state that that is not only the deep-aside, but we're becoming its agonists as we learn to reform before complacency and sleep.*********** I dig it now. I am what I've done: I bent it; interpreting my clay lopped and fecund. Like Marshall Arisman's buddha-dog person, made of door screen material introduced to crowds of Americana filing through as the Spiritual Player's concept of Escher's hand divining hand, then let it be funked. Chil'run finger and prod his Smithsonian addition, and the project only then lives up, lights-on the artist's project of his mouldering forms in self-being. It has recreated a vulnerable inherence to category of mind: I am mind of broken reasons for the Earth to accept my roots, as she accepts my roots.. ****

"We shall live again," she assents it's been proscribed. Living must promise the hope for mnemotechnical endurance, then the survivor lasts awhile in the flame of reason, imperative enough to flourish, as if to imagine an All-Answerable being, a Sinaitic acacia alighting the ground beneath its limbs with ant expectorate, a desert of few encounters, strange contours to resource & spiritual wayfarers, or imminence of monadism, hither manna, sugar. "Stretch out your arms... manna falls from heaven, ...the Most-I," cared for those with eyes clouded of wanderers' consciousness, Patti Smith might have seen to it what I had forgotten. And it is this Tree. Living to adduce the contract with Good is the Beauty in the harmonious yoke 'pon our feelings. My mind is the feather come pen lying on its beplumed pillow reception nightly with an inky foreground, "dip in!" she revels like tongues of thought painting the neonic edges to its next invention. ************

My eyes wander past the lesser spaces of lesser dialects than that of this hustle and bustle most of us attend to daily. In-between places neighborhood feral cats populate whose freedom from human touch illustrates my yard in stillness so compelling that I know sun-bathing or wrestling with sleep on proudland in this unusually warm Winter is yet another license as to imagine roaming under her skies. As a boy then young man, living with Mom and Dad, I sneaked out of the house once among handfuls of time taking to the street only when getting home I realized I had been locked out. A lair for overnight emerged in my thinking, a full moon of destiny blankets me in purple coolness. So I went into the garage to lay down with Ruebel, my dachshund, dreaming of his traipse through this living world, so diminutive to uncover his mask as a story's hero, so little asked of him, all I can rally behind was that he had carried something of a message from the dregs of an ancestry expressed out of his little soul, like our friend had been a daemon committed to the spiritual administrators promising our forebearance, that he would tell me just how. His water bowl looked enticing with glittering star shine, reminded me that Carlos Castaneda watched and hallucinated that a canine drinking its fill became neonic and fractalized as it portrayed its energy united with a watery paint of colors determining presence like a world anticipating each move, each gulp and slaver of refreshment. With moonlight's last gleam through the garage back window, I only felt release into its remote flourish, slept deeply after a cigarette ...felt I at least wanted to cry, so lucky being here, I thought, to accompany my dog's libertine wee hours, that they were mine too.*************My hippie anarchist friend and mentor for several years, while he fixed servers or web-hosted and I'd been the haulier of those computers and accessories, will have introduced Jiddu Krishamurti into my thinking while the both of us confer on Mesopotamian archaeologic and urban beginnings, that we would scrutinize those well-spring histories and doubt ourselves as thoughtfully fettered, respectively, trying to rearrange in rather Rimbaud's style to come to some meaning out from an exile of epistolary harmony. My chariot's referee on braking its egression before I'd gotten out of control said toward Krishnamurti's sorta chohan, Put the menu down, and just eat. A sum of his conversation will have come down to a simple prescription while attending to our plate of experience, that just anyone deals with the scrabble of his or her condition not any longer sometimes able to evade thought's condoling distraction, our goal on self-preservation is to stay in relationship. To the head of Sisyphean hillocks, at peak observation, the stone looks imperative to a dramatic fall, and as its purveyor we ask the question, does the will for survival explain this existential role as dreamers shaken from our chimeric garment, the night of our day's long end?*********** Kerouac relates that his body had taken form, that his mind will pass through. For rhythm in whatever is a sense that the surface of expression illustrates my Willful ways, his talk-talk unmesh a world of sounds arriving into something, as I understand the writer's sincerity, that only I would have said, assuming anyone ought to take up the task to mythologize self-being. I barely capture his impermanence poesis, above intro'd, and wish out of the same mind-sore like a fine mind, a flourishing hardly contained fuel of dreams, content to burn in cheek-cool skies. I said once, One moves into Consciousness, relationship, because outside of it, self-preservation remains unrecognizable in our thoughts' ward.************Bill Maher says, "Truth is dead because the internet killed it." So, this redounds with everyone digging that someone in his and her class identification--and consensus egoities--says as much about a would-be sensitive hearing as the next closest thing, the thing about it all, a classical illustration in being socialized. "Social Living is the best," lyrical and the truth of it, makes the intensity out of Reggae sound like the best way in getting full-up, Winston Rodney -Burning Spear- lights on. Light, truth, hai hai, you and you and I are readers in the complement of Babel's Library arguing and musing over our soul's concern in mote ubiquity still like always but revived in an electric sun's intimate smile of warmth. I look at you in cyber truth--though if there was consent one may imagine raw instincts, coveted impulses and some portal on spirit-- and everyone can give a real damn that our world stays compelling if idealized here--our share in media--but because y'all should know, in real love for you, it is good you are with it and of it in this dispensation.***********I'm not a soldier, like my Nativist older brother or former military brother and Dad, or like my brother closest in age, guns (o'plenty) don't provide solace. I haven't yet gotten drawn into CSIs like my Mom always watched and Patti Smith absorbs, as well as detective show genres, in their way of one to one psychology that thread narratives in and out of daily portals. Taking News is always iterating war and rumors of war, which give context for knee-jerking, fairly blind herd mentality and also license on techne--it would be wise to seek this unusual mind-set of such high drama, I know--our conduct are lights over it as passers-by the dead and willing sunderers to the living in rehydrating migrations as core-culture instructors and creators. However now the phantasamagoric Homo ludens can't hold his fellow player to any script, destruction plies effacement rather than reordering. The Directors are ignored; to believe in a god admits to a rite of murder, but fellow congregates can't name the same enemy at the gate. His weapon has already coupled such moribund self-being that we are all becoming swathes of his intimidators.************* I think to get-back, restore and resonate with this moment. And the funny thing is while I iterate or concretize by mantra so to imagine that Now-to-Then objectivity is sometimes easily in my sway, next to attention on breath and unbreakable wonder, I feel even the pattern in passive contemplation is a rabbit-chase by a shore powered in wholeness then only awed by letting-go in winsome rhythm like I'm attaining balance, a rhythm fettering however, lured by it beyond the mesh of the grappling ocean of what-is that it seems usual, relaying to the plain end of the living playground. Suspended by small solace to imagine however I could be acquainted with such and thus Mind, I only feel glad of it - here's my Thanks and Praises.**************I like the Australian questioner, asking imminent Darwinist Richard Dawkins whether "picking-on" folks with religious affiliation would aver those Believers toward their practice or rather it shows them the problem with the infinitely simplistic god that the creative things we do are what scientists are in the business of executing through reason as to why a complex set of physical rules set in motion the proximal living beings within it, making research, rhetoric and perhaps ridicule to enforce this understanding, would actually help.************I'll be watching maybe usually a documentary or any media's proffer of laudable space and feel my eyes imagine being in some odd and lovely stomping grounds to what all and whoever it could be, holding on to the precious sun opening up some citadel with lingering stairways into its embrace, holding, holding, timeless as it were just a few moments imploring an encounter that would have me stay just a little longer. I love good research, non-conspiratorializing histories, just as this one here and now a series over India, The Empire of Spirit, by BBC's Michael Wood really improves the viewer's recognition to spiritual cosmogonies with the sights and lives arising across central and southern India called the Deccan, and everywhere throughout the sub-continent. Several years ago I read P.J. O'Rourke's Rolling Stone's piece about northern India, up into Afganistan from Bangladesh its eastern beginnings discovering a travelogue about the Grand Trunk Road. Not as imminent with a visual escape perhaps as videographed documentaries, the sense of an antiquation still threatening evanescence but on-going actually is befitting the emergent memorialized human migrant and chattles' sleep-walking highway with more black and white of the article's revealing print while the slight individual sprites in a world of transformation ambulate in remote patience wave to the sad man prone like the world held afloat on the lagoon of an original paradise standing up in my eyes.**************My feeling on keeping ___?___ things redounding is that they are easy pickings: an episteme somewhat Universal whither necessarily I reinvent had I chased its ideations around the corner - thinking it is more present than that, contriving, I say equally, the musterion unique to their complement's enlistment, while restored into the profound Other, excelsior but not of an implicit family. Because to adjudge perspective makes every thought's stroke in the waters of consciousness an object of broken bridges to this phantom marathon--having taken the river as paces left off from ambitions of any threshold, finding its slow fidelity as my allegory--I only know an inquiry on beyond the beyond of "me" from moment to moment through half-known relics of root pronouncements. This could mean "anything.

"**************Salience is found in the long arm of being present, as surprising as our clay bodies of egalitarian wit to that of its complement in dust and the grace in just getting here. Yoke time, control whiling-away like the priest reining-in the King's horses as the King goads them on to no avail. The Chariot of spiritual allegories, like the Throne well-lofted by one sphere of incarnational probity, both respectively Hindu then Jewish take on impermanence, being restored to One (florid) World. A priestly nation, say, the adherents to Mosaic Law, may have a similar antagonism as the Vedic Ikshvakus of Andra Pradesh, interestingly the region fromwhich hails Krishnamurti, out of our ethical sociations since the populism of Chasidic thought is of untermensch beginnings, and even though community's conduct adduces our Literacy inroads, otherwise an assent to the plight of the unlearned and the mystical arises with them. Populism. My feeling on keeping Yiddish (Jewish) things redounding is that they are easy pickings: an episteme somewhat Universal whither necessarily I reinvent had I chased its ideations around the corner - thinking it is more present than that, contriving, I say equally, the musterion unique to their complement's enlistment, and restored into the profound Other, excelsior but not of an implicit family. The absolutes accomplish absolutes in the other here and impelling, but then may fail, thus a sense to improve oneself through a mean history, wary that a rhyme to yesterday has everyone believe it is the same song - blooms and heals as mythic salve to the storied psyche. Story-tellers' first gate, in my experience, can't be the only gate breached to the forest of my change.**********I'm a Being in lush service to the artist, lured to understand techne blowing in our faces with imminence or without its imperative mounting just so, it feels much like cool air on our eyes, so one blinks away--sight rekindled--adjures her last leisurely scan of what-is with only decrees of certainty. Santana is on the mix plays on Between Good and Evil, Practice What You Preach, another sweet land proud song. Soul aerobatic, not "acro...," airy and positive, symphonic but raw, individuality survives out of it as to proffer Americana mythic & creative impulses ameliorating cloudy then cloudless or pug marks on ancient trails to the writ of conscious maps all gathered to the tent of Aum.**********The priest who first fully developes the concept of Karma, Yajnavalkya, is reckoned in Wendy Doniger's book, The Hindus. Just as all manner of vice is given good amplitude, while something affirming one experience I've had in lucid dissipation gets done in full low-down, calling the high that really lasted, is elasting because theoria feels "big" concerning deep bounds in askesic wonder, giant spaces gratify like in dialect with the entirety of my being. Well, no, there is no regular feeling of monadist appreciation that I've become somehow universal. Still, one may be prone to the gravitas of plain knowing. The unusual feeling is having a reference in hopefully an observeable release from habit of self by the force or subtlety through shadows' discernment as I look within. Soma seems to be fly agaric, according the Doniger's research.

Peak in this realist's pendulum is the dream's dialect between the principle and her midnight sky.

Bob Marley's Father had his roots in the Jewish world to that of Syria. What do we suppose in the expelled more contiguous communities with a sensitive West emerging from that part of the world? Edward Said nurtures us in a fluid world of the Fertile Crescent with his Palestinian logue and composure from the hills covered in cedars in Lebanon to Jerusalem, his cosmogonic four corners; cedar trees whose scent clarifies us as it revokes animosities for libertine sake. Ralph Nader's family comes from the Levant, might shine on our technocracy's identity crestfallen to something more iconoclast. Frank Zappa. Playing his mystics in another Arabia, could plant the dreigh land of Americana, wary in service you better recognize. The languages which first record human trends in our slavish crawling toward transformative thought and resource gathering would feed us the history appending our present to see them as this link of give and play with our stories and the healing in common by their incantation. Get a Bop Gun o hoplites of the burgeoning warrior class. Dance for Peace closer to home--breathe like you've done something to open your mind about the obvious threat of Global Climate Change--while taking care of the small things apposite possibly a reflection of self being implied by more creativity & philosophy in this hopefully developing core-culture.*************

Trump says hideous things about folks doing us wrong, and it's conceiveably wielding an axe into the climate of those powers, but about their creed wherein others suffer their shared deliberative irrealism by choice even in possible middling probities accepting the West or happenstance hopefully not disingenuous of progress and 'pon his American prescriptions of insensitivity. I'm asked to go along like we've never been colluding of any alternative. Any dissonance to his project so compelling because he deprecates with such spite and leisure as we see base instincts erupt precisely from his rhetoric--please imagine young Muslims alighting with potential out of this pluralist Dream--has the F$&king ignorant stamp of some stupid jargon that somehow Democrats don't believe in American homeland security. Plainly the Israelis for the most part reject Trump--read the uneducated Conservative trend thereso in contempt of Israel's understanding--in his thinking--so haughtily wishful--they'd concur with his menacing of say another billion of our shared world's Muslim population where one would still have to conflate their issuant wariness on security that another six-seven hundred million were the barbarians at the gates. Which isn't the case till Trump sanctions a clash of civilizations with more hate speech. ************Nabokov would have called his small memoir Mnemosyne, Speak, though calls it Speak, Memory, which adduces anyone's expectation that memories are more a part of something rather cosmic in nature, those skies that shelter us in the reasoning of temporal spaces, and thus crowd consciousness which is all poured into the sea of those times teasing with sips by reaching back getting only tantalizing drops, barely cleaning our grappling hands of the present. I like being reduced to memory too--that there is ground beneath my feet even without invisive content where I would pretend I've become full-up and immediate. I imagine a person diseased through the effacement of the present linking up with the past. Here I'm allured into my playlist which is excellently sequenced: Temptation by Prince, The Sun by Burning Spear, Train to Skaville, the Ethiopians, some folky balalaika of the Little Odessa Soundtrack... What do I do finding some avian bare arising in these thoughts' idea, leaving a strand of poignant and pleasing sense of merely what I'm listening to but then drawing a blank - I'd been exiled from a certain continuity, still thrumming in nice sounds, the thing (song currently cued) I'm familiar with, while forgetting what came just before or before that? Knowing that I've forgotten brings me quite prostrate to the giant's feet of a Universal Theme. I think, well, my body isn't moving by enlistment to the change of bands and personalities streaming in their "black plastic speaking..." Lee Scratch Perry portrays, and so to imagine being on the flow and in the present I visualize, expect air, watch closed-in walls' disappearance, the art of forgetting that it redounds by illustrating any number of things otherly, that I'm not captured by a mind that is proscribed or chained by completion. ************It is the best counsel and a great poetic device reading the verily Socratic Krishnamurti, lifting up his otherwise sorta plain and tacked-on thinking to the patient scan of the reader who discovers that she or he has begun observing their own thought's flow with the metric of content that would only come from they themselves. Krishnamurti suggests getting-beyond. There is a more usual concern of this American saluting of low-brow liminal intellects slavering like the boredom evinced in their cultural project to the degree inwhich assuming a provincialism to this problem with the Other can't alloy with experts and textperts always ready and never heard warning of misapprehensions to that of the thugs that would gain control of the reins on our government. Go beyond the sense that mostly the hawks on our security on either side realize the damnable problem--calling a spade a spade--of Literalism in Belief, that as Sam Harris notes, Guns are made precisely to kill people like Uday Hussein, and by that thinking name your Islamist henchmen, and yes I want them dead too. But a Nazi like Trump who obviously runs around demonizing Hispanics, Black Americans and those young Muslims whose help in this Dream's Experiment we would enlist, makes it impossible to comprehend the implications and futility at the door of this American political conduct which I think will only turn our "sometimes" (more usually) fellows into evitable deniers if agressors against the plurality that most of us agree we're here to explain. The daesh wayward want us to "reimagine" in all our howling machinations that the clash of civilizations would have us regard all Muslims as becoming our enemies. You're a fool if you're not getting beyond your own contrived cessation of humaneness over the barbarians at the gate.************In your beginning you thought there would always be the one thing and seeing you as part of the one thing, everybody else saw to it their conjurations of meaning were an apex and retiring same promise of reserve and perhaps not so much the subject you might confer to your looking-glass. Monism is different than monotheism in that other gods are acknowledged as arising into the extension of authorial creative forces, though the standard that they have nothing to filtrate in terms of superlatives offered into the climate of that power illustrates the tenuous plateau of Belief as if there couldn't have been lush run-off ready to soak the proudland of standard-bearers. Imagine your monist attachment to experience as the only way to reflect that you've entered the one door of what-is as you are life's first purveyor through its jamb, for every door opened would elicit beginnings seemingly with all things possible.

****************I get going in the day, see the conjoling project of talking heads in one space of attention in the horizon, then everything assumed about them splaying like my wakeful thoughts advancing from threads of halflight. Get going though after glances have reabsorbed me into our bedroom in need of dust-removal, the sky beckoning and Susie shushes me saying to sleep-in. So I do and hopeful some root to an observer unfettered would transfer this whiling away into the hot iceberg of anything else sees what hasn't been seen before in my thinking shores. My mouldering pale wall, dreigh as inquiring eyes irreal answer out of that space in my room with the outside pine too close, so retaining moisture, I reckon it's a one time a year situation. And the self-same ambition for improvement is this annual surmise that I'm back-away matriculator to somekind of concensus on everything I've imagined as the greenlight for reasons to deny the usual.

*************Seek self duty, instead, way receiver to an inventive Literalist's agon? This one time look at those powers' icon, at the power affective in such swathes of common folk left to their ruins smeared and sneered with the same vile reactions sounding like varietals of social corruption, whose first book of passage is gathered in the footfall toward any other well of the blurry doctrinaire to that of our antagonists. My ole friend who sat in on the dialects before Krishnamurti, says to me today, "Long-live the counter-culture." Sabbatai Tsvi::

*********It is interesting to me and I wonder how reasonable a consideration that spirituality is always, my contention, a rational event, always. The concept of spirituality the thoughtful may agree is illuminable--a new conversation's endurance in parsimony or a fool's trial--and can evoke words like "the numinous." And thus episteme is immediately one shoe first waried like an availing concern on an enumerating scale justso in reflection it is ourselves of levities and anticipating defenselessness in extremis if we take back consciousness strung 'yon as the horizon. That you append your conduct only to suggest the magnitude of a would-be escape or that final you are things like you plus a release. You are ever the awe-cooled foot dawdler to an ocean's shore, there at the hint of what-is, but can't get in.

***************

************I listen to my voice sound out always a sense that you've spoken the words I feel. I watch my feet imitate unknowing in sleepiness as if I walk out from the dream of a strange land. And realize my thoughts because you're alive in the patina to my antique lure over nature. Way over, way gone, the invisive emergence of the world defines my countenance.************ love this step to step's content of thought's dark sea. Merely placating a gemstone's model of this mind made-up, that I'm gratified from anything consumate as a spark or usual suss out of this imagination, the glad next trace of light from the energy of consciousness must be a patient, secret blue idea-force, a victory.

Transformed like Gray Pages Looking less Dun & more Yellow still in my Eyes, like Light.

Expressions ennoble however present the sense of our recent handful of days as they appreciate, but I can't help only observing weary feet 'pon the ground of experience to that of so many in their migrations or long-distance gatherings of resource. Humankind has wandered these proud lands for a 100,000 years in continuity as these beings changing so insignificantly, one can imagine several people around them as coming to urban reality as imminently as their grandparents near in dispensation's cusp with the industrial age transitioning into our technocracy even more artfully in its fettering machines. Beautiful animal's feet, say, ready as the conveyor ranks their usual footfall to any extremis of it, looking laudable and wizened like tree rings as if increasing the acuity in our attachment to earth. I walk like I'm throwing stony enervations into my palms that my feet coordinate and flex like hands grappling for free space. I loved encountering my Zadie, shaking his glad hands, tracing my conscience in good order which consoles like his usual walk in his ambition to be healthy, that he had mapped his Lexington travelogue to bus-stops and all the distance strung toward the day's conscious satellites where I too invent myself under this self-same life's entreating Sun.************* We only ever need to risk yoking our lamentable selves. Answer sometime later the sense of change (the more of you warning of maven observation)--the thing about it--one leads into the present demanding that the reins of experience be unrigged from an otherwise subtle grasp on this world of any color you like. I saw my eyes in hers. I'm as tired as dark fire she detects in the back of my blue slumber, reflecting homunculi thoughts' mortar full up with inquiries from without, at arm's length a present world, there but underneath, though my eyes cling loosely, can't actually approach. I think Big Os, but mostly the gray of a presciently dull-colored air from nearby Circle 4 exhaust, somehow illustrated and replacing whirling traffic audition with the haze of a deprecare world. I can still breathe I hope to reimagine.^^^^^^^^^^^^^In just a handful of years, man I can tell you I am glad to have escaped waiting for the answer, in existential query, who am I here sitting in langor, no love but the abbreviated sense of watching lives get past me? And now delightfully caught-up with my sweet Susie, I see giant leaps through the change I so badly needed since she's come in my life with her love and healing. Sad and damning what I had accumulated in the poignancy of physical presence, no longer nobly enslaved by gross regimens as if to stay conscious of me this self-same feeling-guy as always, I smoked too much tobacco and lamented unreachably to you all and me. Burned by the incredulity my Mom would be effaced before I could reflect more presently with her leaves what I tinder in her fire, me pervading these skies hazed with the smoke of self-mythologizing and never full up, her heat exceeds the starry pleroma and I had to go and meet it. Glad of the ground beneath my feet now; praise this living earth and the love she taught me to go on and love with.*************In the window thrown open on a sense of whole worlds' passing, I'm a daydreamer hushed, though coming to my slight reality, answer of sorrow in its dialect with reason, the principle of life. "Music a godly thing," Bob Marley's toasts, entreats the marionette-willed Player and the strings carrying him or her out of their deep-aside, the listener's Hope. From myth invisive players, the playlist evolves in a sonic theater, this car, in this bright light, through Autumn's reach in polyphonic puddles reflecting musical content as rain's cosmic landing.*************What is this fidelity to the surface where I had seen a man raking autumn leaves prone to the scurrying day's commuters? More On than any interiorizing check to his Tuning Out, he looked invented by the report on the pavement from trafficking souls. He was inanely present, almost mired though his pedestrian banner put him in the climate of hurrying powers. But not protuberant like a car competing for assent onto a lane, he had the greeting of tacit earth. I drive by thinking had I been as vulnerable to an idea-force making wind, sun, leaves and space the calculus of this disparate encounter, that my small world looking just as monist in contemplation pushes me from the shore of experience into the stream's glurring middle.***************We're halfway down the mountain, again shrouded by the reachable past of netherly covers. A shadowy veil all unwrapped once upon a time now complements the rest of our way home. Serpentine within, I'm the whip pulled from the master's hand of a world's purveyor. My thousand lives, counting the millionth in a million colors mused in thoughtfields from this one cool chair replaces my more of nature's egalitarian rug. This meditation out of a new yet old study had higher education been my bag is somehow going to be comprehensive, I promise myself. Mother Russia--so good to me (if Cultural)--is still part of the subtle bond in the project between the Eagle and the Bear, gives new meaning to the little red ribbon handed to a Central Asian toddler that he or she may know the definition of Beauty, interesting in its Russian antecedent, the wine-dark luster of Red.*************At the closest intersection to my old Jr High, Beaumont, here I sense some margin suspiring spirit-child, me in my youthful tribulation, where once I wrecked on an early 70's model Schwinn 10 speed, actually laid it over. New Circle Rd thrums just a house and a yard away, but this time of day and this lush life in a world of less crowds were ameliorating in dispensation. The cuff of my pantleg had gotten entangled with the chain; I couldn't so easily turn with the pedals, probably slightly too small for the bike borrowed from the generation before me. Emergent like a jinn, this neighborhood redneck saw me stuck, threw his Martian meteorite glance my way. The self-same dude riding his banana seat bike, drinking a can of beer--with exacting confidence on his strode road--I saw the summer before, says to me then, "I drinks to enjoy." Yes, "Drinks." And toasted me as the libertine warmth is a day proscribing anywhen rolling by. Now he's circling just 20 yards after me, coming from the vacant season-heat apropos streets of Georgian Way, like a vulture of musterion talons rallying perchance he sees his disease more mused to feel his antithetical pain, ready to pick me apart. I immediately felt sundered, something I couldn't have imagined and it not be the case: people were apt to be cruel and no values game need apply ...just stabby eyes seized upon the deception a brother's eye would countenance. And sisters--I'm really glad of her more usual reprieve that all were meant atleast once to be restored from someday piteous. Luckily, I get loose and mean action is avoided.****************Peter Rowan in some inspired Bluegrass lyricks, "The heart is a muscle, it gotta love to live," so backwooded and surging in the blood to that of any reason to unite perspective and presence. We have Freedom not to deny a sensical world operating in consolations or in its swathe anonymity; one peace waits for peak observation anywhere. Some wizened daemon sauntered into the median space between Susie & I on our hotel-roomlike couch and announced, I thought translatable to me, its encounter with the both of us as one thing in its crowish vernacular... Like an enmeshed naming of the both of us relenting certain plies of self-consciousness, Categories of Mind (mine, hers, in a room, out of light, somehow a ground of being) may be unique to elapsing from certain impermanent restraints? Meaning, just beside myself, seeing our presence in a puzzle of space that has the shores of identity in way different places: I'm at least, kinda Susie, or else something even more other in sociation with the event of our anticipating a manifold patience from within each other. Makes me imagine I'm a phantom and myself, at once, appreciating Susie emergent in ways that would invent novel intensions, therenesses, of mind's survival beyond and conveniently in dreams of continuity, an embellishing mirror to append our long-lived hopes.***************In the West we have developed a social epistemology leaving us incredulous as to what these Literalist Fuckers are ill-considering from moment to moment, where we all should live, denying the iteration smelling like bullshit schemes of a World to Come. Completely insane purveyors of their rigoring Traditions talk the same game here of Fundamentalism, remonstrating like liars in the mirror of this same unappendable self-promotion.****************And then there's godtalk. No atheists in wars? In their foxholes, so to find meaning is all the value of something Certain in the next eluded suspiciously green earth's ending contest... Though you must love war as a means to rather effectively enjoin a god's fray to Belief, act on behalf of nothing peaceful almost any god would've constructed atleast behaviorally as to emulate in their lush prising magic, an appetite to respect--a fire to quell--Moloks or meteorite heaving Jinns in imaginations are pseudepigraphia bound to rather sickening conventions.****************In my four cornered scarcely dreamt upper room, my windows open up to yours and mine G*d's country, bluegrass in Nature's because-it-goes-like-that atman as vivid chloroplast tongues with their rooted down contents, minerally sourced dirt upon these cloud liminal lands. Watching it, but why can't I see? Though I am bound to a fecund surface, so what unfetters me in the glue of sight is Stoic if appreciating in the tremendum of a constant condition, treading among a slight and kindled hope that I am here and ameliorating as light's last reach underneath. Teach letting-go by illustrating for the youth that nothing's going on.****************

This as Opposed to the World that once was.

My eyes grew like moving dunes into the exile of a Sinaitic sky, lept into the blue just as menorah candles and a nod to the home hearth or a light offered over to me from the Kahiri construction guy. I'm in a terrible fever, not noticing his hubbly-bubbly is coaled-up and our Egyptian fellow roasts his fish, shares a glistening onion moments before buried under some sweetly orange-illuminated brambles. This is my approach to something temporal if the complement vision in having been at the feet of an evinced antiquity. Directionless then so fed into Krishnamurti's Socratic "Truth is a pathless land" pronouncement, but I liked being roused to wonder, content within, that I haven't gone anywhere actually, still at the feet of giants. Just be humble before an experience of imagination's marriage with time, I think, but consider an anywhen's sabbatical as one's own mnemosyne decisor. Now I love me some Mumin expression; suras are a give and play in world news, products of knowledge, will have managed egoity with a plan of iconoclasm. Long over Jesus unblinding the ill-compassionate. Know better than to refute advice on cosmic initiations, because it is Wisdom to me and of the would-be Wise, that an expert on meditation makes healing definitely an education on the condominium between the inabsolute, something creative, and personhood (having humanity). But don't tell me my contract with good is spiritual and not religious. If you dig pop psychologies, have any ambitions to get out of the ways of yourself, or are certain to reflect in this musterion world deeply, even poignantly, then religion is a self-actualization effort. And spiritual.**************** Without a precedent in living another life, I find myself conjuring a place to jump from out of an interior ward subtlely where I'm wakened in the art of forgetting. Just by imagination I realize there's a Siamese cat possibly evident having seen it haunched up in its people's home window, mentioned as a rival cat (?) to our one-eyed Tiger cat or arising personality, terra-enthusiast, thus stalking the street over, kinda inventing the block in between me and my elementary school. Lived in my thinking now all these forty odd years just like the 7-11 at the top of our Quail Creek neighborhood, where I knew a gun battle would ensue, I was sure, whose shadow in fascinans would covet me in security but as prone observer, the one who got away. Tiger Red soda I knew could be retrieved there and it stained my lure in making a conscious map as most everyone is first apt to do at this developing age (psychologists record)--I'm five. Once I tried to hitch a ride from the guy driving his rather beaten icecream truck while he had been vending several houses up the hill from our somnolent domicile. The icecream dude was dirty and I thought too piteous, rarefied in the space people call their condition to decry nothing reducible to his libertine salutations of any illustration per everything liminal beyond the I & I encounter. My five year old comportment amounts to those ply encounters pulling someone outside that sense of solitarian continuity; I could take flight to the margins of social-living thinking I am too coarse to be understood. He said he wasn't aloud to take passengers, he could get in trouble: "Your folks wouldn't..." this and that, he says. Me asking him made me want to be intuitive about the world and the people in it; I was tremulously hopeful.

**************The lush trouble in being led to the corral of reification (by this thread) is that this untameable concept humbles and motiavtes me, demands new eyes. Out of some sense and pattern to a conscious crowd--being a product of many lives painting our condition--we are everyday people. I imagine a genius cue in our thoughts' ward that our families would have us appertain a belief in continuities. Relationships so swum us into the same sea, what magnetic forces illustrating sentience in its deepest reserve become the animate fact to even our minds never actually rallying to evince, rather passive in second sight, as if mind is wizened, slow in fidelities, but moves below it all from an athlete's courage. Everyone is a genius. After all the clamoring roads which chip away at our lives' megatransect in our simple nerves and sensory education, one reaches everyday in plain selves working with one and against better judgment their attention on physical success. Peter Rowan, a Bluegrass player, lyricked, "The heart is a muscle, it gotta love to live." Mind and hearts in the tree of life bear fruit by the rivers of water, identity florid in resource and riddled through our individual reflections, we're changed licit in pursuance of blind pygmy islands after their flood of impermanence.************** To train my plaque of thoughts against the window screen onto being I once imagined nothing to rely on as continuer of the existential and thus anything that I might act on, speak to, hinge and hedge over is in an intensional stance and is guaranteed feeling like the first time I've done well ...this.**************We're used to the mission of transcendence and mundaneity in small bands of hunters and gatherers rather than following the mothership however wishful of her salience to therapeutize on source upon her navigation toward social and economic rights in a world encroaching ever plying its new definitions to fit seven billion people into our backyards. And then of course there's counsel from wandering through one's thoughts as if an angel recovers what is contemplative, makes room to serve human myth effective as the coin in this dreamy realm roused out of reality. An angel for every thought.************Light, water, verb, char, sap, sand media, effluvial disco, emergent Innana-revelling authors author shpielen about India's Chendamanagalam around Muzuris, Romans early penetration by Kerala, those remnant Jews come this earlier Mother of nations who write a contemporary's atmosphere of smothering new millenia's ceiling having those emigrants from Charax their ancient Persian Gulf community long ago improved as if to meet the morning in the cult of self reliance now can be celebrated beyond the hypostasis in cultural evenflow wont to homogenize beliefs that burn with eyes through mine, hopeful in the dregs of creative ones that would be served upon the plate of experience and can adorn the table of inner-being.*************I find an "out" feeling expansive as if to awaken in a snow-capped lair though rather somnolently seduced in I & I reserve, dreaming to stir in a dream having gotten up there impossibly deferent to any path. In some composite to the actionable state, electing actions to prepare the habituation in mountain's peak, I see the habit of trees coniferring in sweet pinion sap if only to freeze this purpose in perpetuality of fascinan's landscape. It gives me purpose with this sweet, kind chimera's license only to relent the clamor of instructions to arrive--no surprise--one is there before being there and now your gone inquiry to accept a mind character--the likeness subject to observable reality--is this tether of your would-be escape. Emplaced to my sides is a white smother of frozen ground over books exemplar to labyrinthine hands making spare synaptic gestures sometimes from elongated arms webbed to trunks of pure enervating world-maps, legs or feet reaching to reach or rather step-mogrify with diamond heels and magnify dreamy signs in flecks, wishfully within paces of what is opportune way over, far over in the present, other shore changing as you are from just the same splash off your own self-same clay definement.**************To train my plaque of thoughts against the window screen onto being I once imagined nothing to rely on as continuer of the existential and thus anything that I might act on, speak to, hinge and hedge over is in an intensional stance and is guaranteed feeling like the first time I've done well ...this. My translating face knows the whetstone and the pathos of the blade and is honed at once as a diamondlike ornamented chandelier. It glows in our foyer with unknowable bumps, blips, so I barely look, flicker past a warbly mirror ...embrase even cross anywhens with my face just at the threshold of a pointy frond to a low cultivated date tree. I equine-lip and meet the fruit. The plum-like white film on it soothes like chapstick (powdery bloom). Dreams behind the tower of music are hillocks of culture jettisoning an enlistment. Its sense readied nowhere before me, here but underneath, redolent to convince the dreamer of eternities so like Egyptian pyramids however unfathomably distant in man and woman's sun arresting sorrow. They act on the human heart as splendid as clay like its dust-pure heat complex lucidity, a color religiosus blessed of resignation. And woe stable community: the ancients knew several things and they endured; do they teach it? How did a civilization exist for 3000 years? Why won't the ancients rain down wisdom of prudent survival? Literalist avenues won't invent an alley toward laudable accretions of her neighbor and more inflating tears--one world of everyone saying it's all but done in banal deprecare sips of coffee, while all our Western Traditions, the big capitulations in triune ill-condolences are all eschatalogically stupid (end of days scenarios). Redeemed, mmm no, sought mercy, thought, well you know, the Wailers (Bob the Wailer) making room in a united suffering, sufferers nigh, Abdullahs or Obediahs, the Wailing Wall like touching a spiritual satellite in measurement of illusion toward new patterns of history, visual theaters, our reflections in the splendor of iconic maps.***************Breathing-in the creative or "black smoke" and watching it dance in the shadow of our thoughts, then exhaling the "white smoke" (Maitreya Buddhism) where suffusing curtains plaque onto our window to the world is the key to meditation: I'm saying your heart gotta love to live, depend on that. The vashtu discussant, pleaser of space, assigns one tone in the arising of negative thoughts, then skillful thoughts are marked as compassion apposite a willing meditation. First posturing that you may be in attention, eyes closed or opened. Second, breathe at slow paces while inwardly one senses the body taking over, welcomed in release just beyond the dream one doesn't want to leave blank the subtle tremor that escape is vital, could be soon. Breathing collaborates that we'd imagine our nature in responsum to senses cultivated through time, place and community, its composition. I'm mainly telling myself this, only that everyone's design on the little peace they deserve should proliferate, and into plain frustrations or worse, I know our meditation must ally.**************I inhale this clean institutional academia and social gospel, sitting and digging a book on rock & roll primacies, disco similarly, say the way Bob Marley could have alluded, the architecture to its inspirations etc so far, here in the foyer to one of the new BCTC facilities. Susie is asked to help photograph the young women's Be Bold conference, so I post up, watch the shrill exhortations of many, see others confer in the change they want to feel. I once had been jettisoned to these blinking buildings for six weeks back in 1993 restive over the funk in my worldview looking to be merely smudged on these inestimable walls whence Eastern State Hospital plies my vocabulary to be freed up in my own thoughts. Somewhere within probably 500 feet from this present perch today (then) I had lain on a library floor--irreconciled to the day room countdown to cigarette breaks--reading the only thing historical that they proffered inducing me to study which I dreamt in lush ambitions--picking up on analytical meditation beyond the doorless university in that kind of footfall--making me feel security now I couldn't have known then. Drown in supreme knowledge and meekly crawl to shores of new Wisdom with her esoteric survival. Kerouac quotes Yeats, "The best lack all conviction." Lacking nuance, institutional resource and advisement must ally to dreams seeding the manufacturing of motive. The one who knows can't speak, so conveyed by expression though they martyr founts of verbs awash, the ascendant feels glad to aerate as bubbles in bouncing rhythm with mystic music and its godly thing.***************I look on this world with these beat events because Mom made my eyes lepid cocoons in dreamstate, extricating the metamorphoses from them. I'm driving I think an '81 Ford F-150, black & red, shadowing Parkers Mill Rd out of whose lauded space mind-hand reaches for the glove box which helps me negotiate an answer there as in The Town and the City, Kerouac's first book, when one destined shrouded traveler sees his brother seek the bottle in that grappling move. Imagine Big Sur as dissipation also sourced in its starry-interior poesis and the coin of his woodsy realm--where he's falling out from behind his eyes--that reflections tear his flesh like bad music--though Jazz still has his propitiation in that sabbatical midnight sky. There is even a moment when in Mom's nature I see the impulse of good together just as I am her elaborated future, I am the purveyor to her chimera dancing around my home's nerve center, her teloi of cream & coffee, mornings ever-lastingly spare of those entangling days. The sculpter of my egoity as real bliss, like unknowably remote seasons upon a giant effortless inflation to the pleroma's parturient blue, she presented me with a conscience and I'm certain to doxologize without marionette moralisms if mnemosyne speaks.

Mother and Raven Night

Mom's birthday is today. Passed January 9th, 2012, she was born on August 18th, 1936. Sweet Mom, I'm behind my eyes because of migrations in your ancestry. Dad's once ambrosia matron, heaven passed well-wisher. Dear American Dream provider, your four boys visual everything you ever said about growing up in Kingston, New York, a little Jewish girl, once kidnapped and quickly saved, the middle born of three girls, business acumen inheritor as socially adept as you've seen in your own Mothers in pure magnanimity out of loving family embrace ...though her Mother, Yetta, could be cruel, Mom told me. My conscience orthodoxy is ever appreciating through the journey to being present in the way she said I shouldered, when presence is remonstrate as a late feeling in musterion, that I'd vie to transcend, just live. Mom the bringer of knowledge to my natural prayers, the light I shed on beginnings' beginner, the mushy surprise of her multiple kisses, always the ameliorating power who reminds me healing is inevitable.*************Thought is self-preservation, Krishnamurti summons. I'm reifying the self-same anticipation all thought is concrete and lurps through inaction. If I prevail, alight into thoughtfulness, its emergency illustrates a bleeding essence, that the devastated subject heart isn't so austere anymore. She bi-sects the earth in riverine human beginnings, the earth is her body. Like relationship is magic and proffering though I'm thrown to the banks of a ditch of blood, then relationship is real. With scrutiny and patience in the sense that I am recording accretions with an I and Nature daliance in rather obvious ways. In the place of my making this movie whose image below serves and has accompanied many a contemplative homie, eternally tea-adjured couch where I'm restored, Papillon improves the decisor of freedom within me.*****************We're used to the mission of transcendence and mundaneity in small bands of hunters and gatherers rather than following the mothership however wishful of her salience to therapeutize on source upon her navigation toward social and economic rights in a world encroaching ever plying its new definitions to fit seven billion people into our backyards. And then of course there's counsel from wandering through one's thoughts as if an angel recovers what is contemplative, makes room to serve human myth effective as the coin in this dreamy realm roused out of reality. An angel for every thought...**************Says in Jewish Myth, Magic and Mysticism (thank you Stephanie) the essential ground of Kabbalist thought, which I'm going to break up and paraphrase, appeal to how words intrigue and recover the world of verily a subtlety in meaning and of identity any raison delicti. When Adam HaRishon, the first man and toward heros or heroines, archetypes, identities which consume, when he sinned though calling it the world of seldom evinced escape from sorrow, you are the first out the door of years turbillion passing. He blemished all the nitzotzot (Holy Sparks one avers in contrasts, makes good on social contract) ...causing them to become immersed in the kelipot (dross existence). The kelipot are the husks or shells of impurity, evil, and entropy, values dissuading in fugues unreachable into and trying to imprison the fallen Holy Sparks, the currents of ataraxia, unperturbedness. In the first part of the 16th century Akbar the Great, a plural religiosus devotee quotes Jesus from the Quran, which I barely synthesize from two translations: "The world is a bridge. Pass over it but build no houses upon it. The world lasts the beat of an hour. He who hopes for an hour may hope for eternity. Spend it in meditation, the rest is unseen."*************My whole magic, sense of continuity, blessing of conscious transportation is in strongly wanting to be remembered as my consolations in being present. But I dance as a sentient warrior of every ancestor of this One World's passion play and usually as a purveyor in any contemporary's plain magisteria: Impermanence becomes a worthy game of amelioration having certain experiential thresholds always seemingly hopeful if divine (or just exceptional) taking care of our life's going-on. But I'm wearing shoes of primate displayal, gathering power-spots that would assure my fully filtrating thoughtworld elaborated in memorialized space takes my enduring concerns and recollects me, would recollect me in wishes of eternal embrace in contentment. And don't we all.****************Light, water, verb, char, sap, sand media, effluvial disco, emergent Innana-revelling authors author shpielen about India's Chendamanagalam around Muzuris, Romans early penetration by Kerala, those remnant Jews come this earlier Mother of nations who write a contemporary's atmosphere of smothering new millenia's ceiling having those emigrants from Charax their ancient Persian Gulf community long ago improved as if to meet the morning in the cult of self reliance now banal in cultural evenflow wont to homogenize beliefs that burn with eyes through mine, hopeful in the dregs of creative ones that would be served upon the plate of experience and can adorn the table of inner-being.*************The squirrel with its greenstick vitality is so convincing. The leisure to her intensity, plain and natural power that it projects is only an increment of what people economize in a life anticipating the hunter and gatherering exploits of our bubble, bouncing, rhythm lease on time. I intuit sometimes months of emotional peaks. A switch is flipped, arcing as a limb to bliss in the light equalizing sun, it might be hard on me pulled out of better modalities orb, ...it might be emotionally I would not turn around in myself to get beyond its critical definitions. Looking at growth and life, an animal's reserve powers are netherly intension's surprise haulage in a fecund stream, water lush of water like sentient rain making its surface of gloss and lurp tarry more than light magnanimity. If trees as sky architecture show the sense of Mind in scaffolds of meaning, squirrels are their wind dancers, bring their seasons into the years past our door.*******************On the communal farm where Robbie Loco & I worked in the banana fields of a West Bank moshav (in the desert), worked with Shmuley, the Israeli manager, and his right hand man, a Palestinian named Fauwiz, out of that and nod to mnemosyne I breath the taste of a scrap of soap having made the bungalow apartment, provided in Histadrut compliance (their socialist Trade Union), look roseate and new as a place of respite through meaning and timeliness--redolent in days of merit leaving tokens if only mind sussing the angels of intensity and depth. My eyes scan the freeing space of its yards made dust arisen in chaparral styles--yards unawarded with contentments blanketed of security handicapped spaces--even look with my face just at the threshold of a pointy frond to a low cultivated date tree as my lips meet the fruit, the plum-like white film on it soothes like chapstick. For me the pyramids however unfathomably distant in man and woman's sun arresting sorrow its dust-pure heat complex lucidity has its persona religiosus blessed of resignation and woe the accretions of her neighbor, more inflating tears, the Wailing Wall like touching a spiritual satellite in my lure toward new patterns of history are visual theaters in the splendor of iconic maps.**************If you pick up on folks all inculcated in time--a machine's revolution incrementally filtrating energies puffing their ardors, a clang and peal, it blinks and murmurs--spanning in the commerce of contemporal reflection that one would see the tumbling effect of a life completely--piqued in wonderment the conscious food in its minutiae is as different from aspartame to cane sugar, the plate of experience set while observing cosmic individuations through these late decades like America's 1970s bird's eye view and our eyes waking-up, the 1980s technocracy and etherealizing, the 90s squint into everything before as a 2000 year old servant to fetch water again--may be thoughts whose amending purveyor understands the opportunity of its rhythm in the throes of this anywhen.************Proscribing your moral landscape, just because as children our minds rut deeply in what Justice might look like is become striven like your being approached to fulfill a person's ludens in this passion-play as a dance partner with your marionette ego, a licit purveyor to an infinitude of False Positives, wind and rustling caught-up spaces. The last time you gave yourself over to an elopement with fascinans blinking-glowering white black white black corridors mentating to plateaux, one closes his/her eyes to the observer and its depth. I'm changing through a oceanic concensus enumerating the vie of my trance egoity, becoming stuck to the glass of appearances that intimated the hard to know first few years of my waking state.****************You are the birth of the present and as ignorant of the other shore as l'enfant writing this book of mystery, an inquiry over selves of one's empirical carousel through every tear. His/her fate is sealed knowing the departure from Mother reality is immanent, appreciating and true. Thus gone at the crest of what-is. The nature of consciousness--our amniotic theoria--is not explanate through its content. Proscribing your moral landscape is become striven like your being approached to fulfill this passion-play as a dance partner with your marionette ego, a licit purveyor to an infinitude of False Positives, wind. The last time you gave yourself over to an elopement with fascinans blinking-glowering white black white black corridors mentating to plateaux, one closes his/her eyes to the observer and its depth. I'm changing through a oceanic consensus enumerating the vie of my trance egoity, becoming stuck to the glass of appearances that intimated the hard to know first few years of my waking state. *************Up past the Blackowitz family's rather Munster-looking house a little hillock at the threshold between houses mounted up more in execution than the slant ascension to our Laurel Grove neighborhood road. Here I played King of the Hill against spirit-bodies though I pretended the feeling I projected had been toward my intercepting a sense of give and play with everyday folks having moved into a usual decisor time-line when actually being among figures of recent depth (seemed apposite wandering our middle-class surroundings) leads me into the imprecations come prayers of meeting-the-ground and appearances. However possible to yield ever filtrating our within world as to reveal anything incremental to self-awareness, I get as far relieved of self-confliction down past Mr. Hall the clock-maker's digs, Mandy his dog is my witness. I felt my mind was perfectly available and therefore those values recording inanities could place me in a stream of perfect reason, or as I reasoned it, a kind of escape I badly needed.**************The White Nile part of this river wherein I rinsed my hands and had imagined vying for ablutional feelings while rowing out into one expanse of it is a taste of Egypt beyond the commerce of admittedly a Westerner's sense of their myopic political-religious adjuring or any mission to provoke cosmogonic meaning. In one of the ubiquitous documentaries showing the Victorian Nile region, one lone creature of thousands of species lured to it in the dryer seasons was a little ruffer-ruff bird as big as blackbirds we see here in Kentucky. Its feathery garment is mussed from the terrible Sinaitic environment close by, reprises its avian statement of presence in such a way that I feel Amos Oz's The Same Sea now in cultivated thought. The image of a Mother in her own going-away waiting machinations wants to hear from her son away then travelling in the Himalayas - she's languid of purpose in her crazy midnight muse - the Mother suffers and becomes a dialectician to the narimee bird sqawking "narimee, narimee... narimee, narimee" at the edge of night. That I live creatively by denying a striven world, only the dust and coarse devil-may-care apt little bird may seed the silent void of its swathe invitations to space. Beautiful and so present, her fight to exist may lead to this writ of imagination nuanced out of our human awe while accretions to my hope in its comely perch are actually transitory, sober and deliberate.