Spelunky, but starry aloof, propioception in good description

I LIKE READING when my weary repose takes paces in the fewer lanes endorsing nothing immediately derivative, looking ever more to retell the bliss getting the better of me. This feeling of sliding off the fly wheel rather than sticking to it is quite an interesting box of rules throughwhich we compartmentalize, adjust or dissolve in throes of unloosened imperatives. And what uncarved fields of conceptual feeling hoping what the author imparts actually lasts. So, I find I have an impulse of being negligent, averring effort but traipsing a poverty of time, or rather that the task is negligible so why persist? If I would have to get past my rather provincial corner just adapting to new information, new information may only be ...well hardly comfortable intuitions, an Objective Reality, this recession relative mean, consciousness by whatever I adjudge of its nature as an exoteric ambition, the ground beneath our feet, our aerobatic moulds. As mechanics of observation, the fascinans ept clasps hands between sleep and mean shores, spelunky or starry aloof.**********Immensities rank in source and light evanescent of the world you once shed and yet endures as a model for an alacrity to our school of life, that our past is coming-on having grown-up smooched repeatedly by you as all your children and grandchildren, so fundamental that we should know how much you loved us, we love you as a possibility that cannot be turned-off.***********If you were asked to tell the tale what it is you think is life's bitter pill as to How Do You Live with Yourself, I can only imagine taking a strong, deep breath, told out of watery contented and redolent conscience that only recently I had woken up to a dream from a lullaby Mom illustrates in my thinking. Living with oneself is always in peak observation wondering about the grace of change to the freedom of our future. Playing as Absolute marionettes to that of some greater will, pieces of the past and all that goes into our decisor relevance, I am all the absorbing energies of Life, and sometimes unilaterally looking on toward self becoming a slim choice of complexity as an ambition consumed homunculi. Dancing as apparitional as dust motes with self corralled into small egoities, only you are the approbator of self-worth, the manufacturer of motive.***********In what way am I outside my actions while noticing my inner-conversation, thinking, '...do you wanna drive,' imploding with a vicarious daimon, retreating with, 'you already are.' Like someone within is answerable and yet in-that-continuum road winding, lodged in traffic, no-other-place-to-be, I wouldn't just turn-over and sleep. And still some escapist to mundaneity shelters the lens on a rather complex manufacturing of confidences: pacing under the anthropos of monstrous clouds in this penumbral present, the shadows braced by the currency of an elliptic 'submit,' only to make plain, I imagine hardly votive endurance to the impermanent record. Capacious of beginnings, the world improves the gainsaying of identity, all the guarantee of its potency and otherness to characterize this becoming as fleeting 'divines' (the making of...) get thee out, this second person of my senses. Just my senses.*************The world of blind potency and radiant otherness characterizes our lives becoming as fleeting, and yet committed to the imposture of ready encouragement one proscribes Get Thee Out, this second person to our senses.***************While I wander in this cosmic house by day devised by objective reality and its abracadabra, I scale its facade by night forging the key to the coming doors of perception denying somnolence in its consolation of a deep-aside and declaiming its spiritual half-light.***************Well, even the materialists recognize withwhom it enlists to break institutions, who it is that would derive reflection on Law which clearly is limiting of their own political machinations while arguing for no distortion in what they see. Begging for a philosophy pled for Reason against the more ambitious, id affected, in their monstrous clouds uncertain of their Sunlight contrivance, and yes fighting folks on the table of g*ddamn parsimony, asking, "What does it look like to you ...?" To my eyes, conservatives are now so distorted in their Red technocratic Americana, Power isn't alarming to them in their social ignominy; they don't consult empowerment with their closest luculent on Culture and identities' movement. While progressives can see themselves in the climate of that power in its A to B dialect living amongst such unthinking, sensitive to elaborate on relationship by denying an Us and Them continuum, I can speak for myself, my abandonment of ego, hopefully if I'm astute, is this duality with the need of less a decisor or divider than more reason discoverable to develop Human Rights, Health Justice, truth, art and culture, jobs and vocations, rehabilitations and creativity respected which trickle down only from whom that would hope above, across sameness, round these places of our making.*************A lesson really, it was tough love and my teeth would hardly cut nor sublimely recognize it as mainstay or certainty. To the ends of self, thinking I may witness the heaviness of being, what fine few notes of contentfulness lurps from this exclusive idea's gland where everything worldwide is velocitous and retreating from its actual value, the value of some promise of my escape. Discovering the ground beneath my feet is fully otherness ronching to imply its mire-sensate coming, then over as I would do what I do here realizing just the occasions to be plaino me there too. She's evocative, this One-World, her mutual emergence with the near slurring creek of our minds is fecund and rich upon the surface, just elements and a complexion for light imperatives within.***************To sense and jettison distraction in making a record of moments under the splay of a favored tree canopy better than 45 years ago, then something else yet another view just mitigating the contentment to wandering my Quail Creek neighborhood while standing there in my five year old feet, I'm merely this little Texan thinking empowerment to the bigness shouldering to my cosmogony, big world where I come from, imaginable. It is just so surprising to me that somehow proprioceptive stuff, phantom but interior light shows, emerge from those spaces like I've looked again, hidden-away even more above me into those stridulant boughs with thoughts proffering the Tiger Stripe gum I chewed round those years of green youth and just more glint of voluntas from the Sun peeking out of periwinkle blue skies. Following the creek where I plodded at the steep drawling end of our road I have a mind declaiming answers worldwide. I'm an actionable spirit across that proudland, a marauding agonist of nature misunderstanding nature's hoplon of self that will always be of this encounter in some affection to that little world conjured in her shadows of rescue and wholly defanged by an earthen vehement anonymity. A lesson really, it was tough love and my teeth would hardly cut nor sublimely recognize it as mainstay or certainty.*************Amongst white clouds waving-on in bookish-ethos, a few things run me into more reserved shores, prone to yon looks into conceptual thought. Sometimes, if you stay ept into the sweep of the past you have to react as guarantors of history. Schooled of life in rhythmic loss or fruition by re-inflating identities so they'd become emergent like tentpoles of their conferant more recent application to this circus act of today's social-political reality obvious in this dispensation, whence everyone with a brain sees, 'It's never been this bad before,' more from acosmistic cognates and phantom comforts, they almost can care for you developing through this and that. That what you do becomes an overstanding to low-common denominators bouncing your sensitivities on being into their haunts having the impetus of an undone history the goal of our academic and creative reach into lots of books, and lots of identities to plenteous antecedents, reaction to change rather against difference. The crease of page upon page opened to streams of instruction is where eyes reify anyspace and seem like remittance to blinking bites of the author's lure to our whetted esteem proportional through studious extent in realism's spark of swath agreement, having-gotten-it only prepared to think it as access to our nature. I am all about the black fire streaking into the waters of many a book, into their blue pages awash in remedy, white fire tableaux burns concomitant of conscious props festooning history and the whiling-away one discovers there.*************Stagger into the gates of the forest, careen into its dank floor tasting the cool hypnoses of being present. Everything shows the might in self-reflection accumulating there, and the shadows of just-because become its capacious smothering. To paint accounts of our glad mind nomenclature is nothingness little iconographed through proprioception. With clamored over, funk-eliciting glass of inner-tissues, the looking-glass of our decisor nature to our becoming is no one identity explaining its lucence**************Thought this was rather contemplative from a year ago, so I'll tighten it up some here, sure to become reflective, looking way away, really on. ***** You've come-correct construing your time wisely sauntering into preoccupation and contentment. I'm glad I'm looking. Believing that the case is nicely laid upon - intimating with what lucence must be born, fly to a proliferate heaven untying the thinker from the mouldering body inappetitic to things, as to say 'You're calling something an answer,' life of exoteric inquiry enjoined wholly, generally, all of its ocean. Fully the essence of indefinite choruses would bloom in amens and apeiron aums and yet surprise me in heights to their spiritual feast eaten like mainstay rather than ambrosia. In one note of a day fecund with melody, imagine a feelable world, all that potency in our senses, its cartage to chances of color and light, coolness cooling, warmth igniting, the shore of experience which keeps coming, then when it's over ...you become its sense recovered. A most natural muse to this slow fidelity, I'm encouraged then absorbed among Light's reasonable furniture to the realm over memory and interior where Grandma's couch of consciousness let all my dreams portray their first door opened on this beat nerve, this lamenting mind, an' seeing Mom belching emblems of her myth and lightning lip conversation, love in the glad eye of a broken deer, my yard-sculpture on land where nature 'hopes' down unfettered to distance enlisting soul's safety in this or that niche, spirits averring, given-up then vying responsum across her loosening and escape, I think rather hopefully her spiritual being would be revealed of homey prayers left to its desiccate form before as yesterday's hands placed her, cornerstone apposite, Terah's toppled idol yet still in some career of one kind of doxology.***************People leapt from my skein of form. From my mouth was more easily their plank drawing my attention. Like weeping and wailing figures, black cloaked in tendony bites, gnashing between teeth like these cloaked hordes in expiation felt it unreasonable their last digs had become the boluses of my incorporation. Wildly, throes of populist valor from the scaling horde are set-free of tribute for their habituation in my mind's administration and I imagined my cadence written like glyphed Hindi ink tattooed across my head and face. The bum-rushing crowd in my self-possession made a circus of my pale shelter, churchy amens of nigh aums were eaten like victuals of literate thoughts, I'm the more vehement cannibal, I thought, or some manifest matriarch of an insect infestation, eat eat eat.**************Hamza al-Din plays his oud in an ethereal Sinaitic mood. Slacking attention then divining its reflection in paces while alighting as music in the Egyptian canal irrigator's meddle he supposes a hero of water who knows to quench supplications for mercy. His segueway provenance is lush in blissful condominium with the Sun, green as youth and impulse, mirthful only that a High G*d in the skies is listening, he's riding his waterwheel, far-over growing melechia and cucumbers fed from the White Nile. It is a proscribed heat remarkable as Peter O'Toole convening "Orientalism" as to coin an image in a place of a day's pretend affect to that of Man's chthonian and spare map he wanders wedded to histories and learned among the jinns.*************Is our world bad or good? Cessation stands out if one defies death as evil yet defines lives and those busy dying in confluence of penumbral guarantees of some goal to self-improvement. This adventure merits the survival of the wisest whose observation of stillness is applied in its apposite value, cessation, getting back to the climate of our more humble education to powers denied their impact (we are) too breachable by their distraction. Abraham's palimpsest journey given to evasion from a Babylonian cauldron makes the presumptive relief or fix to our suffering in being merely removed from its terror while remaining within it, a fire transforms into the cool lotus. I know if I run around imagining some part of the cosmos, = here and now, summoned through a high-bar rationale, meanwhile I can't deny that I've become impulsive of conditional, more materialist thinking and so of course our spirits are fully developed self-knowing or not in the material world. Conflated by interesting myth, Yes, only somewhat. What weird preachments in the reckoning of a world-to-come, living but reconciled to biblacy's leonine perceptual come lion's den meditation supposed with as likely a Shia sense of memorial and lesson as their Susa lands of Daniel's tomb refines also the reach of Bavli beginnings to Aramaic purveyors as Jews will have been.***********An hallucination - me thinking people were in my car. I'm parked. Not the phantom head in the traveller's seat kind of thing. I'd call it as benign as memories of probing in the neighbor's garden among bowed blooms condoling my senses from something I felt unready to encounter - that I am the clay, the shadows, phenomena. By myself then. While I sat in the back smoking, two figures appeared and occupied up front, charioteers to my Chevette. Once upon a time out behind the ole church by my house around the meadow from well-contented horses, it will never be the same foot of the mountain then half-way home unshrouding of a midnight sky deftly scaled this way again. The Doctor owner of the lot's adjacent property should have been this eunomies' dreamer of The Broken Bridge and the Dream dreamscape fallen to me the gatekeeper of gates prised open to their horses with reins sloughed-off, which actually frees them somehow in the blue night of soma soup and my wandering spirit like their anschluss probity not neatly offered captured by these near fences but would've given-up. An hallucination: so with schizophrenia, not called that anymore it seems, my main symptom had been my compartmentalizing ran afoul and I'd be dundered and 'confused.' But one solution was to imagine a visualized if emergent Thought Disorder strongly libertine to conceive selves this phantomic and buffered through good TOM in these thoughts' poorly funded economy making me feel plain, mildly objectionable as an entertaining concession to the depth of stillness inclined with ghostly reflections hitherto in dialect almost materializing ply aliens to a conversation till then I understood as an interior way of dreams. Comforted in otherness, angels, perhaps, I reconciled. Chagall's Blue Angel, ...or horses in circus lightning and flurry.**************Getting out of the business of having to act on identity, proving it in someway, is reliably Change becoming more definitive of our repair, a change of name, an indifference to schedules, given to a solution in constancy, Something in view of what seems to be my opportunity with myth only that I'm led and removed from the morning of what wanderings in history cross the plank sacralized of Nature's vehement crush, into afternoon and night, dances as sands wind-empty of dreamy footfall till one emerges amid its window of conscious success, an appearance too, equal in more usual moments of an ever-unknowing stuff imparted with the guise or persona of complicity to inquiry, that I should and would, I'm called to and adjured, to which I can only say woven in Rasta praxis, asking, whence these streets of wanderers transect a ghost town, why not scale the walls of an indifferent memory with the power of new distances fromwhich their spiritual embers might be felt?***************Quoting from Dan Brook's Tikkun Blog, "...Israeli Prime Minister Golda Meir responded “I believe in the Jewish people.” Questioning and struggling with the concept of God are deeply ingrained in Judaism and literally part of the word Israel, the community of Jews, from which the country takes its name. Therefore, atheism is kosher and I am proud to be an “atheist of the book.”" What this decidedly reputes is the etymology of the word "Israel." The word means, Those who strive or struggle with (divine) god. An impersonal sense of meaning to the world is adjuring from this inner-agonic study (of the word, Word, in its denouement), only to hear what is come from Jewish Higher Learning. Our Ethical Writings, the Talmud, it has been presumed, takes an atheist to be the best student of its ocean's report. So I hope in someway evinced of the middle to cultural initiation, not a mission of belief as it is anecdotally and more broadly a sense of Knowledge ruling superable than keeping aphoristic images in mind, some wist of G*d, it is fair to say, Judaism is to the morning of Western iconoclasm as Core-Culture is in the night of its democratic reasoning as to say yoke or denial of the hierarchy to those who control symbols such as Justice, Liberty, philanthropy and the numen (O patriot) et cetera.***************By inquires in our stoic but most present ways when we really think about life - and I think vision and a way forward - is in taking-on the inter-personal proverbial 'bump in the road,' directing us toward its imminent attention on point of rational wisdom contenting us that things-just-happen. You live and should do as you will, while arguing out of Kung Fu tzu's Analects or Hillel's Talmud for the Golden Rule, a child's adage, "If you don't, I won't," (so to speak) where Big Men make their first destiny's call upon the moral landscape, thinking, 'would I dare persist?' A mind working with one and against itself and fooled by imagining and expectation, value statements are made as the first mistake on our ways to the Compassionate Void, while questioning one's self in his or her mellow come stridulant addiction to the other, that It Is All Ego, one may imagine social living coining our moods no differently than a drug and is an apex answer more usually in complement of something underlying our ambitions to be understood, or overstood, that easy self-reflection, probably always imputed to our encounters. Though it is for some only to imagine jumping from our reflective waters while faring the equinox to our minds, a sense of karma makes our shared world look deliberate, threadbare with this same existential attire, but through eyes speaking of the drowned and the saved in one encounter at a time.****************On my early '70's then restored Schwinn 10speed in a Summer's dialect gliding through airport ways swinging further out apposite my Beaumont neighborhood, I get to Little Texas when a tremendous report from a gun blast tears past as if targeted to my wildman frame. I thought, 'I get to die now.' I said, "Jezzz.' - And it was forgiveably plaintive as Eli Eli lama sabachthani. Ending anymore conflation, I'm eye to nerve into bony head sutures pleading over my meddle at any moment come to this plain vanishing? Kicking it now down Fort Springs-Pinckard my adrenaline had left me wan, washed up from the intensity to escape by the end of yasss Dedman Lane - not just poetic device - I look at my arms and legs imagining full physical success and only just down the road fooled by a gat in some phantom's hand. 'Ha, only a name ...but I know I ain't any wiser.' A tobacco barn is in front of me toiled by all-the-day-long elements, black and splintered, hushed right up onto the road's margins. Looking at my back tire it had blown and apparently with explosive force... Trees finesse into this mediate palette, eating air - like the burning in my chest of ignorance and heat nodding into the pitch of my throttled heart and now a colour to the blindspottedness of impermanence, 10,000 coves, the gray refrain in every glance in all the days thence bloomed from the god of abracadabra's thwack to my impulses, an interior trance, objective reality all restored in almost an unrecorded earthly light.***************In the midst of this modern American impetus round the experiment to a worldwide technocratic free-for-all, why in the hell does the more Literalist observer, hardly transformative Traditionalist, in their oh so discriminating self-reflection of the product to core-culture inwhich they become, had they been so inclined, lure so blindly as to not imagine the banner dissent coming from more progressive intensions sounding out the same reserve and agreement from 2000 year old scariphare illuminating the antecedents to Christian peoples, their certain ministrations toward pathetic realities in society, by addressing poverty quite differently theoretically than that of the Christian Right now so acquisitive savoring power in the laudatory echo chamber that they would ever take-on in thus and such expression pon the moral landscape !! ...Women's health now in focus.***************I'm first coddled, brought home Mother's parturient to my first physical map intending pon this conscious one to an excelsior-town's Gardenside area rather appropriately, I feel, farmlands imbued closely under these same skies, creeks, creeks and a dank if heroic neighborhood pond. Living where my sweet Susie and I do now is only a leisurely walk to the Baptist Hospital ready then 51 years ago for my month early birth. That place of my making in another house for 27 years, I can freely imagine something of a creative monadic survey of my life becomes obvious. Round by a creek in Garden Springs park, just contiguous with Gardenside, I go and sit under a huge tree, deciduous and roughlike maple leaves, but I don't know my trees. With my book prone, arm sorta extended, I guess I'd be reading Scholem Aleichem's actually not boring Tevye's Daughters on this occasion, or Isaac Babel's Stories of the Red Cavalry, even Bernard Lewis like today. Sunny day like now, the splurb of the stream at my back disappears, I'm travelogoi allured here in this elapsing to good meditation. And then out of the tree, high-up most certainly because there isn't a possibility in reaching its first limbs, somehow an earthworm falls in my eye. My eye. Yass, an avian's misanthropic move perhaps, and yet I hadn't sensed the cloud-hand factotum in the boughs above.*************"I have a little meadow, I've kept for you in store And it's only due, I should tell you true, it never was mowed before." (Traditional, the Mower) And today it is become novel as ever to get out there, not to say 'refreshing,' though waiting and rather lulling around locked in my body, finally, sitting here now I imagine a rather cathartic deed done, push-mowing our backyard, handily but with a good whelm of pain. I walk in from the porch having knocked the grass from my shoes and Iris DeMent is outsetting with a bucolic mood, love sensate truly, and while imagining any next moment that I'm about to collapse "The country music station plays soft, but there's nothing, really nothing to turn-off." (Bob Dylan, Visions of Johanna) Only if I could, just tracing my breath rooted down into solemn mnemosyne - how deep is this concern and stress - panting like a damn dog who is forced to run with his or her owner, (which I never understood - the dog doesn't need it) I'm at least at liberty to perspire and hope for the flush corners of appearances to give me room to be conferant and wander again amid my redefined perseverance.***************Thinking through a project of more austerity may serve that poignancy to define meditation in confidence unblind to a more elastic stillness. Watching the eyes of a motivated observer averring lands in its mutilation to that of something symbolic, appearances in one's concept of myth seem more elect in detail. His eyes lured aft like a ship pointing into the star-oriented moment, illiterate, not sunk then anchored, indulgent as a book's crease to make more unknowable matters of Time suspend amid the emptiness contemptible by the heaviness of words. Lots of books, lots of identity to awe over with plenteous antecedents.***************Tathagata, 'thus-gone' are the immensities in the climate of some greater will. From sensate to spiritual, the things whose box I check in this world more tacit are sometimes in Chaim Potok's characters. Subtlely the 'lil' brother' to Davey in "In the Beginning" inspires what isn't at all, I could guess, the intent of his author and instead with both the author's and through the incidental grasp of little brother, a lucid seance of inner-city wilds, nature outsetting with Big Sur like descriptions owing to Beat proximations, portend philosophical rapport as-if out of Ojai, California's precincts within these valleys, where Krishnamurti had written "...To Himself," for instance, and alludes to something more Eastern (I assert) while Potok also maybe in agreement to their bucolic spaces, round orchards and peace to progressive minds seems emplaced with symbolic promotion, generally perhaps, freely associated. The little brothers step up to an expired bird in the park's path on their way to a clearing poignant in covetous secrets - within a reachable past, war and rumors of war, the historically belched partisan Father, Max Lurie, of Poland or Polyn, as named in Yiddish, figures prominently - this 'demise' is not the only avian to bring pathetic ideation - the expired cloud-purveyor is shone like esoteric shores where Davey would alight. The younger of the two awes in near (older brother's) literacies of fractured if divinely supposed forces and just weird impermanence, calls the creature, "budee." So an alliterative musterion seems welcome: it makes my mind seize on the name of the transcendent Buddha implied. The imagery concordant is mirrory like Escher's forest overhead seen reflected in dallies of earthen blemishing and puddles, its rare ungrace - a sentient and two-tone puddle - is ideation of mind, a bird flown, a project of the reader's self-worth, becoming wanderers by wooded spirits where trees of scaffolding embrace the actors as a model for human perception.***********Bent over not as old men but as hunters pleading empyrean heaviness, I looked up and thought, 'Live big today.'***********Speech, breath, wind, eye and heart elect just this primary theater of everything that sensates and that I'll ever get to know. I think to conversate. Then just what-if upon the thoughtplain conscious couch. Garble it. Sometimes denied even easyspeak, I just ronch on conceptualization. Rhythm through the sound of a usual door appending the day chides me into evanescence - lo, it makes me live - though I call it an appositive, lent from mind-hand to world-encounter is the blue slumber in Rimbaud's now evoked breach in the gate opened up to me, onto starved geists merely 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'm mutable of forever, exoteric like an earthen thing and presumptive of voluntas, interpreting my clay lobbed to the present, fecund.************And this, like a stardate to endless Summer: In the mountains, Upstate New York, I took a hike into the woods and reclined next to a clear stream - these are the Catskills up from the Hudson Valley. Then rejecting nicotine succour to peal back the serenity in such a remote and lucid stream, I gainsay the emptiness and facile resolve to be stimulated. I saw the scale of alternations from emotional toll or intellection of my mind swarthy from what would have been a compelling chemical romance; after having endured the concreting of their pressures, I'm already patient to the extremes of my mind. Just in my mental-speak, I wouldn't level or reduce the gratuity to the liberty I had apprehended not to smoke. I remember how glad I was to find myself there - the forest - for self-actualization sake, so glad, but no one of my immediate family during this spare visit only to become my conferants as I wake in reaching the two threads of the horizon, my solitarian trajectory. In mopey paces around down from our Russian-Jewish bungalow colony equidistant to the Polish-Catholic compounds, called the Vistula, named here after the largest river in Poland, the woods were haunted, full and wandering, an imminence that I imagined nigh from shared clouds in an unspirited urban world, which is waiting for me, yawning in the prone meditation of this retreat. A fallen well past my wooded ambulation, off our country road in some blueberry patch by the Vistula, makes these rough, formerly inhabited other communities around it look peevish, even annoyed that by impulse and sight of benediction I wanted to populate the rocky, summer-browned grassy space with my nature-parturient concerns. I told myself it looked like a nice place to bury the misery of the world - looking over its broken-down stone gird, the shadows belched in unintimation at my wist - it wasn't a very mollifying Purveyor of my Hope and still I do. Consequently I felt even a bit more haunted and humored.

Walt Whitman, Sam Harris, Potok, Wade Davis

Walt Whitman said, "We were together. I forget the rest." No, only to say that, man, I do but I'd kill air to repent. In that lure absconding realism driven by real confidence there but suspicious of the hidden coves to our condominium, you and me, Lo, blind earth to Love's zenith in a season of blooms in sprawls like orchards enjoined as this paradise, nation of two, I say to Susie: "I ran away from home. And you suspired in warmth and were outsetting there sublime in thereness. I ran away from home. And you were never out of bounds."*************I can imagine lying in the target from ascendent gradins of an ancient temple, like I've been turned inside-out then left upon a flotilla of space while the small ocean of spirituality within me is conflated to a conscious pocket still murmurring in psalmodies of holiness to the flora of Sundarbans lush and fertile, an ecoregion of Mother India's self-reliance praxis in the volition of my dreamscape, palimpsest of waking state's fetters. According to Salman Rushdie "palimpsest" means what-is-erased-beneath. I'm aloft past interogating pop of things never really consuming me, but to lift an artful cliche making it this verse of poeses, wondering 'how soon is now,' is my confinement here to an anywhen wedded to this voluntas of presence in the assent of more imminent figures to its challenge draws our dispensation sometimes evitably felt before seeing Time in my physical success where I imagine it not so subtle. They are the things far over, way over, enumerating me in their weary distances, that ratiocinating a state of being would be impossible on some level at some point, only that I think this now. I'm an evolving young mind, anecdotal and outsetting plain age merely from this looking glass, but I feel I know my beginning conscious map allures and recreates realistic ones and started as clear as in my clever five year old persona dreamily supine at the ruins of some now overgrown thought's passway whose refinement to my reversion of loss demanded enduring an august and careless world, just as you and everyone all too ready to re-dream it all.**************A conversation in a kind of change inmost developing my view of the morality I imagine as practical, chohan-like new logoi en mantra makes loops in my thinking, that I only want to encourage the pellucid air of wine-dark histories. I give over the pronoun "meh," civilization's beginning subject to core-culture in all manner of consciousness ill-framed as one thing, but rather an egoity reproven to consensuses then as now, knowing I am a product of history, telling of anyway through immanently crowded tales as the project of its worth. Round new corners to give and play with their crapulent halloo of yesteryear and a few words adjuring quickened identities amid their late concordant roots, I'm given its phantom economy enriching the mindsore of our near perceptual loam, and with stone on my tongue, yeah, "Underneath the lording of an empyrean blue, suspired in warmth with her pollen-messenger received in the self-same cosmogonic garden, we were outsetting there sublime in thereness."************From an inmost preachment confident of the dreamstuff withwhich the world must be made, I can imagine lying in the target from ascendent gradins of an ancient temple like I've been turned inside-out then left upon chimeric sands while the small ocean of spirituality within me is conflated to a conscious pocket still murmurring in psalmodies of holiness to the flora of Sundarbans lush and fertile, an ecoregion of Mother India's self-reliance ether sprawled in the volition of my dreamscape, palimpsest of the fetters implying the interdictive change of waking reality. Wondering everyday how soon it felt before ratiocinating a state of being would be impossible started as clear as in my clever five year old persona dreamily supine at the ruins of some now overgrown thought's passway whose refinement to my reversion of loss demanded enduring an august and careless world, just as you.*********

***********Seneca said in good verse, here giving latitude with an askesic implication not as in Gandhian Mother, homeward bound, morality, but instead seeing his patriarchy, this Iberian philosopher of 2000 years ago, while unpacking the mischief of his more mutable language. He says, mostly, 'Read a few authors well, and with a hammer to the iconography of excess, deny the library of distraction.' The place I'm moving from is his proscription on one's "random" approbity to 'his' interests, to that of an "excess" which also likely fetches a syncretic reality to the world beginning this Common Era. So magnified, this is a declamation against a standard for meditation as students of life to the vapors of vanity: an ambition of more than looking-out from terra-firma for the report of an oceanic episteme fecund to her wine-dark depths, toe in, at some safe shoreline when the combustion of one's spirit had all along performed with subtlety, less ...even primary garments of existence. Yet subsuming in vanities, running plenteous of inner-dialogue, replete in mimicry, are only implying the reins on plain slow-fidelity needed, this comfiture of contemplation as our crowded wist which becomes as liminal as a coveted sense of otherness, or the other so like us, excelsior somehow.************I wonder with nativist propriety over knowledge in its contest with some more subtle dialect in my nerves. My electric is mapped in glossy sight and revision of impulse and movement and back over itself as rhythm training change linked, stammering and yawned to last lights changing. Thence with tokens spent of a spirit's suzerain in a strange land through the sort of focus demanding new ways of its telling I've just endured my Mom's very prayerful whiling-away penetrating Crossword puzzles like the things I could discover with a gathering of instruction that is reappointed. Trying to unpack a mess of history and identity tamed through symbolic permutations is an analytical meditation. Lettering is issuant in plenteous forms in your writer's implied hand, voice and legs of the same empiricist in and out of our communication glands and still dun colored in passporte glyphic antiquities of some raptured road-maker black furious print woven in an immediacy of white fire, just reading, and it is an addiction to a pathos of attention. One of health and perseverance. We hurt in thoughts' movement, studying one sip of the ocean at a time in remonstrations of hopefully self-poignant things that ought to be lifted from the page. It is painful being so careful traipsing the art of forgetting. Sometimes I may glimpse at the denial of a rather persistent present, anything lens heavy pon thus and such author's report - distraction, stimulation. This would have followed the operative direction of the appositive newly turned-over article that I watch slurring in my desire for its culpability, though I only want to improve their reach equally only realizing now and forever ago in the forest of life underfoot, a world of dust-steeped dreams, tea of my living composition.*************

*************I've never seen a month go by so quickly, Susie fatedly discovers for us this afternoon. We're levitated in our car dodging and passing down Nicholasville Rd corridor, work-a-day, as the horizon evokes several talking heads of courtship through dispensation as it merits their say-so ...I badly want to know. I start to imagine saying, however I can, the relationship between our subject self and nature brings me into confidence with all the educated minds corralled in a better world-view, only to get to it. In nature's embrace, whatever consensus opens the back pages of egoity, gone green with presence, thought's discernment in whatever quality is in our material success from the impact of an empyrean scaffolding of forever in the foreground and just beyond, careless in our provisional imaginations, we're blown-up in better and more deserved moments of this mitigation of self-reflection. Time: A thought isn't eventual any more velocitous than the imagined content in however satiate the Well of Time when I wear my efforts in the wake of an unlikely objectivity hoping that I would become redeemed and full-up with intercalation, and still without any control, I want to invent it.******************This image seems like where I stood, accompanying a small travelogue drawn around November of 1987 are these desert haunts, a place outside Dahab on the Red Sea. The mountains are the Wadi Gnai and look from my obeisant memory-speaking exactly like what's presented here just as I'd wandered these Sinaitic near shorelines. A shooting star marked one night part of about a week once upon a time of meritable belly-button window intimations ...and otherwise a month in Luxor and Cairo. Damn, the very gone-ness of needed sleep, hopeful of the balance then which I am beginning to cultivate even while I'm still grasping in forced-thought scenarios having been my more usual mental economy still is sometimes only inky dissolution, swallowed blue-meaning breaths, during a week here or there definitely in the places of most my change, reflections in a golden-eye. Enduring broken mirror's season of change, stellar conscious maps amongst the Believers pushed through doors en project as my sense of life corralled, tied off, surfaces to that waiting, empties to sense convictions, and crapulent from its irreducibility complicates wanting to go-away - and yet the world hadn't divided. So long, I thought in ways that I may yield and remember what is missed - sleep and re-dream - cover the mind in fresh waters. Robbie Loco and I had occasion to tacitly appreciate Egypt: her continuities indicating its otherness in pre-Western concepts, no irony of impelled temporal millennia, Egyptian longevity was one of steady locomotion - before Common Era there are 3000 years or 5000 more in places having done civilization, adagy as dunes of beat consolations, these handful of destinations ...along the Nile River, by the Red Sea for instance. I want to give back that enamored sun well of space needing repair post-fundamentalism, squeeze history's heart vein to vein conducive with the minerals of culture. I drink the language of antiquities whose letters will have directed me in and around these environs of auspicious study, Midian or Madyan (Red Sea regions) to Abyssinia, Ethiopia, noting the defoliation after civilization exceedth, is an actionable call over the moral landscape still reverberating from an Axial Age and their soulful doctrines extruding any definition for self till now consuming humanity is home to us then as now - mollifying time with a kind of tasawwuf hope, I mean I'm allured to an immediacy to something esoteric, and will have been readied for this old world's new day sweet butterfly in reflection as I awaken to the blue skies of Susie, my love.*******************Something of Rainer Maria Rilke's godtalk has left an impression on me. Probably all-told I may misapply his intent, while through his compassionate enterprise, I hope and feel I have good paces in his folksy approval here. In the Christian provoked Vienna ghetto where their cosmogonical Jewish chorale are forced to live, this tribulation having generation upon generation squeezed into restriction, once lived an old tsadik, a righteous man. He becomes bird's eye objective to the secreting of lives and with phantomic wisdom in core-culture sensitivity projects omnipresence while their dwellings and hovels are arrayed below his, they are ever promoting his habituation exceedingly higher and higher. Then what the reader may see are postulates of his freedom unbound after theirs, the Viennese, of lacquered intimacy. Imagine, reduced to skyward vision in his libertine heart, having no room left in temporal realestate. A microcosm might usually be the dream of in-between places, a sabbatical wish, though this ascendent seems to be cultivating release. His spiritual teeth ronching on the Otherness having kept him aloof, and prone as we all are to that Mystery, it is belied by class-biases and some impinging lens made-off from social execution and superstition, out of reach. Yet that exilic profound heaven g'warns more closely, he's pushed away through an inverted ground-of-being from the burgeoning crossroads outsetting old boundaries, everyone meshed upon his last footfall, his last respite.*****************This integer ridiculous schedule when assigning a personality in their presence made evident or all along as something else not principal, needing observation, applies aft wind characterizations appealing in good use of the False Positive hypothesis, meaning, there is 'a way to run with it' while the myth one serves isn't based upon a promise or mission over fate, but hope only amid pragmatism and curiosity, awe. Maybe it could be a naturalist bent toward what we are becoming, minus any kind of Creator's accompanyment - materialism does this thing of self-appointment, I'm saying - and yet many persist in the face of reasonable conversation - this world of meaning is strung to the feeling of "It" being like us, even for us. Sometimes relationship with Self and Nature suspends the otherness in the anonymity of plants, flowers and trees through the beck of False-Positive conflations - yes, everyone does - then we're only slightly put-off getting the key of intensions to work the lock of pure nonchalance and grandeur of forever plain as the unendurable beauty of the surface to a stream after rainfall, now impossibly full, their pregnant margins mute into our shared atmosphere. We live pon the rivers of life.****************

Doing the Right On

That we are all made of the same stuff as almost everything round these temporal haunts and just as the invented homiletics from celestial primacies to the enumerators partial to an eternal or apeiron factory sometimes or not in my Greek Ionian Anaximander best I wonder about Fire purgating with Good within us and Water awash our empirical depths in dreigh interstices of one's pain and loss applied with Mercy. Fire and Water. Solemn rite in pre-history's proto-Australoid world would establish epistemologies come later to a vedic vehicle with liquefaction in hypnotic ceremony while consuming a mushroom tea called soma - red fly agaric, this mushroom interprets flames eternal and plollocks perdurably with phantom prayer's expediter as the cosmic seas. Transcendence, and why not with a fiery brew? Literally, fire-water. Both appositives at play, the world is on fire with the reversable project of mundanity, and human perception is equal to its endlessness, no longer one drop of the ocean of incremental lurping reports over what-is, but the distance strung in parsimony to nothing at cardinal variance, everything is swallowed whole.*************Fragmentation is the first state of mind. Then whetted from the affect of distraction, this condition falls away becoming buffered from the provisional weather in generalities to any day, relishing the factory of sight and sensation while variously unrecordable as an encounter its intercalation of forever has an improving sense. Our minds are capable of elucidating nothing rhetorical. While all rivers run to the sea, their continuum is ever in a solarity's aerobatic retrograde, their destiny is impossibly full and then taking more. That we just fractalize in moderating moods or thoughts' economy, language lives through the only few words expediting such anticipation ever so deeply contented in reflection, while it really is the anchor presuming the safety in less going-on. At the ground of our beings we're called on again and again to propose our measured memories, an idea competing against sense-content definitely instructed by the heavier hand of our monarchical subconsciousness. So through minds so elliptical to presume continua with objective reality, seeing a hunter-gatherer wanting to confide meaning, that resource becomes also the story of resource, capsulating this world mostly mean of resource or agonisms in learning how to divine that one doesn't get the big picture, there is no big picture or piece of universal meaning in the carriage of our spirits, it is just how well oriented to it and open to change we become.************We're promised the story of belief system as a purity rite and circumstance inflamed by and conceived through ill conventions contending new information as merely unwillingness to change. A game of identity nodding to imply the gaps in one's intelligence. And certitudes in purgation of an off-putting contention to know better, the direction is multiplied through kenosis, this great and sublime self-emptying by elucidation living as we do in such helplessness in temporal heights granted within an Eastern context is appending a better meditation than just the last, meditation as an abra-cadabra of specters warming chill fields all away - all the world of sense inveigling slightly erased beneath - and if Abrahamic doxologies bring about a celestial plan the-way-they've-always-been adjuring an answer, making the subtle claim G*d is not only Higher Ground, but radically Other just as the case for this mean experience of our provisional imaginations, we are exiles till then. Then is an eschaton, the creative goal to esteem a would-be creative underlying order. Only that it saunters away from a rational spirit at the impoverishing of only one world's consent to an otherwise provisional sense-change in nature meriting this shadow of realization: we are all One to One beneath the same sky-vault of Nature, whelm of one awakening, these years mucking paths, mapping footfall that are like stelae remembering an acquisitive season just past our doors in weather with trees trying-on sun garments in right comfiture through their 10,000 coves, and beneath her canopies home and hearth of gray gnashings and hallooing candles. The Closing of the Western Mind, a great record on Church history, divines her congregation truly catholic ( = universal) and more plastique than the kaltida wood woven-basket in parturient drifting through Nile currents bringing the near-Hamitic coming philosopher Moses, Moshe, Musa into focus and record from our usual wisdom-traditions, or the same wood of the Cross and as a Noatic choice in building his arc, 'we're' more 'tranformative' and followers of reason - it is only history; spirituality is monist in that a believer sits at the feet of many gods - because now all grails aside from the few laudable primitives brandishing their own iconoclasm among us are technocracy's stupidly donned consensuses. I believe in the conversation. The Law, its Glory - the Word drives the ideation of logoi, the Logos not toward "reasoned account," but to a beginning time where ex nihilo Creation is summoned, sounding a lot like a story, one that should be an underpinning of myth, muthoi, which may achieve continua apposite psychological states of eudaimonia, complexions of social passporte and above all all the content-imperative to gainsaying evil-doers in a broad circumstance to the facts, like assigning elite values to plain knowledge or that certain knowledge should be feared. A story.************So to record I'm lucky enough to take direction, see how to think things through, lucky to be around folks cultivating self-reliance, believing in change, that even here they watch and even forget conscientiousness as to indict what I'm telling you I see while through their social mission these words are designed to encourage one's self-worth: "Separate behavior from personhood." So that she or he must be oriented with emotional honesty for a reason, going forward, vapors to vanity. This dialect is appealing for conventions sake without our rank grasp of identity realizing it is not who one lures into an absolute of social laudation but what this life is becoming. One must adduce what box is checked only ready to discern his and her own reactions in situ stealing the horses of love, worry and change, examining it till we don't. You are the first out of the door moving into self-reflection - one certainly acclaims to begin the beginning at the replenishing waters feeding the more sublime and privileged Cervinae, yet she and her herd don't owe us their liquefaction, they drink but not for us.*****************In one story from her book "The Great Transformation - The Beginning to Our Religious Traditions" Karen Armstrong relates about a Chinese peasant out in a grown-up field with a sticky tipped stone tied to a string he'd whip and retract to catch grasshoppers and without fail ...to roast. It becomes automatic, and he is "part" of that field with the tall foliage, he's welcome in assignations to those seasons with prayers to his steady-legged grasshoppers. He's skillful, meaning benevolent and moral, not just physically adept or with energy to wield in a technician's finesse. Because someone could kill in an exacting way and yet that wouldn't be skillful because it goes against a would-be compassionate edifice that a world in her glided eternal repose purports, that she lies before us while 3/4ths of what-is is buried beneath appearances. An evenflow with observable reality elucidates sleep or dreams. So, perhaps true to folk conscientiousness, the author's One to One dialect in the guise of an old peasant's rational wont comes as his fabled practice, dreams evoked whose mind-hand grasps love with this subtle inquiry to Nature certainly not far-flung to Hillel's perennial wisdom or for us an imaginative narrative that respects this One-World in convalescence in a way and not greedily surrendered in another.******************I have to go into whatever can be said about category of mind, TOM, while defying impermanence, allegorized by naming one's spiritual money-in-a-pocket living in this world so evanescent in its arrears, just getting here, so to imagine, our abilities to record a life becoming is at best several becomings. Maybe knowledge is spirituality and they are equal only by radical enumerations. Over the last few years as computer factotum, spectral hours were spent, media abounded and I felt really at the seat of my own empowerment, absorbed, contemplative in some barely arising conscious prop looking onto rarefied frames within many a documentary's concept and affect, one called, Tibetan Book of the Dead. As it were, down from those observational peaks, such auspicious mountains have the plenitude of a plain world arriving, and its crystalline memorial performing in my attention as desire for survival is maybe receipt to my own sense-movement thus soughen in long-sleeping elements to a second-nature world. Projecting into centers from without, moving into consciousness, into buildings and down from mountains, are all plastique, all the makings of this mind-sore.************In the late slackdom of the 1990s I made a retreat into the Catskill Mountains to my Aunt's bungalow colony, an upkeep of several cottages. These places here are full-on Borsht Belt communities, the best part of Mom's spirit-suzerainty map, they're remote and beautiful, forested and vital with lakes and streams all around. Ascending from the Hudson Valley region in New York, I'm compelled those long days introducing some trance ethic, a listening convention, namely the Bang soundtrack (long buried, stolen, today unpublished?), the Little Odessa soundtrack, Ernest Ranglin, Ravi Shankar, Lee "Scratch" Perry, spare of Dostoevskii's inner-conversation, iconoclast with early morning radio. Nothing in the way of internets and like back home media documentary and literature had me track an encroaching "desert" of everywhen drawn from the content of culture and religion, their nihilistic plain space in the calculus of this mind developing expression from an impetus espying my subconscious voodun, realizing all I can ever know is truth of an inner-rhythm ...to take-on a rational spirituality. I felt refreshed when Gershom Scholem triumvirated the Torah, the Gospels and the Quran at the Pentecost, called Shavuoth in Hebrew. There were several terms for levels of focus, ideation on theoria, called kavvanah in Hebrew, which made me humble and awed. I liked finding-out Judeo-Arabic in their convivencian dialect near in time and place to Kabbalah's first seeds. And Islamdom spiritually in their holy if standard convulsions toward an immense G*d, a lesson, in ways apparent while without condominium in Jeremiah of the Hebrew Testament as convincingly impelled in agonism, a truth, as dusty as once collonaded temples gone like its sufferer indicating an even more distant contending prophet - yass, this - and not denied the Jeshua of Christianity dressed as a Roman Warrior, all so poetically impervious till inverted by an agreeable theoria, News more recently deprecare to biblacy other than the organism's Historical key-holes to doors erected around an architectural caprice and continua of proudland, dreamable as between varied enticements correct for contemplation, and for me only improving a meditation through a gate Eastways.************Before acting all homiletic in self-knowing, I'm poised useless as this wise ape's two dawning ends of a moody rope. My creativity binds this transitional mask of things into lighted plateaux and trace hallways. The ambience of dispensations, two moods of peak then token redoubling, two ants upon a mobius strip merge like Santana's Caravanserai blue-orange of the 1970s and the neon fascinans of Remain in Light, Talking Heads of the 1980s.************In what world do we get to know the direction multiplied, rooted down to the funk of wanderings over long-meditated proudlands and upon whose shoulders chil'run grasped their forever-ness, awed at the red Sun that they were set loose to challenge intervallic and exilic paths, while they danced homeward, thereso to achieve destiny back through a Mother's underlying order, her intercourse of energies, this parturience of one whelm in awakening certainly retrieved from the DNA of a sentient greed, the great shadowy well of one's anticipation. A memory lives and a dreamy magnification of it is an ocean of outside light and a circular angel in the room when Dad handed me a dark pink Mattel dinosaur as I lie wakeful in my crib, and Mom gives me repair of my dreamtime's first duel with the rarity of a disambiguation of other. My greenstick bones aspire then out of her soul reliquary what reimagines me of her mercy and hope, this life in beginnings************The otherness to the other side of an absence of completion becomes the conscious edifice whose impulse through me compares more fully as its toppled effect. Two and a kind of Two equals more than Four. I like the allegory of a talmudic student - a talmid is one who studies the Jewish books of ethics well - who may be able to unpack and become proficient in some place in those tomes merely a couple of pages at a time. One drop of the ocean sometimes promises the unique report of its whole and my feet are through with paths, leaving all my wandering paces at her shores. And meanwhile if the quality of all I may introduce through luminarian doors is to sound like thus and such author, only that I've become principled to imagine my alliterating push at the crest of some rare consensus really "evitably" taking-on visualization in pure convenience establishing whatever merits my getting present for a library of books, they emerge in yet this give and play to mere titles convulsing from furrows of time barely amenable in the swoon of their deep-aside.************Xenophanes told Greeks of those looking glass gods - a horse had he been some kind of believer would see devotion only confidently ecumenic through a horselike deity. The Egyptians rationalized wealth and creativity from bovine resource, thereso a Bull god implies fate and reflection of the higher ground to just what they knew. These rural or metropolitan averse White men apprehend guns, their G*d and money, inventing little in the way of interesting culture, approachable only by their martial wist of paranoia given some ridiculous voice at the table better set with the lessons of an actual history rather than one of a consumer's appending wastefulness, denial of science, denial of a low common denominator that would give institutions and industry environmentally responsible mandate and regulation.*************That one is decisor and opportunist for change, while "Endorsing commodities is hardly the same as promoting revolutionary convictions or radical antipathies..." (William Solomon) its conflation is devastating and should drive social institution - Governance - with providence and discernment rather than toward these Earth Crises of near conflict hardly divorced from the actionably resourced consumer, believer, practicable executive in our lives becoming, vampire's materialist ...behind ethical certitudes, its amplification, that appreciate in psychological insight - knowing that facts tell stories too - may only be this perfectly invisive world in humanity's Mothernight apropos the cold lamp of historical endurance, more usually no different and as capable to declaim hatred, mischief or jealousy, just that her continua generally is gratified in better social realism, his in cultivation of securities' mechanic unto violence and rebellion, as we watch the watchman in his own woeful ways, educating his body also with convalescence, whatever stirs, it just seems obvious her self-same whiling-away would at least guarantee her more usual sense of whether the terminuses of safe environs merit her ways of more intimate pressures, an immediacy to be principled about the nature of resource.**************

Dance with Thems that Brung Ya'

Media, media! So what, people got to turn-off, tune-out before volleys of laggery only to record this apparently for most denied One World damn-well infinities jesting in fundamental stoic repose, inventive and heartful, and yet within us only "a ditch of blood," Kazantzakis relates. I don't get deprived from sensing what nature adjures like. In sojourns, precisely because 90 some percent in what confers any and most tacit knowledge of what-is is visual, it presumes a kind of caprice over this second nature world sweltering in likenesses. And all symbols of eternity are in this life. Whence our egoity makes kenosis of vanities to vapors, then this supposedly piece of some absolute is only the little trouble perturbable then implied as thoroughgoing eponymy. I watched what I'd always soughed through my own appearance seeing my own cadence in an old wizened native, First Peoples redeemed through image, this encounter, an expression materialized and superable to mine. His more seditious, crapulent from hardship and lessoned there. Certainly meaner, times of spare resource can make an acerb survivalist, and here I'm wielded Eudaimonian. Life exudates as a "...forest of life underfoot," (I think, Patti Smith?). I'm donned of this garment of existence, full-up, animated, so alive and amazingly all the rivers run to the sea and the sea is never as rent from my solitarian impulse as only mnemotechniques can do.**************So to record I'm lucky enough to take direction, see how to think things through, lucky to be around folks cultivating self-reliance, believing in change, that even here they watch and even forget conscientiousness as to indict what I'm telling you I see while through their social mission these words are designed to encourage one's self-worth: "Separate behavior from personhood." So that she or he must be oriented with emotional honesty for a reason, going forward, vapors to vanity. This dialect is appealing for conventions sake without our rank grasp of identity realizing it is not who one lures into an absolute of social laudation but what this life is becoming. One must adduce what box is checked only ready to discern his and her own reactions in situ stealing the horses of love, worry and change, examining it till we don't. You are the first out of the door moving into self-reflection - one certainly acclaims to begin the beginning at the replenishing waters feeding the more sublime and privileged Cervinae, yet she and her herd don't owe us their liquefaction, they drink but not for us.***********With the aphorism Take two steps forward, one step back, really there is more of an august stayed contemplation, giving it feeling, while being lured as temporal-vivants in pale anticipation - in this groused world, we're suffragettes for it to reimagine what we're becoming - broken past anything declaiming wont as privilege only hoping to deny it, we're concretized here, "...just "me" one thinks," patient for sup, while becoming mavens at all the rearrangement of model swayed into models appending mindsore or agonic shocks to plainmind and blessings to this certain physical success.***********I wander under tree canopies, homes now in better ingathering climes to archetypal birds originating human lure for flight alighting through semblance in their libertine need dreamt alive. I live and dream by developing encounters with aerobatic language as perceptual realms free to this lush fragmentation, murmurrating as travelogues in aesthetic cloudy goals. In whatever integer swelling the skies birds design to enumerate such instincts amid their heat-sensing swirling and flapping, had those same heavens persisted within us as pellucid light, image and its permutations then to become our conceptual grammar, it could be anything making flight imperative, imperative as myth tracking the reality in hopeful expression out of the same blue sea of space. Believable as anyone's first rational yon look "In the climate of the greater will" James Michener grasps an appositive by defining where mind redounds by ironic margins, the extenuating circumstance of its category and impulse.************Cigarettes in that poor plight for intensity is terrible it's true - I remember promoting hindsight in these moments described here in summery Egypt, December 1987: "I won't always smoke," I thought and would rightly quit, evenso the best smoke I would have imagined is one then with vision in my first long bow, raison d'etre to a civilization in their hours of the red-bulb, across Cairo - a long breath in a kind of stasis - was having walked out of my Hotel Americana around the corner into this roadside pedestrian perch of dirt, gravel, everywhere the bombast of a formerly metropolitan would-be infrastructure now sorta unfinished and here to a view a few miles into the Cairene masses particularly actionable by a green neon done-up mosque just as my brother described, inspired in numbers as frequently as churches arise in our towns. Al-Salam restaurant, where our first Egyptian friend is made, just to the otherside opposite the Americana, is this place where my funk's bestower partner and I were served beef heart and hibiscus tea called Karkadae, sweet and red. I didn't partake of the meat but Anthony Bourdain, particularly by example, refines eating with a less than intra-mantra enslaved slaver narrative ...bite-bite-bite, has turned more than the success of an anecdotal Jewish (even developing) preachment into taste fulfillment to that of swine, for me, while Adel's offering of roasted beef heart could have been as interesting. Feta tasted in Luxor justifies turned-on to the macrobiotic sense in situ, otherwise. The arguilah, hookah pipe, Nabirl offers us at Adel's restaurant made white plumes of smoke that make me feel small. Adel (Ah-dul) told us to just call it a hubbly-bubbly. A high of voidance, borrowed as it were in conscious escape drops the thick insane air of weird muselmanner modalities, reminding you the bar is set low even out of the West, Like a night veiled city, more anxious than an easier American lardier and yet amid an agreeable imminent respite but more darkened than lighted, in natural reprieve though I am some sleeping geist innocent by the trove of its redolence, plodding strange inner-city alleys when all senses taste of unmet brotherhoods, fantasia through unrequited sisters. My (auspiciously orange) Let's Go travel-guide sunders the prospects of irrelevance, halloos in bohemian gut instinct if I had to imagine and was good for giving me legs gesturing this student of life whose good attention I sit here reaping, and maybe yours by the fruits of hearing. And then my The Brothers Karamazov book written by Fydor Dostoevskii was merely a prop staving sensitivity in my recent academician efforts ...Oxford, and reified this-journey's quick but meditative visit to a yeshiva in Israel were I to study again, a feeling not lost on me. Having read on Muslim-Jewish convivencia, growing-up - the Golden Age - philographian in light of spiritual writings praefectus renowned in Gershom Scholem - specifically his acceding to hagiographia whether from the Gospels or the Quran, the Torah more directly - has made an adjured observer of me to dignify analytical meditation, elevate it.************My creativity seemingly is come to the more preponderant confidence that now I'm finally freed-up amid the wiles in what rather conveniently meshed into the crapulence of my last nerve. The smell of rosemary I read had something to do with some feeling of renewal, I thought, lightening my mind of dreigh finalities, long awes in thought-jazz only so much for the tote in my wheelbarrow. I use some tea tree oil and frankincense now in moments reprised generally of certain time embracing en familia. In the forest they're redolent to my senses in realistic Tao adduced waterways where I could sense a beat America, an America frightened and insular around my Aunt's bungalow colony up in the Catskills, up in the country, we'd say. At a stream's rocky margins, the sauntering ripples looked fecund, maybe, so free and alive then, but time ticked aum as I touched bottom once and everything that mattered to me in that hellion season was whether a key to cellular memory was anything I could pretend, laud to endure ...waiting till now.**************There is a story Karen Armstrong relates about a Chinese peasant doing his exemplar hunting and gathering even thousands of years ago out in a tall field with a sticky stone-tipped string tethered to a wand which he whips thereso catching grasshoppers to roast as she regards his skill in wont. He can't miss. It becomes automatic; he is "part" of that field with the tall foliage and steady legged grasshoppers. Skillful means benevolent and moral, not just physically adept or an artisan or technician's finesse. I'm visually placed within the well of this peasant's abyss, mise en abyme, from a novel In the Beginning, appreciating how the author Chaim Potok develops this looking-glass literary mechanism by introducing The Book of Dream Interpretation (Solomon Almoli, 1516) within his contemporary novel. Of core-culture, from greater reality going within to an elucidation woven through in disparate taste for kabbalah which his hero, a persevering student living amid a world with World War II arriving, worms into its mouldering yet burgeoning experience of other if plain-spoken temporal worlds. Letters and their permutations, language is an executioner of the watchman at the gates of escape. Ascendent mediums, just an ordinary radio on his father's shelf, newspapers in glass-fronted vending boxes bannering war and rumors of war, a window auditioning the night of reason in the alley below - these portals fulminate an implicit world, take us into those imminent corners only to have the observer reinvented by an awakened feeling in the wiles of this rarefying transformation, mercy would soon be evoked.****************If there is a thought, then there is the principal, maybe essence, to thought, the simple beginnings. If there is intelligence in the world, then there is its beginning, the intellect. For every condition there is its potential. This simplicity is known as G-d according to the rationalists lost to redemptive scholarship in Islamic Thought a thousand years ago, whose believer's Creator in his philosophy of well-being always defers to Reason, the Mu'tazilas from Iraq. If we dream thereby we must exist. To exist then whence that energy promoted reflection upon the necessary condition, there is a principal to existence. Though it may be beyond a dualistic approach as our minds accord, still one may necessarily expect a Principal behind that value. Out of this model of origins it is easy to reimagine Source in our on-goings and change from that of the self-referenced Buddha eponymizing his release by the name of Tathagata, meaning beyond all that is transitory, come or gone. So hopefully it may be asked, wouldn't the most objective volition into presence sort out impermanence, that the makings of you whether whetted from any poignant evidence still has complicit and sublime soul stuff enumerating, some kind of continuity preceding birth's shadowy door and this one moment radiating toward the next replete with the unknowable? And aren't these years past our door plainly loitering in an eternity, thus come and only barely revealed materializing its analogues who dream and realize what is thus gone?************That Believers may typify an intelligent universe, use Creator beings in somewhat fathomable sense of just human reflective information, jumping from resource behind it toward an Absolute complementing its continuity, is an edutaining game of henotheism. This kind of ellipses fully realized in Christianity with a threefold feature at one inspirational schedule that the G*d over all is to make ways from generally His blue skies, the Deep and the language of light and shadows (I'm saying) to that of distinction remediate to a Merciful god, and handfuls more under many other Names, gods incomplete only to look at the god of the Other in our midst is easy to suspect in identity contests within and without, juggling the ardor of Absolutes swayed into the doxography of enumerable Absolutes. That Believers do the mischief of a general god and then anything of flourish to assign yet a principle of leisure to any and all emergent historicity is henotheistic. How flowing and importuning could a silken thatch of red ribbon, so roseate as the Central Asian sun ever to evoke beauty withal completing the first baptism and charm of prosperity, Mother in cloudy soughing translator mask of affections, bliss like the god of bliss catalyzing her toddler's taste and feeling of metrical continua now the ascendent to Things Will Be Better, later the requiem administrator of what dreams come of an instinct to covet similar - if only - though likely stark raison d'etres into some hardwon paradise?*************Reaching for light, shouldn't the forest wanderer take the tree's habit as our renewed covention? I read about trees, stand among them touching the earth, just standing under nature's gospel encounter and grapnel custodian, I would embrace this world in that kind of expectation, potency, like these half-thoughts as Mom's paper bouquet once appreciated in the smiling ancestral character in its low-burning, cool-lights of our living room. The Players admits to soughing tastes in puddles and loam, he or she comes to peak experience, the millionth in a million days through whose amnioses they sleep as dreamers. Sitting with good attention upon Corbin limestone, a rock of Koomer's ridge in forest anonymity, thick carpeting leaves and organic detritus furl and keep this observer in sojourns to its human-empty haunts. I read a few pages, sweating on them, inventing myself through poeses meant in diffusion toward the bliss of insects buzzing raucously in fractal woody environs, try seeing it behind my eyes...probably do. On the way up I had inched through one leg of the trail with an eye like elephant trunk dragging on any exception the tapestry ground might appropriate, wanting the same hypnoses, that of leaves and inanimate chicken-feet pine impressions, rocks furrowing, the occasional ant colony machinations, anything and everything having made the pressed earth rather like a canvas lent to my senses, my leisure at its command to any article of thought and providential of mineral to my blood is found in the looking glass of clay. Touching the earth is my definition of freedom.************Unfailingly if I had to imagine being inspired to cultural identifications, I'd come to a grail with all manner of loose teas, little old boxes refilled of teas not originally packaged there ...a couple left-over, stuff I'll only ever mix with another complement whose qualities I'd register through ever-anticipated tea seances. Healthful, it's the thing of my whiling-away erasing beneath the ashtray reliquary of time withdrawn and spent risibly and stupidly pulling-on cigarettes. Thank the gods of predictive and lush voids, here where I reorient into consenting space and contemplation, this trough of Jasmine Green moves me around liquefaction like 10,000 cups before emptied into my personae mutable to the sea that is never full. Chai in Arabic or Yiddishkeit is black tea. I would have it mornings at a Yeshivah out of their samovar or chainik prodigiously consumed with baked eggs plainly baked over chunks of green bell pepper in Jerusalem as my first fortunes to solitarian travel and fatelessness ameliorating. Had it gooed like honey alas saturated in white sugar, a good sprig of mint leaves down in it given to me from Reza Khan on the outskirts of Jerusalem, at his yard, a sprawling dirt compound here emplaced stalwart and portent looking like a gift from subdued badivat fires and an enumerating shanty town. And to prepare an academic model in my thinking, a project to libertine shores within and toward an expression I would never resolve but here otherwise denied an expanding accreditation, mornings were ritualized in one of the serene and stoic buildings I studied in while at Oxford once very briefly, over a Month of intensive study at the mid-limit to my University career, August, 1987. If there could be a diminution to soma but spectral and imaginable in evenflow with a spiritual motivation, tea seems shared from hands across the waters of its perfunctory ritual.************I find that I've become bound to focus on sometimes authorial personae - the fury of my sinuendo mental economy, agonic to reflection - contracting my inner-dialogue back into tried and abused moral avenues maybe through a more passive dialect before News for instance but just as adduced to an equinox where only thoughts unfurl in social report, good enough and still the last disparate sentences practicable toward my evocation to it. Alas I am no slave, feeling it pull back, 'think in images' I think, words are cheap. Meanwhile only directing my eyes into the light glazing from outside through the window at my bedroom haunts, its silent intrusion likens with effectively adjured new kinda sounds proscriptive but permutated of actual language only to coach me back through an imperative to unpack sense-dulling acquisitive moods and see attention ultimately reach the interstices of pain and loss, my mood interior hot and concentrated. I can only say, life redounds as an inflated, overwhelming tear and still feigns generality of peace and grace lurped into the cautery of this ubiquitous ocean.*************We're all animals that dine at a lifetime's table. The Dalai Lama related a teaching, saying, the deer drinks replenishing water - the stream can't be missed, becomes invisive - why say she does so for you? And within the conference of taste that indicates a thoroughly on-going feast, how the victuals of experience are praised and adjured, reckons a level that may be in agreement with our vitality of mirth. Our minds compartmentalize, some calling everything of an eschaton's nod at our future station, the heaven and hell's target to our laments. If one were to imagine an encounter of full-on eudaimonia, instincts almost allow for a caprice in prostration to something or someone as a complete vehicle or plain embodiment of life's ambition to be happy. Except, how else would one encourage our privileged own happiness than to project and vibrate-on as anything but a goal of identity's sake, and rather approach this world barely lasting in conspiracies' riddled loss just as the years divide us from tribulations blameable to that of an argued Absolute, political, social or universal (whatever that may mean) bound to be trialed by chaos, as confident episteme from the case of our unknowing! Catastrophes and holocausts have endowed our pillow armies with the meaning of greedy survival, why does everything and everyone have to be complicit in those sulky and fiendish moral battles? All Lives Matter, but the plain disambiguation of that fact is that Black Lives Matter as a community implicit to our goal of American Exceptiionalism, whose dream and implementation should be born to our shared Democracy.***************Intonations in her easy-speak waved away under horizons like blades dipped and lashed around this contentful earth. I'm refreshed as if I'm noticed too when I sought a lepidopteran and so dreamt away as convulsed to sunlight as earth becomes designed by climate in the power of some escalating mind. Listening to Tic Toc Teac, I see Moses go down with a dream of the moon over near park hills, where upon a sense of original self's ground of awareness are knolls of my sung circadian 100 watted nervous system left to blooms and taking in the whole world with one breath. There are no indivisible appending needs to recognize what good inner-scrutiny can do feeling like the few selves left in that reckoning lights-out cosmogonic room where One reflects in the lure of speechless worlds arraying dreamscape possibilities within existential garments donned of quietude in one's dusty tea mentating eyes till sleep spares us anymore an acquisitive sweetness drawn from daylight and her surrogate nirvana sensitive candle (=almost out).*************Juggling absolutes, Absolute realities that ooze consolation's impulse of what-is in certain gratuity in seeing one's proud theoria as concept really actually knowingly divined of merit mavens we are in subtleties of mental progress and physical constitution - after all we have lost we have already paid the cost - because intensity is key and has persuaded midnight's children or anywhen's escapee of False-Positives of their illusions to one's self while informing our energies to a center from without, moving into awareness, beyond into the intellect of dreams, its concentration.***************I'm so solicitous to visualize repair in the dreamy certain skies threading my old neighborhood pursuant near-country compelling late hours, graced in ways through my youth and the wrought animal of my mind. Doing things. On foot usually, drawn across contents that ply en fascinans, thus-gone, barely whetted to the metrics of coarse transcendent gates, the two thieves at identity's rescue and crucifixion are some black and white dialect of rooms eventual to whatever my interior world says of values all from an agonic observable reality now fully doctrinal wanderings, that would make sense one day, 'must be,' thinking through utter spiritual possession, grasping the reins down, down toward my soul of souls. Like anything nature affects in me over that suburb's looking-glass pavement, the Thought parchment of self-awareness in a rather alive atmosphere, purple as floral-night shores then in relief of light and energy, watery mercies, lairs of shadowy niches, to be equal to it is only to cultivate category of mind, circadian floe, head in the wind.*************

Going home again on these self-same gouged streets

Everyone wanted the bliss while seeing a face in the clouds. Even as it's prised with as undemanding a hesitant confection of sky passporte like chil'run knowing Mommy's intension or only barely educated of her mused translation of things, the morphology of instinct begets this dialect in other places. Not even so general a palette come the blue pleroma, but in equal enlightenment looking across True Democracy's porch, there one envisions penumbral emotions at the high mound to the pitch into splay yard and at his or her feet sand grains and blemishes. An elliptic masterpiece, this sojourn's mentational saint sometimes flects unopposed amid its less culpable design, here on my Afgani rug a beard on a scunched face shaded of gnashings and mould emerged from the mishap of my eyes. Nothing to let go of, knowing really to turn off, interpretive of mean light and just the pulse in my face, once during my well-earned mountain retreat big Os zoom around my adirondack chair proffering mood then the mask of second nature. All-things either grant a model for human likeness, importune human qualia in anyway and blinks back at me feeling ever incomparable as antiquity's geist of form or my inner-dialogue in the sense I tend to endorse, encouraging more and more never wanting to be alone sates my curiosity as to where an education on social living first takes place.**************I hoof this town not in as gravid a trod from A to B as my younger body intensions-wide with meager means appertaining its spaces, but lauding mindsores now lobotomy scars to many a peer growing up as I did, same histories' counsel, similar praxis in the 4th Estate, and yet? Identity ought to be an escape, not a rescue. They can't say how identity is ultimately matched from a comparable reception to doctrine as from a vain agreement with light or any other yack of absolutes, that merely saying one is become some kind of category of soul or expediter of choice amid pathless arrears may well be a toggle for On which has failed them in some other way. That their Nation shan't deny the seeds of humility while ready to adopt the Other: they don't actually know what it is to be different. And I am looking back at social artifact through these paper voices, an inner-dialogue with authors showing up as an encounter come interstices not lacking the certain shape of the places of my making, breath to my blood, here all around barely in few words still burning in our lungs. But weirdly fulfilling getting that sense of human commotion and change yet magnified from the stillness of home and hearth, same streets gouged, this world is a world of as far back to mid-20th century that all animicule in dramatis are conversations unsealed from thought wards if only rehydrated like amphibian societies never always possible to track in reemergence.**************I had a public education with arts and science, improving libraries and decent resources abiding. Making this luculent of me, wise to the Conservative antagonisms to socially engineer, my social conscience is a model for individuality. Full-stop. I admit, I hated school, every tic toc teac of those crawling years. But that was just the underdevelopment of me, and meanwhile the notion that knowledge would increase had everything to do with the acuity of interesting music. Feeling it now, and looking back, Steely Dan just does a vibe, cigarette zassed in beer bottles, all things smokable otherwise in their weird grail, a disambiguation release of the 1970's decade in some equation of patient eversummer submerged midnights in (sometimes theirs, I suppose...but others') superable versions in awareness Rock, the operative liberty in aerobatic years less macro-paranoid in termina of plain blue skies to You and Me. People addicted to people so opportunistic now, as ever ad technocracy and their conspicuous meddle of nothing philosophic, but merely a wist of touching Earth, proves an apathy of resources not to speak of the humility objective reality summons if not Higher Ground. In my view, Rock is self-realization anthem, the out from intra-mantra slavery of institution and salve to the ironies of rank egoity.************Hazlakhah* facilitates permutable black fire language of analytical meditation as subtle a goal for "happiness" as for the luculent intending on Peace in the same ultimate way if meditation was still the self-same goal meriting ineluctable reflection in a world-to-come.. Haznea lekhet*, in the ways of neat and simple sense apprehension, as Einstein reflected however evoked in his likely palimpsest parallel with this concept otherwise, life should be simple, not made simpler. To imagine, I think that as a gate for theoria it is sometimes preposterous, bound within the inabsolute confidence as to whom the vomitorium leads one laudatory of the self's vicarious denouement at these gradins' whelm of orientation. I want this felicitous trace of barely a narrative across the (all colors') white fire tableaux stuff of self. An attitude on complex albeit stressful worlds so recent in their floe, they keep coming till they're over, and if by observation that to assign some kind of unique webbing of relevance and interest to a factory licit in thus and such mean world then he or she should be devastating at compartmentalization. Simply, happily. *Hebrew in extent.**************By some kind of grace I'm talking at totems in the directions multiplying by my house of four doors. I'm drinking almond milk. Parks with near weather termina decry our shared bullshit with patience and ready loam and good air which are the underlying order making me believe I get to relive my good ambition. And sipping Lapsang souch tea, green tea dried from smoked pine needles that I sweeten with honey and steep with Jasmine Green, resounding probably in ways serene with companion metricates of fews words appreciating from authors of continua, always a reason to seek inspiration, muthoi with the goal of worthy escape. I never call the lights in this plain cove a bad costume to my mood. I live behind my eyes to dream, living in front of yours as light wanderer to the reliquary pending rites of burning sage-juniper incense. I'm aboriginal to the Yid in me, an opening to the Western Mind, core-culturally an invisive ludens and not ready to imagine a classist monies' agonism illicitly as religion versus religion, ethnic community on a more shallow exception to ethnos, anything but solutionable magic professed so eloquently in most our traditions - compassion sought for its roseate gravity there, and knowing why we're discomfitted with the blood in the hour of the red bulb - like being reasonable about the lowest common denominator in human folly, understanding who it is that suffers.**************I collected beercans with bestfriends' Robert (Robbie) and Sean, and my brother growing-up here Southside in Lexington biking days away out to wandering country roads, past Bluegrass Airport, Garrett's Orchards, Frogtown Ln. or the Castle or Halls on the River even, wherever, but never toward any sense I'd entertain the habit or be socially prone like most do in ludens' certainty and dionysian portents swift to apply how reasonable it is. Well, I never dug it. I wish I could. Wine and a good cheese, interesting bread... I would love that, but on meds that don't mix well, well, my decision is already made. That blue world of no real surprise, perhaps, if one is used to it, still reveals that something which is really nothing, nothing really to turn off, the right hours into the shelter of night that should cater hardwon peace. I made-up a word for this intercourse of ethyl alcohol and eudaimonia, the importuning of drinking as thoroughgoing an escape in deserving a commiserating peace, comfortably stolen, I call alc-bu-colism, wise to its feeling in too few occasions its libation enthused, while no recent experience alights by decades, harmony, the bucolic thing and strong spirits, drink. Nothing mysterious till rallied under its influence, this oozing away in release is humanity's blood thrill and leisure to the muscular repose of our minds, the lava beginnings to a thick heart of stone.****************I had a sleepy lucid visual of my head and shoulders atop mountainous glyphs - image turning to words - hillocks in actuality but of a rare magnification to near weather perfect toponyms. Several fated I and Is all verily too busy and live yet monist of expression elapses on each face while language combining with symbols were at once recognizable, then demanding focus, my gaze levels with strong gravity and unknowable letters almost Greek or Hebrew, but bastardized. Portent of my Grandfather speaking, his mid 19th century translation of Flavius Josephus' Antiquities of the Jews is in complement with the season's air and taste, a first meritable key in aural dust suspending a room as time animated in light - captured there amid a scene of spiritual condolation - my eyes acted like hands pointing to some presumed boundless will, pitch of mind, with its cast of feeling and knowledge sublime in approximating plain vapors of tea service undreaming hellion vanities: a shrouded traveler. I'm at a looking glass perhaps ecstatic moment here, then watching an apparition, a streak of inner-current much like a raindrop across an empty rather looming mist of space in some appreciation as to just where "expression" altogether a sense of its movement would land. I think like light upon this park theatre of somewhere frequenting as an inmost feeling, doxologic of my neighborhood out of the Depression Era, the farmland now full of homes, roads and yards that cover-up where horses are buried but adjured in impressionist mindroom, they free me psychologically unfettered. And humbly I hold still in this valley of my tongues, reposed to listening, I watched what I saw. Words shadowplay and permute just a step from Babel's tower, all incitement to expression was deep and culpable to a new reverence for mounting contemplative space over the mundane exile without a book prone in human perception and so ready for dawdling.*************The Declaration of Independence states, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all Men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights...." And this underlying order, this essence to which Americans apply our theory of American Exceptionalism, this Dream of Liberty and democratic experiment, never, not for one second, anticipated unemployment benefits, integrated education or health insurance. Or sharing power with Black Americans, Native Americans or women... Never, never, never. So now the stridulent Nationalist Party in power wants everyone to imagine these things will come to us through our abilities. So, if my ability is to summon 50 or more employees to work for my company, and I don't provide good working conditions, it is that ability to manage numbers, monies and resources that guarantee no other responsibility ought to be proscriptive that I may enjoin. William Solomon writes in Slapstick Modernism: Chaplin to Kerouac to Iggy Pop, "Endorsing commodities is hardly the same as promoting revolutionary convictions or radical antipathies." So, ask yourself, what kind of integrity do you want our government to establish that everyone divines a regular education where an appreciating sense of core-culture isn't merely conspicuous by a compelling and mindless attitude of consumption? I think ad extremely reasonable humility commending creativity and a healthy attitude amid the absurd ironies of our shared stress, a mind not more usually letting all inmost doors swing open prone to any penetration, locks doors in thoughts' repair albeit while that egoity is one which holds such and thus internal keys and their caprice.*************Precisely contrarian to more facetious space that some in more usual ways are apt to invoke especially contested by those swearing of some dear identity, rather in some salutation to Wade Davis, once I felt fully in the climate of a move mindful as with hoplon utility, but sympathetic (not defensive): a fist smoothly cupped in one's hand, palm to swallowed knuckles, had been the gesture reifying a sense of family. We are family, while some are destined to wander even vituperative with any concern of these shared reasons imagining all of us the same custodians upon proudlands, through the forest hidden in ignorant moulds they linger while the real people were the trees, evolving. Now this expressive Third World moment I'm certain having indicated someone under more nativist South American conditions is reapplied as Jacques Cousteau or David Attenborough et al. And no apologies need reconcile how they've prevailed by cauterizing reportage over the open mindsore of these demon-haunted worlds in rather urbane wise ape displayal, feeling, say, axiomtic of truth, scientism and as nature's watchman and woman warning of a humble contest which must be waged in everyone's interests superable to politics or tradition and what you think ought to be parked in your driveway.*****************William Solomon writes in Slapstick Modernism: Chaplin to Kerouac to Iggy Pop, "Endorsing commodities is hardly the same as promoting revolutionary convictions or radical antipathies." While I may be obvious in pointing axiomatically at this socially retarded president exemplar here with this rapine idealism in the art of his deal, his surface sensitivity to Humanities just makes a unique model of the thoroughgoing ignorance of his minions in full vain agreement. I think ad extremely reasonable humility commending creativity and a healthy attitude toward the illusory, a mind not more usually letting all inmost doors swing open prone to any penetration, locks doors in thoughts' repair albeit it is that egoity that holds such and thus internal keys and their caprice. Then, why, ask yourself, why the hurry, what are these so-called exoteric ports? They are doors of perception maybe and that just proves Truth is pathless. But are they gates of heaven's way ...peace? Okay, and the second nature assent of artifact and resource at our feet is materialized along a path only now somehow some Source meta ta physika promised it, like Earth, Self, ratiocination and the other.*****************

Common Era Values, Isaac Babel

Power by good antiquities' watchtower supposes two interchangable angelic figures - one out of the strangeness of the circularity of life, the cherub accretes wonderment fully exiled from immanent knowing, as it were, the kind of knowledge one magnifies in the shores elucidating the world behind shadowy chronos. Prone as an observer onto a solid state of things albeit mutating of the elements that would be you and I before our penetrating this awakening or covetous dream, this destiny at once is a beginning's journey, is a journey of musterion which reifies critical essence and its demiurge, a cherub's ellipses in Power with the chthonian bull, hero endurer of black depths and red voluble powers, only sundering them, then surfacing, is consistent with birth and even more assignational for new bodies of experience, burdened but intense like Ganesh, every little action ...imaginable as an underlying order Sapiens' sentience accords, says what we want to believe of the ratiocination of stardust making-up our bodies, that new bodies are donned like old garments. A babe is emergent and the bull other times - upon wheels inside of wheels - so somehow the ancients wanted to transect Higher Ground, these cosmic directions strode by a chariot or throne, mapped through first civilizations, this is a kind of hagiographia contest in the telling of Ezekiel's vision.*************There is a story Karen Armstrong relates about a Chinese peasant doing his exemplar hunting and gathering even thousands of years ago out in a tall field with a sticky stone-tipped string tethered to a wand which he whips thereso catching grasshoppers to roast as she regards his skill in wont. He can't miss. It becomes automatic; he is "part" of that field with the tall foliage and steady legged grasshoppers. Skillful means benevolent and moral, not just physically adept or an artisan or technician's finesse. I'm visually placed within the well of this peasant's abyss, mise en abyme, from a novel In the Beginning, appreciating how the author Chaim Potok develops this looking-glass literary mechanism by introducing The Book of Dream Interpretation (Solomon Almoli, 1516) within his contemporary novel. Of core-culture, from greater reality going within to an elucidation woven through in disparate taste for kabbalah which his hero, a persevering student living amid a world with World War II arriving, worms into its mouldering yet burgeoning experience of other if plain-spoken temporal worlds. Letters and their permutations, language is an executioner of the watchman at the gates of escape. Ascendent mediums, just an ordinary radio on his father's shelf, newspapers in glass-fronted vending boxes bannering war and rumors of war, a window auditioning the night of reason in the alley below - these portals fulminate an implicit world, take us into those imminent corners only to have the observer reinvented by an awakened feeling in the wiles of this rarefying transformation, mercy would soon be evoked.*****************Turning my watch back, doing that from an eye in the sky as folk-wisdom alights with instinct and stays bouyant perceptually availing as you and I are - victors or victrices come complementary to renew those perceptions - we are lassooed from our antecedents to the tune of about 100,000 years and thusly like a fiduciary with fecund spirit and eternalities abiding lazily in consent I looked hard into an erstwhile integer, pointed toward it into this corporeally persistent mind, mine, Mom's preponderant raison d'etre to the fertility of origins in whatever way I would run with it. She called me her Wildman from Borneo. So right from my earliest conscious map, as Wildman from Borneo, the near green ants who dream the lives of all the world's chil'run, Aboriginal peoples believe, is curious enough defining antiquation entwined to a farmer's life in Australia in predecessions to a telling of seasons passing anterior to our modern intercalations. This is a story I uncarved pretending to be an author to intimate origins. Hailing land, I knew I had legs with this feeling contoured of some historical powerspot beneath my feet in re-ideation to actually a timeless void. Something loosened me at the shores of a confident order, wherein the libertine quay holding these seas' beckoning, my Mothership rested and giving up this information to Mom, the star of my awe, the middle of my presence while following my mind in natural inquiry, waiting for an appreciation of this episteme, I watched what I saw, an intoxication with wondering, ".......Weren't you all there?"****************A lovely arousal of teacherly condolences, there is a kind of inter-subjectivity that an author can't be further back than space and time perused for imminent content - and yet the new yet old feeling of some long ago Jesus - so within ascendency, like all belief, is anaemic of evidence manufacturing motive as thoroughgoing students of life. I'm meek, some Roman, Mediterranean ...no, I'm Turk, only distilled of more confidence, more and more unique but with a fist full of magisteria having read CE, Common Era in a book away from the rest of the school of fish day, so uncarved then I could only imagine myself vulnerable to exoteric scrutinies. Another distance fromwhich emerges soterian philosophies, trees sway like "kaltida" wood ready for Moshe's basket/ark, this same wood of the Cross, said to be Noatic appositive boat-making construction too. Theoria had to be sought out and there were gaps from a life of study that may let in something more inspiring, definitely progressive. It convinced me of the intercession of a ferrel past, not plain and dissolved but catalyzing what we think is gone only as it first soughs to adjure breath, time.******************************Birth is exile and still it appreciates with model arbiters for mind begotten of light in conscious victories realized sometimes in the plastique of our physical success. One magnifies the world behind shadowy chronos, prone as an observer onto a solid state of things albeit mutating of the elements that would be you and I before our penetrating this awakening or covetous dream, this destiny at once a beginning's journey which is consistent (with birth) and even more assignational for all the new bodies of experience this sentient life accords; new bodies are donned like old garments. The world is presentable from its countermand with eternity more astride meaning than we who become mad if not feverishly relative as one incarnates through her Motherlove. The industry of our amniotic survival fetched from the table of her experience makes the world the focus of her second nature devices, hardly palimpsest, we develop with and of it. Lo, she will testify, and man will prepare and make secure, this environment feels right, "I anticipate it," she's begins the complexities modelling versions of this same hope to trace paths down to the rivers of water which bringth forth fruit, ...every life finds its purpose.****************Yay, figurative time, in at least a few lessons in commonalities planed by the same blanket of continuity easily creative in thus and such associations recognizing Common Era, books appear most interesting to me looking through my Mother's stacks availing within them descriptions of yet more in distractions but much more than that in vast new reaches of relative time. I read CE in a book away from the rest of the school day, so uncarved then I could only imagine myself vulnerable to immanent scrutinies. I broke the spell, there were gaps that may let in something more inspiring, definitely progressive. It convinced me of the study of humans being. We think it is gone only as it first soughs to adjure breath, time. It's made conspicuous in the light of the night running with a message from all the otherness come down out of Earth's sometimes blue dome or glassy black pleroma comfitting with mythic soteria. Some think even compelling others that therein lies what is trialing us as its analogues of fate.******************Isaac Babel's dovecot messengers in avian circumambience cleave clouds in their gymnastic report around blinking past dawns (looking back a hundred years) with these doves murmurrating and then coming down skittering pebbles for wont of food fulfilling a will to some greater climate, these life-giving atmospheres, say, voids swallowed by aural skin stocked in sign-posts of vastness handing away content confident indications of mind is what we suspect while it looks sustained in the behemoth of a sky's guffaw. This author plying in his books Russian tales of love and darkness, the beautiful News of long-buried throats-clearing, his sky star-paper fill their pacing ole brown shoes out of an early 20th century with intimations of culture, justifying one's journey by decisor advantage of wisting mind's then-tentpole suspension. And under the roof in the places of his making, a shadow reputes in generations of kitchen patterings upon a Mother's lardier apposite utility cupboards. A fulsome shadow leans musically from the star torn sky, it is her interstitial escape like a window beckoning end of days in school agonisms making capable purveyors and knowers of new reasoning, and her son a recognized scholar. He did cool slumbers of dawdling stars in good Rimbaud form like in an emergent night, their intimate paints from a spiritual moon adduces the volubly dreaming bride of Winter's leafless boughs. Chthonic roads of time's descending traffic wist away and haunt by footfall's diluvian experience, way over, veiled in the velocity of our antecedent's good-bye, someday forever if the ground is felt beneath your feet, you know you have legs.*******************I refuse to be mollified breaching the event of getting older. Trance egoity replete at the crest of presence, a half century ...so what. My opinions I will determine aren't just able in taking me to the same watering hole and resource values and then assume the ante-evanescence of them so that by our same conventions these values become re-emplaced as Source. I'm damn well less the gradins' selves devourer of air and light dancing through greater reality any more equal to it than a comfortable model for mind arriving in half-thoughts. Humility perhaps as juggled an exercise in the difference between seeing in explanate psychologic depths imagining oneself comfortably and freely-associating in one on one dialect only then to be released but for light-color and sound, I've become its cypher of conversational reality first without my saying anything.**************If there is a thought, then there is the principal, maybe essence, to thought, the simple beginnings. If there is intelligence in the world, then there is its beginning, the intellect. For every condition there is its potential. This simplicity is known as G-d according to the rationalists lost to redemptive scholarship in Islamic Thought a thousand years ago, whose believer's Creator in his philosophy of well-being always defers to Reason, the Mu'tazilas from Iraq. If we dream thereby we must exist. To exist then whence that energy promoted reflection upon the necessary condition, there is a principal to existence. Though it may be beyond a dualistic approach as our minds accord, still one may necessarily expect a Principal behind that value. Out of this model of origins it is easy to reimagine Source in our on-goings and change from that of the self-referenced Buddha eponymizing his release by the name of Tathagata, meaning beyond all that is transitory, come or gone. So hopefully it may be asked, wouldn't the most objective volition into presence sort out impermanence, that the makings of you whether whetted from any poignant evidence still has complicit and sublime soul stuff enumerating, some kind of continuity preceding birth's shadowy door and this one moment radiating toward the next replete with the unknowable? And aren't these years past our door plainly loitering in an eternity, thus come and only barely revealed materializing its analogues who dream and realize what is thus gone?********************Appreciating my own sense, in The Closing of the Western Mind, Charles Freeman's Socrates stains with some kind of rank for inquiry like a centering Shiva character reposed in a mandala placating maze spanning an otherwise empty sometimes idea-forced curtain-pulled mind cloud improving the penumbral crisis only to experience her and his reach (Shiva is both) something making me headstrong and even prone. Imagine 399 bce, Socrates is killed over what one now and forever can casually be known. I see the news/antagonism about the gods in limby fenced-off minds, enlisted like choice daemons in human development which can't have anticipated this technocracy's feast to their sense of tradition merely from tradition. Evoking this most accreting fin de siecle, this century, has energy in continua not only barely steps away so near in feeling with positive vibrations but immediate sensitivities from spiritualizing in the best of rational interstitial currents, hope maybe undeniable, weathering ourselves here amid streams of thought alluvial ready in this night I call an unfurling dispensation of its reason. The vanishing space through a good deal of the 20th century is now. We're anecdotal with an open crowd to voices then knowing ironies less fathomed come Americana detained by lack of culture in cheapening rules as to what systems, transportation, isms and machines get to consume. Whoever tends the fire of an enduring human condition assuaged in comforts long enough freed from conspicuous lardiers are the analogues and ascendents to a realistic social architecture or intuitive change which could bring back the greener Earth.***************Evoking this most accreting fin de siecle has energy in continua not only mere steps away so near in feeling with positive vibrations but immediate sensitivities from spiritualizing in the best of rational interstitial currents, hope maybe undeniable, weathering ourselves here amid streams of thought alluvial ready in this night (dispensation) of its reason. The vanishing space through a good deal of the 20th century is now. I'm anecdotal with an open crowd to voices then knowing ironies less fathomed come Americana detained by lack of culture in cheapening rules as to what systems, transportation, isms and machines get to consume. I gave content living then all the while spiritualizing getting-away with such reflections in a golden eye, that what I defied was everyone else fettered in its closed doors ever received, namely becoming old and dying. Or today's watchmen and women. What is this life become? Sisyphus has piled the winsome sea with all declaim trucking nature as this sufferer's model with its efficacious gravity, what he or she realize, change. Woe death, spare me the incredulity of my escapism and reach forward to me with the keys at my penetration to this waking state. In the wilderness, the void redounds as earthen gates ad accompli the wound of impermanence.**************In that I lived through a good deal of the 20th century, I gave content living then all the while spiritualizing getting-away with such reflections in a golden eye, that what I defied was everyone else fettered in its closed doors ever received, namely becoming old and dying. Woe death, spare me the incredulity of my escapism and reach forward to me with the keys at my penetration to this waking state. In the wilderness, the void redounds as earthen gates ad accompli the wound of impermanence.***********

**********I see folks rile in their concerns over even more worried minds to reimagine so plightful then nominate themselves having issuant neuroses and worse. Krishnamurti wondered not so strangely, everyone is "neurotic." I'd assert an appositive to his Thought is Fear ...is self-preservation, even bouyant lessons wanting to get to the otherside of sentient greed, is to see one complexion to our subject minds as fundamentally in apprehension, not wanting trance egoity reproven, and inquiry as mischievous as an abstract enthusiasm for order in the world however presumptive an existence to its primacy might satisfy, satiety. Mind. Most are pained thinking in fray half-thought worlds, not feeling this scrutinized space inmost unless we've hidden inner-unrelatedness, the absurdities eclipsing who we define empirically - this view of thee for thus and such intensions - so more human than animal, but more animal than agent of its land, more land than buildings presuming memory of home than home where the heart lives, this moment traced more in distance and feeling than however described or accused an I and I lured into enduring. I have to wonder, how do we get through such times while the imperative g'warns for consensuses? Feeling proscriptive mostly self-aware portending counsel is flatly ironic still gives and plays in the field of ameliorating personalities whilst they, our first reflections, sort it out as precentors of context. So it won't matter what flavor of wood appreciates in the pyre, what content of feeling sought in repute or ill-repute to puzzle us into social living. That one is near salience, near is all and good enough knowing the high bar of conceptual freedom is light and pulmonary ventilation, within reach of peak moments operating through better and better emotional and physical success - it's good recollecting we hadn't far to go.***************Love this thought-lyric from Dylan giving me room to move on the second word which here decidely is not his that I just ran with otherwise dynamic poesis maybe slightly unclarified by his distinct oratory, unknowable and fecund, like a lucid mask of sunlight in translation Heys you. An expression in alluvial modalities that could make me hopeful of mind query of embrace, now the adjurer, "There's muse inside the minds of crazy faces." (He says, "There's mills..." in Billy 4.) I'm my Mother's made-up mind. While her spirit mentated as source and resource evocateur, kitchen purveyor of dispensation 'pon waves of its disambiguation, I'm just a cauldron of her dust and star tincture, umbrella wielder gone inmost toward weathering and prone nerves. Torporous then hellion rainfall threatened with her impermanent record, undone by the climate of a greater will, iterating an antiquity of golden soteria, her good guy with strong smile vending ambient reactions, a kind of solution to light unbroken as soughing distance, appearances speaking my mind lent to feeling evitably homeward then emergent, 3/4ths of this hot iceberg rationcinating in brackish floes, I'm bleeding from long-wrested rivers bi-secting all the earth, running to the sea that is never full.***********

*********At 15 I remember defining the moments studying kabbalah in a way that took my young age out of any ambiguity. It didn't matter that in the standard of Eastern European Jewry tradition held that mysticism is unreasonable until the ascendent reached 40 years old and may deny soteriologies in the main. Seferdic and other near Afro-Asian Jews met the more austere doxologic focus, kavvanah, with a closer primacy in ululatory Hebrew. Calling myself Jewish, as a boy then, some thing of exoteric plodding may otherwise draw me into surviving while seeing social structure that ominous, Religion in her entreaty as if away-from-that (plodding culture? licit instincts?) made me feel crowd conscious, about something and preponderant of slack if luckily other in peak moments with this world, my mirror. In the libraries, the few years before then enduring secondary education, first civilizations rightly entranced me, seeing our historical human exponent sorted out, a wild spirituality ad accompli is proof enough watching better elucidations report continua in techne, language, computation and theoria hardly different from what this 21st century avers with even current symbols' martialing as we have always been. Ask yourself, Isn't Power still as late in principle? And aren't origins just as capricious becoming thems that brungs us, yet mission alluring as those new minds who would have completed the circle?****************Not particularly advocating smoking cigs - never - however, to elucidate 'pon this sort of habit as follows is through its terrible provocation in particular deference arguing for the ever deeper waters siphonic of my pillow-army attention - a place to land or consciously map where one is proven rooted in continua? The aural egg, say, our very open nerve to this onslaught of pollution is one's space and center of awareness, as clean and hopeful as threshold encounters on a horizon's walk, as all mornings, promises arising minds its indefinite analogue merits a certain self-same awakening. Smoking awhile regretfully I can remember "yesterday's" cold half-smoked dregs sitting in the winter exuding backyard garage - a grail, lucid as crummy fingers answerable to my gaping if doxologic guffaw - in a Las Vegas plaster ashtray, eyes glazed in nirvana, it was cold-cool that morning when lighting it. In the gulag narratives of Varlam Shalamov (1930s-50s Siberia), his sufferer makes illusory the morning surmise, thought's freedom of night chimera with the survivalist plying his renown of rolling his few bits of tobacco one-handed. If compassion seems committed in the guise of compelling votive ethos, license to ritualize in thoughtful spellbound day's long-ends that they begin ever sworn to even more reprieve, makes "religious" the awe moment of one's decisor mood, a relishing exile. But home is where the heart lives - home only matters now, now that I've been edutained.************

**********Thought then rethought, tread into more assuming a positive trend, now realizing this conceptual grammar swathed in more words should be emplaced with stupendous effect into that belly-button window of my thing only earlier today grapnel with hypnoses to see it formulated just so meritable as penumbral lips to dreamtime's sip of her wisdom wine served-up by this mind-hand confidence I call concept: Thusly observing over what we ought to contend with an iconofist of realism perturbable to some of us some terribly vast goings-away - something Yes, mysterious, Yes, greater than thee, culpable if only by its stranger hand - powers in that identity's fugue which alight as this earthen pulse dire and present upon our paths toward their precincts libertine and hauntings spoken on proudland media, pugmarks and their vanishing, hoped against hope that at their margins Source would promise a plenitude superable to sorrow's dusty weight, is writ to the monarchical survivor enthroned upon her yet prospering new day, the feast of mercies that a mind and body plea in their circadian hours, within nature's stubborn image prised even deep into our invisive bones, eyes layered upon layers, throughout all our animal beings in distant throes modal, usual and lighted by all our definitions of the Good. Yep, like over concretized letters, standards plot my aloof reason into a thoughtless bliss of light and actual feeling, I cry looking glass mercury down, damn down, to my deprecare atoms. Oooooo. These still waters stir in sedimentary blooms deeply torpidity adjudged just to imagine one more cast of her memory candle raptured and invigilating my wandering path's plap denied of her vitality but actual in roading that open country in my feeling as her subtle reach for an imperative homewardness.