Poppa Kaduk

Dude is taking his time. Hardly a moth to the flame, slouching to nirvana gives him potent observation, letting-go but in his release or exile amid the metronome's slowest clack. Through the ironies of a slow fidelity, his horizon is stained in black tea, an elixir on recommendation, his body'll feel sublime there, no complaints. And instead of lift-off and penetration into these heavens, sprites above the pylon-like streetlights remonstrate a purple dome but only as wings on silence, encouraging his hulking thoughts of paths to cervidae lairs, dreamy conscious pockets bring his lovely woman closer and well past the gates in the forest.**************** So I've been chosen, thinking on memory, to give a damn. Thusly, like brahmodya, sensing what is common to the three monotheisms, a 'miqra' of decisors = their conversation promising the author of an old yet imminent news, here portrayed Judaic and nearer common absolutes, in situ Jeshua's teacher Hillel could tell enough for the hope of humaneness on one prone leg. And aren't we 'learning' as he suggests inwittedly as suffering the same ephemeral advisement, perchance, students all of life, how worth it she becomes? So at once I imagine the things we'd refuse--tastes, too shadowy shadows, unfulfilled conventions, intercourse with differences, and why we demand nuance tho it's there--yet now as what should be used. It seems Saint Augustine decries any license implied within scripture whose players could be a masquerade of would-be adherents typifing an imperative where good is left wanting. That means it is on You. Martin Luther was right: you are given grace and you can't tip the scales one way or the other - much like the G*d of Job, the Other Shore is hardly evinced no matter the deep aside bridged by one's faith assuaged by his or her crossings. ***************************

In ways rather invisive and rapt I would become empathic in rearranging this sense from Fydor Dostoevskii's condition of epilepsy, specifically what brings on his seizures and as those moments inform his writing. A glimmer from candles can set-off his constriction then illumination-to-be. Similarly his mind blown at other times, reflection or refractions across some window, or a cluck of sparks from a glowing hearth as if his mind characterizes a wild fluttering avian, but maybe down in far-off Mexico in his Faith illuminated way like Patti Smith writes of innocent chickens pecking at the plaster detritus flaking off some little prayer niche with a twice weary statuary of Jesus. So I'd fixate under my spare existential roof, train my engine to enumerate appearances in their corral of nature there surfacing once and kinda forever in my wanderings as its energy. A power-spot even amid the flooded temple of mundanity rescinds its character however easily I'm convinced only later that I'm leaving mnemotechnical tracks. And then sometimes per these conscious satellites I might have reasons emergent being round their contemplative spaces now remarkable seemingly assigned to memory with a glassy ornament 'there in a blink' adjured just imposing a feathery apparition of light into my reality. **********************Enlisting Infinity, creatively speaking, an All or Nothing presumption sharing in similar theorian colors with Hindu's mathein = overstanding & knowing! Brahman, amounts with like definitions presuming that at least this G*d is the god (monist in stripes!) of everything that is known and nothing outside the known as manifold, comes the Jewish Ayn-sof - the Endless, ineffable yet unique to a contemplation maybe vipasana apposite as brush to medium or pen to char & sap in preparation to the tableaux of stillness. Had the mystic some view and metrication of his and her Creator ontologized nigh then appositive in pathein transience, meaning empirical to only trace freedoms, Ayn-sof might take contemplative content otherwise sensate as form, truly Platonic forms = energies called sefirot answers similarly, while still in Kabbalah's garb, is G*d's distance strung described as the shuir komah. "The measure of the body" here in university is purely saccharine at the otiosenesses = freedom or uselessness of an atomic feast or Jah Light, where humanity wails, and maybe lives up.***************I have no value but just my body as some starry night, and no mind but some anxiety that mind is a blanket draping the heavens, but only just above me, dust of dust is filling the faults in my defeatism. Waking state isn't one of entering artifact, a picture, second nature to our sentience, rather one moves toward consciousness, a goal from without. I dream an advantage within forever--appearances are a sluice for my emergence--in a material void and as an idea-force, purpose becomes my calculus of memories older than weariness. Thinking a day within a day, horizons reserve the transection of roads trafficking with libertine energy where I'm on and aum'd with attention and while their splays exteriorize boundaries and habitue diminutive of the bigger mind-sore, I scale their pathein indifference. ****************There's a cool place where the idea of the days of a future past makes sense to me. Meaning, I think through now what I imagined I should know alliterating to intercalaries, rooted to the moment, that I would anticipate a look more deeply ultimately retracing immersion to cardinal directions, above and below, round the neighborhood, sensing a great lummock body from a near creek. And in my five year old's mind, more than certain, any grapple of electric was this thick heart of earth throughwhich the wire of my weird, or sufferation, or bloom of self-knowing, would ever be refined in the garden of such moments rapt in stillness, still moving to me.****************

Tonight one certain cloud looking like a great single brow of an anonymously wondering pleroma had only my paint of thoughts to improve meaning there. The sky is a pharoah's leisurely reflective lake--waters mentioned by Theosophical Society's Madame Blavatsky explanate of Re(e)d Sea-like parturiences only predating the Exodus writing--whose mythological boatswain in this mythos reprised is Moses ready to furrow its mirrory deepness as an escape melding into the temporality of what-is. There's a concept in practicing meditation via Jewish mysticism at first glance reminding me of an exact diffidence to a negative proscription if the adherent had formalized a greater respect on-going to theoria so as not to be 'acquisitive' in our thinking. "Devekut" in this Jewish ideal must be that state of letting-go of our usual boundaries, centering oneself actionably from a jumping-off point deliberately theorian over the cavalcade of impulses and heartbeats aptly alliterative within us, opened to time-place-community, Kabbalists call 'cleaving' almost too easily denied in its conceptual grammar eliding to the divine**************Believe me, I see a handful of people who thread or just comment seeing themselves as subject of self-effacement, true in being their certain worst critic. I fancy where they're alighted and solitarian. The first thing maybe now as part of the truck in 'her' reasoning, I can almost intuit, is some depth of existential plan. I think, she's surprised to be so tied to her dreams; they're all Cloud 9 while bearing what washes away down temporal flows--feeling as a rare observer and wanderer through whetted histories--their winter sun of sleeping protagonists have left behind ghosttowns and burnt earth, and still she's even more definite of time and place upon an avalanche of a great equalizing momentum.***********************Susie and I sit down for dinner at Ramsey's while its loci plume along the Nicholasville Road corridor through memories just there assenting as Racquet Time and that gym's parking lot adjacent to my Aunt's backyard but later my brother's house. A powerspot ...just because, well, I brush up against the moors of once my leave in following the Mothership, 'cause no other reasons stand in conjurations, that faith was there deepening the resolve of my escape. Midafternoon, say, or into the day and moves outside of cultural directions with literature, whatever that part of the day befitting these thoughts in apogee as intensions mount, the hand of mind but only flagging with wonderment, are the words 'read, read!' thus pushing me into conclusions, reacting from a pealing statement of attention sure of it right then wanting to get back and turn pages--determine the lighting of some fire to an august whiling away. This is peak ethos for me, practicably intoning certain results in analytical meditation.****************I thought mountain beclouded as plaintive to 'some of the dharma' as this independent caricature of selfhood likely permits till Kerouac summarily emplaces 'samsara with the void' pronounced in some Beat Reader excerpt of his Desolation Angels, maybe says why impenetrable to my honed examination, but still I've come to its accord. He'll bring us up to the moment from his resolve in getting there imagistically within arm's reach of fundamental memories. O and thus our lesson shows the auspicious more objective plateau of experience closely mapped from loss to the world except for his blest writ. It is handed-off, flect of nodding gatekeeper and winking through category of mind, with his thoughts applied like swashes of mercury, only just so amalgamating the present and victorious even. Memory is manifold as an election of touchstones heaped up as pylons of time bridging our deportation from our places of change.****************One wonders, even reflective in broad strokes, that a microcosm perceptual of Ultimate Reality runs across our hands sifting away lax commitments to the sense the ascendent may then redevelop as fated in those auspices. Making decisions seems to be an upful imperative, 'had to do what I did' thus my G*d has given me a roof, is a Traditional illustration on self-preservation, 'the god of my deliverance' the believer readily authors. But it may be good enough in service to this adjurable sublime higher ground--Jesus, Nirvana, all Fascinans--ready in seeing with attention there's someplace called an approach to wholeness and objectivity, thinking, thinking deeply, knowing peace in contemplation.******************

All since reading into patient handfuls of Kerouac's writing, I thought my own writing would react with more fluidity than in crossword tedium. I know he looked potent to imagine time and place in bloom, just speaking over immediate shores of experience. I feel his nod of an actual logician emerging for assays that I might graduate through their disambiguations in a school of life. And when my teachers would have had lessons on writing they advised 'brainstorming' so that efforts of certain connections to one's natural intensions meet up with a beginning and outline, that a comfort level in self-reflection might make sense. 'Stream of consciousness' is his mode of recording Mind as imminent to his play in observation, though I'd reserve my stream into some tapestry of self-myth less gliding with observations, rather, I haul my bucket of concepts up into rare spaces, emptying them over this gray matter of furtive clay only then so to esteem its momentum of relevance perdurable how long before Earth becomes their great equalizer, absorbing it all, or redirecting where I had hoped it should go.*********************A strange sort of Truman Show dualist occasion intrigued me once. I'm walking home past one in the morning from dishwashing at The Springs Inn while our lexing existential night looked donned in watery curtains just off-stage, just so our recent rains played around me in the last of her low clouds breaking open to a view of an empyrean handful of persevering stars. At the knee of proscriptive anonymity--the author of time--with a conversation in my head of lagging solitarian recourse, and from an immaterial moving boundary off to part of Turfland Mall's parking lot, something like the facade of a mighty train? ...earthmover? some kind of gravity defiant, man-machine, and its shadowy engineer riding it, elasticized the terra round me more immediately, and obfuscates the guffaw mask radiating as the restful rest of the town laying out before me. What could I say about these heights in lucidity with nothing like an identity behind that apparition? A wild couple of minutes, I thought my paces reverberated on a weird tarmac in common, this day is appending, a reason to go home, that this world mercurial in Oz consciousness is an impossibility to adjudge.*****************Kerouac sets it right in his telling of home life middling in his teenage years. And as if I've shunted my attention from turning more and more pages, less restless, hearing things differently, here's Kerouac's Desolation Angels, and I gotta speak to it--lift it up. It's beautiful, of course, and I conjure his mood straight from the salience of his everyman, of everybody, but his sole soul blanketed underneath the streams of Time and his outlier landing of a day's consequence rallied in its recording. And just as him, or anyone, I sat by the kitchen table anointed of its nerve center, Mothership of inmost seas, eating ...dipping-in, well maybe 'Ritz Crackers' as his Mother lardier'd, or in view of my Mom's pantry, matzo and peanutbutter, Campbell's vegetarian-vegetable soups, hot tea with lemon, orange of Summer-ever freedom in greener rhythms. He makes it present for me, and I wake-up way-back in room temperature sunlight where it seems like then was in reach of today--this moment--as merely some lesson in memorialized space and the roots to self-awareness piercingly resolute through an assay long overdue comfitting the loam needing its fibrous security before becoming merely the history of rain.************

********Peradventure no going home, I won't say I abided in rooms-with-hooks-on-the-ceiling but I otherwise knew I might survive availing life only contentful in solipsism till this subject self poignantly tied to condition allows for reason again. In my Thanks and Praises best I imagine being spared-over back a handful of years ago from what worried me then. Not making this about sorrow, truly. But my Mom was passing, and my marriage had no more slack to our emotional commitment, the world was changing and I would transform. So I'm out of relationship and looking at communication with anyone unshaped, more dispondently, I couldn't get on the ground, knowing though and plodding through misfortune, relationship is going to be the answer. I went without someone for too long. I aped the ape, and ran away tremoring like nicotine Jack, thus gone, then slept the dreamer. And things turned around where Velvet Underground lyrics are a fete explanate, mathein lines reminding me, "Ba-ba-ba-ba, ba-ba-ba-ba I found a reason to keep livin' Oh, and the reason dear is you." Just so, Marley's Is This Love or Dylan's 4th Time Around would run my conscience, and love came tumbling in.******************Strange, but I run toward sonic wells for their blue soup of Mother-helpings--culture is on our Mothernight's plate of experience. I think to catch up with fully sublime active listening to good music, thinking all the way round her unheavy shores of those patterns and their ease on me, then demanding its emplacement from curiosity to appetite I sense a taste of water that beckons: I imagine my senses ready and swearing off my dreigh reality only just outside her voice and lush provision.*************Why does independent, philosophical thinking get disputed as a sin of pride? Maybe, thinking for oneself is too dear than to deny submission to the door-confidant of Everything is Everything, even as Paul elucidates to the Corinthians, 'all have died in Adam' - the first prophet - 'so that they [all] be saved in Christos.' All is all, so there's that--meanwhile the finger pointing, well, damnations are as concomitant, contending a fragmented impulse--yes, the creator of self-image. Oh, all would've been well, till original sin thralls his ire: Where all manner of Freudian extremis is to inspire the distinction of weaknesses conveyed as women 'cursed in parturience' and that her husband shall rule over her, and 'men would toil under the fruition bore out of mean land.' It is fully a Western accretion in ecclesia, not dawning in Greek theologies, nor anywhere in Eastern Christianities, that, 'Sex is always a danger', he says, and those transgressors will not inherit the Kingdom ...!*************While 'visions' may be hagiographian, I only knew what I might declaim as a seer kind of move, was not imaginable in the same long apogee of life stages notched in the wood of my changes that I pretend to cultivate more usually. That move was a gravely serious observation, poised at the portrayal of a friend, then in only days he would shed his mortal coil. Like a window hat-high, a pellucid cinder block sized space of air framed the visage of my friend, Jake, moved from a facade of gluey ivory doors as kingly as a chess piece, ivory himself and superable to the tissue of dreams. So I look again roseate and mourning days later, that his loss was just after my Mother's had my all my spiritual vin maybe insightful but definitely heralding peak resolve. And now his once bright appearance is glossy coal, marbling of cadence, frozen and looking-on, just sans the same explication to the garments of his existence, my impressions therein, and a yet to be discovered key of disambiguation?*******************Spare me over, lo, the machinery of man may just as well tear away my burdenbag, but I'm on these strange lands to wander. I've had my life threatened before--up close and across the room from a Cairene man - I'm then 22 yrs old--and perhaps had I guessed, the man might have been a Muslim Brotherhood sorta good ole boy then like six or seven years into his antagonist Hosni Mubarak's reign, thus fraught with my equation, American ...Jew, to his conflating geo-political concerns. Scary, though I was quick to evade where this imminent violence may have led; and I don't actually know how my partner Robbie Loco got in and out of the room, this building somewhere in the ubiquity of Cairo. Now, safe and hoping down, those moments have become layered with all the usual light in my eyes--but I still look. And I think I value pernicious memory events now apropos the (elbow) room given contemplation reckoned in better plurality of the concerns formerly plying my resolve, now looming uninstructive underneath till somewhere in stillnesses I have eluded those complexities, consciousness rooted, shadowy within as from without, perforce having to give-up, and realize I'm converted less from apathy.*******************Eyes all conveying elite conscious baubles, are eyes too imminently dragging mood across the clastic wall-Rorschach of TV. Our fidelity as Pavlovian canines has us leap through the mused faces in competing hoops of apt dramatis and the snark of fealties. I wash-off the blotched silence in the corner of this nerve-exposed TV room, my hands have been dirtied from the redolence of cruel personalities. And yet that silence is reconstructed as colonnade but presumptive of collapse over an inane media of a burgeoning circus of narratives.*****************I was on foot a lot through my 20s, zilch for resource here and there. And I fully recognize the more demonstrative consensus of those having endured far worse than me, evenso prosperity isn't what I pretend to encourage here only imagining those times matriculate with fen visualization none other than this pondering fount of what-I-found-out. Or what I found to be an irreal ground of Egyptian jumping-off places, those North African wanderings once upon a time, I profess now, but Middle-Eastern too, quietly plays assent of what characterized rowing down the White Nile for instance as just spiritually low meaning cool, and a languid sprawl to the content-shores of today's obstacles all exhaling what I'm breathing in. So it is with colors too. Green per the banana farm with its plantation of 'mother trees' a couple years old and that's it; they produce some big 85 lbs of bunches one time, then we communal farmers come along smoking our American cigarettes, drinking turkish coffee, and ducking beautiful rain under broad canopy leaves made umbrellar - we'd hunch like Abraham Abulafian yogins, somehow, well I thought so. Or like fellaheen, whose company we sought. Today I suppose I touch the earth sitting 'Indian-style' on the same map elastic and colloquial just as conclusive as one would evoking antiquity and a direction multiplying into these coming Spring days, becoming a temporal gardener, dreamer of fecund loam, monadic of the Sun belonging above in macrocosmic fires to our spare electrical skein pulsing in her near heat just dawning in these reflections.**************Some poignancy of my nervous energy, if mindhand blooms in the ubiquity of colorfields and sutures this mindsore of egoity as an acquisitive glove replete from tissue depths, like trees in the business of blessed shade, my eyes have turned to plants overstanding an opaque Earth, these blindspots there and underneath ever of 'hands' reaping fruits ripe with the impressivity of being.*****************On our errand to the stale yet red, white & blue blowing munificent bank just before Leonard Cohen was passed, Susie and I looked into the morning, lighted-side of that plain building, while listening to his Amen or Lullaby from his newer efforts then. Our conversation was loomed over how we imagined ourselves lucky to be sitting there absorbing his poetry, that Kentucky morning homogenized in time as so many other days, but brightened in declaiming our own Earth Strong thereness. His stories as culminating anything my brain would introduce anyway coming out of the 20th Century, alliterates those histories and ideas, people and passions still blest in these cavalcades of that world untroubled and rather esteemable from its mentating angels. Today, I'm replacing Prince, Bowie and Cohen back into their watchtower horizons; their art might find me in a place where its humaneness still wanders.*********************The Catskill Mts, New York, so many times was our family's retreat. Visiting Mom's side, they were operators of a bungalow colony 'up in the country' verily as Russians imagine their dashas luring in holiday spirit per just anything Tolstoyan-sensed, those clear meadows, ad modern travelers with a view in cultural alliterations, and you're there. I think I'm around 18 and 'old man Kaduk,' Poppa, my great uncle with his almost 100 years Earth Strong in reach, was working on the shingling a story up from where I stood just having arrived at the main house, forest all around, as now near to plenteous blueberry fields, some Jewish kehilla reality, radiating out, a few small towns provincial and multicultural. I'm familiar by then with Scholom Aleichem's Tevye's Daughters, basis for The Fiddler on the Roof stories, at liberty for a depth in meditation through its narrative of little exegeses, adagy and incisive, their white and black fires adjure from my Zadie's book still in my stacks. In his and his Father's handbuilt breakfront-bookcase no less, which cauterizes with a kinda salve for this mindsore emplaced just across our very home sweet home family room. But just that iconic moment, Poppa up on the roof; my intuitions comfitted thereness, 'reality - I'm imbued with stereotypes - and truth is from living histories, all roseate, a chrysalis of self-mythologizing.'***************

Feeling with mindhand the agonic redolence of going-away, hopefully way over, far away

So, I feel a need to record a few moments of shape-shifting while my cautious momentum proved allowance enough, maintained till now this reply over finish-lines of being present donned me anew and hardwon. As I settled into those days, not in relationship, seemingly all versions, not yet untied to the least of understood self wedded as I and Nature, none would hardly alliterate, alerted to my body-consciousness I'd become only half of something. Lying on my back I could only record the slope of my legs grapnel, supine and mounting some plain high-ground and the rest of my body, thus recordable from the haunts of a mind few in thoughts, I'd cull the project of interiorization in readiness for encounter. I was quickly becoming forgotten to appearances. A kind of blessing might illustrate the terms underwhich my physical success in such discord educated me: whatever it may have been feeling denied of meaning and love while I had most-assuredly been oh so ready to go away, the ever-loving shore of experience as consensus even in my diminution, this very of skin attention, promised me No Escape, and only sacrifice. ************** "...G*d has consigned all people to disobedience, that he may have mercy upon all." Romans 11:32 Whew! it's been the operator of destiny to all that is known--well, minus 198,000 years of human development--and wow, I thought it was just me that was up to ignorance and desire. Because in that moment when I watch my neighbor stroll as soft-machine and pulsing in blood like mine, there to Southland and the main artery of traffic, certainly I'm recused to imagine her or him interesting and Other, then deserving as any the sense of our perennial philosophy and conditionally, there but underneath, with only egoities interred? Though hopeful, we're favorably lux appending as practicable as the forgiveness just being human 'divines' as self-consciousness, and not other worldly at all. And certainly most of all not someone dispossessed in our declaimed authoring of spirit that may fate us into being, even as this formidable surface of cultural plastique ameliorates wishes for foundation, our rhythm with nature should be our spiritual assent more wholly. ************** All kinds of freedom lends itself to expression apposite in no different a reality than home, elsewhere on vacation--this retreat in assay--with shadowy lens as door one-of-awakening and one of identity's exile is that of a syncretic memory which amounted to circumstances 'then' with a dervish profundity of time on my hands. I had room in skillful thought to dance its context toward my fecund margins--anything could mean an otherwise re-purposing of the empirical given--those memories were taking root while I'm reasonably experiencing a perfect detachment. If there had been a simple fable's preachment perdurable everything looking like there's a need and sense of decisor as one reflects in that dire soft-machine of nerve reefs, then manufacturing motives behind relationship--so staying in relationship--takes us out of the business of merely believing it. Root down even while we develop amid our slouching into hopefully a less reducible dialect with our nature! Lo, love to love. ************** New definitions of people in motion make me endure--I'm sewn into the horizon like most where the seasons feel unfailing. The leg-up, sound gesture from The Closing of the Western Mind is an ember of contemplation lately, an eagle-splay book--interior once-visited architecture--makes an encounterable author in stillness all but jettisoned in its severe crease. Egypt in this theoria accretion, memory of small wanderings, incline irreducibly blue nights of a Jewish minor holiday inflated to sanctifying moods near in otherness, spectral moments all, burn mindfully in geist shoes of this season's heightened timely emplacement, our remote solar disc (of December) seems alive to admire the relative farther distance anointed to her other sky furniture. ************** Each moment, eased from furrows despite my confidences in supposing my walking back so to append rootedness, has a parody of reflection as the beck of more self, selfhood from an immeasureable lardier to the deep-aside. ************** Ah, the anointing of a five minute break taken by deserving kitchen staffs, servers with 'em usually, skating on the slurry escape of restaurant firmaments down by the dumpsters. Cigarettes are imbibed or doobies and all manner of pestilence and libertine flies detail the soaked crags of work-a-day trails to and from duties of their food service. My car sets here in its cat nap as my powerspot to reveal some reading and meditation's lesson. Lately sipping the tea of thoughts on "Radio Ethiopia" which paint my youthful days howling over no worries, there where I had first really, really listened, lounging on my single bed under a rather mysterious red glass, vine-embossed, hanging round-lamp ...that now it seems ghostly in cool advisements, Patti Smith's "M Train" means that same chronic being. Sitting here I dream of letters breathed-in heavy of mean American air and a thick sky to sweep it free. Out of the wilderness granting our lux minds any sort of tale to relay emotions somehow declaimed excelsior, I imagine Beastie Boys are all so Jubu-ist and exemplar that identity's long lonesome highway and journey to that of an "American Artist ...seeking marks in your skin" (P. Smith) and the thinking of speech, food, breath and heat are yet complexities I yearn for inspite of this cuss simplicity to the TOM getting me to the feast of experience. *********** The few times I'd been to Israel, once then gone over to Egypt, in as much as I felt my world-view under the hot sun of examination, music and the project of its ethereal visualization keeps me grounded, that I would entertain a prone steward in this life becoming, Bob Marley's proscription "Music is a godly thing" seemed apropos. In Cairo we played my jam box tuned into probably Salafist prayers with their currencies no doubt rapt in eschaton, while their ululations evoked fealty reproached spirituality, still askesic, a way the mind is captured by far-away energies of a pellucid heat in the near Sinai, musterion became dreamable. We were there in December 1987 perchance meeting Al-Salaam restaurant owner and our first Egyptian friend Adel in Arabist Iffrikiyya as those lands were to be uniformly named over a thousand years ago. Here in temporate, desert soughing weather like 80 degrees farenheit, turning him and other taxi drivers onto our Santana Abraxas cassette even while he was then just "finding religion" is making me wonder how winsome such doxology might occur inmost to his resonance through meaning and purgation, that his change had come from pressures of homogeny if not resource (like everywhere). Coming from a couple of years studying at the University of Kentucky, the oblivion symptom of normalcy that would have been my look forward into a life of more study or professionalism simply drifted out to these desert seas because of the serenity and the remoteness that one could feel in Egypt, so far from the trappings of convenience and abundance here. Finding myself proven to a lure of whiling away, learning who it is behind my eyes in view of things, my life till then poured over turbid ambitions, satiated a concern that new avenues would have come in an imperative to look at myself differently. So through the doors of intensity a chronometricating grace with the consumate tons of bricks lifted off from my shoulders, I loved realizing this philosophy to a shrouded traveler everyone rational becomes and would have me enlist what I do there-and-away as simply the same as this life worth living here amid a rigueur to fuse dust to light and everyday people into esteemable teachers, their music elapsing by in corrals of mood with more hope than usual. *********** If you've never actually taken a backseat willingly, even challenging who the cap fits, you as subject, among exemplar soul-vendors belching history and undressing the stridulent, making you humble and one's expression so spare, then I bet clarion results of our self-promotion under this certain Socratic microscope hardly compels any one of us to examine that hole in our psyche--the possibility of change from all the parody when thoughts contest linking more and more imminently to gravities-sociare or pretending truth from plain uncolorable mantram. **************** As proudland to the phantoms declaiming eunomian interstices, in your contemplative best, a velvet underground poised with hushed senses, all that Consciousness putting you on the ground permeable as reasons to defer common boundaries is hardly revelation of its very nature. No real creatress or creator is found auspicious of honest meditations only that we'd regard an empirical leisure to conclude intensions, 'divine' identity no differently than catalysts artful or dubious. **************** Wrote this just around the time of Cohen's passing--cut-up differently now: This chill morning while cued into the drive-thru at the bank Susie and I listen to seven lovely minutes of Leonard Cohen singing Amen. Darkness, "I caught the darkness baby and I've got it worse than you," from the same album telepathizes my thoughts into an early first bliss of sun and break of light, through some tree limbs and near bushes to the silent side of the building my eyes want me to walk there. A pleasant day is looking like far-away energy speaking abra-cadabras in places where no one stands; the day is gulping gas and money for gas, transportation ruckus, coffee and stuff that stimulates. Leornard, man, how Beat explanate and truth adduced is his News, his psalmodies, that I'd say enough of his lines in my head, just a few words leaning on an equinox fence, encanting them, what I can't help but feel and as if they emerge from my own valley of tongues. Like I'm acting on the world through habit ready with feet lugging down and away through mellowy exhaust and tremors swaying in his ole Yiddish enticed Eastern shores then seeing those moves, confiding in the usual because I've become more alien than that. Well, as nearly convincing in heart and mind, and moreso as purview to a revolutionary Christianity, moving from Cohen's Jubuism, I sighed almost welling-up listening to Dylan today too. For no other reason than Thanks & Praises, we're lucky for their zeitgeist relevance, A dank (Yiddish), namaste. ************** Tobacco road hurt my intensity and this is not so old an explanation to rake the fallow field of cultural lapse, now reaching sensitivities not anymore ebbing in wild developments. I'd be lying down and in no real embrace which if at all the only observer to my mountain coldness is a rationalist mote of monadic sate that I could stand barely just outside of myself and know so vaguely why I was there. I would linger on the thoughts of merely a handful of minutes that met my criterion to see the force of my whole life in yet that one upside-down hourglass of self-scrutiny. I think bravely now, '...it was all worth it,' but no, no, I hated lonely street enough to fear those long years somehow pointing to my heart now buffered from the razor's edge. From the book We, O-90 courts the self-consciousness of D-503 with her revolutionary Socratic lure: "Doest thou love the fog?" He responds, "I fear it." And then she proscribes, "If you fear it, you hate it. And if you hate it, you love it." At the fore of psychologic wanderings the meditation to be reconciled is in this dear, dear moment--one drop in the equalizing ocean of what-is--rather unchained and unloosened from such haughty imperatives like suffering and the denial of this reflection, so all I know is that I've come to claim it again. A joy in repetition. ************* This is meant to illustrate how darkness couldn't be made for me. A reserve of spaces with legs on the ground come out of dreamscapes maybe easily, though amid cautionary and evanescent meditations. While even being able to steer my way through them in those moments now looking back hardly makes me patient of possible renewal--like a stowaway to freight rooms usually unknowable within my mind--these new physical maps would have realized enumerable ways of body consciousness. Seemingly I'm behind my eyes a walker in cartoon and conveyed down rather black and wet city alleys having a concourse of vertical demands, still I could presume an advantage by arguing a safer passage with only half-thoughts. As if explaining the emergent bleak appearances to myself would allow the shitty city to invent better say less exilic avenues that I'd borrow and maybe then a horizon would promise respite. The absurd reigned: I inquired of shadows and flocked on weird shoes, my stunted paces, asked, 'How can I?' and, 'What if this is it?' As a dialectician turned-in to myself, I had no answers; just a puzzle of time and place indifferent to names or convenient remonstrations whence the content of dreams might flow with everyday life again. *************** Susie and I play a mnemonic game, make associations of spare wilderness habitue with leisure in its blanketing just within reach earthen concept. Harmonies are explanate to indulge open space afforded in the moment and shallows somehow lesser in quality only that an island's purview had been teloi of that spectral shore maker of hope within us. ****************** Kraftwerk's techne symmetry could all collect in my thinking, watching it architecturalize, just like a waterspout and escape to my psyche, I still felt tight margins in repair to my conscious theatre. So even from a stable mind's pile of gems, the flashlight minutiae as its conscious map, only beamed distantly to step in those rhythms' chandelier shoes. ************* I'm reaching out of fire which supposes exile instead of centeredness thinking about the the Other Shore, the Uncomplicated, the Unbounded, the Unmade, the Unborn. If the flame of this life lights the wick of the next, then we've wrought the duty to self and other in ceaseless cycling. The wheel of transmigration trains round thirst emptied and ignorance observed! There is no creator till answers celebrate an indifferent nature. And a world of no meaning spares our subtle bodies of any shallow reflection rather we're up against our imminent poise with gratuitous alliteration. While we genuflect hearts open and thrown to their banks, light models our minds only that its penetration improves a world ceaseless to our variegated psyche. ************ I went to school with a Rishi. We were in eighth grade English together, where I for one declaimed an orb around studious values probably less exclusive amid his certainties, I guessed, tho' meanwhile we began conscious maps with too few allusions as if to imagine history's deep-aside as class begins. Well, had it not adduced a full-up concept to imagine cultural development laudable in a lot of ways handed to me, then I only needed to look at primacies accorded Native Americans or Aboriginies in Australia finding spirtualization with sensitive equations, the humaneness I'd cultivate. And yet, this dude tells me, a Rishi is a seer. Ah, only to feel a near metricate, so I imagine plenitudes of wandering teachers, beggars all, but starry as their emanate visor to enlist the fruits of their G*d's sublimity. It worked for me, and for better minds it's been exemplar. Leonard Cohen draws from a need to wail hallelujah, another oceanic wake of a Jew in the lotus, the East comes with its pulse taken by likely intercessors, maybe in deference even to Abraham once upon Civilization's Bavli beginnings flung into Nimrod's fiery cauldron, then as its flames lick his body Gabriel illuminates him impervious, the fire becomes lotus flowers in one telling. ...well, we're a priestly nation appended neatly, 'that could apply,' I thought. In good rationalization, sussing wholeness while seeing his Nation on the margins of State players, here Cohen shoulders the spaces of mama-loshen (Mother-tongue) gurus: "My father says I'm chosen My mother says I'm not I listened to their story Of the Gypsies and the Jews It was good, it wasn't boring It was Almost Like the Blues." **************

Eno-inspired Thoughtlessness

If your Tradition doesn't apply universally I can only imagine a conspiratorial mind at work. Not universally like It Is For Everyone to Accept ...the mission statement, the stupid commerce of said religions, rather that YOU accept others unconditionally while choosing that visor on social reason. Namely, the hate for some perceived alternative than the sexuality you've accomodated is as clarion as human instinct to even an acceptible cannibalism, flesh transubstantiated... Maybe Progressives get on-board to that, well, inspired by differences, we're liberated from the proscriptions of cut and dried social roles. And when I hear, "The Jews will not replace us," I also see Whitey decrying an accusation that Jewish doctors introduced circumcision into neonatalogy, and therefore ...what, I can't answer? 'The rape of a child,' is also part of this ignorant equation, unfortunately. Though, this is not cynical. One of the few ways Jews got into the climate of social power had been due to a culture of healthful acumen. This had merely been one of our principles. Anecdotally, Jews tended to do better during human epidemics. Meanwhile, ask of the histories to not only Jews, but many Africans and obviously Muslim covenants. So that includes whether some communities and individuals practicing circumcision are too easily opposed as elite verging on alien than to realize the uniformity 'evitable' to medical reasons borrowed as intensions tied to Tradition, albeit, it is a physiognomic mutilation.*************Meditating on The Closing of the Western Mind, by Charles Freeman, in no way is a treatment of my few verbs here, only that something proscriptive if relenting before a church history's incapable heights has come to a realistic and really good contemplation last night as I turned those pages, sort of figuring something out. 'The crowds dispersed' describes an interesting anonymity to folks not so loosened from self-reliance when faced with the choice of salvation appending exclusivity out of institution--looking no further than corporations granted their inveighing personhood--is subject and feeling to vision. Legs and body metrics were standing in my eyes so I'm leaning there diminutive of physical success while mind-hand scrutinizes an inward survivor to the content of the moment restored to my inmost navigation of its refinement, so to speak, I slouch right up to 'reminders' of presence, all warm inside myself. And these 'crowds were to disappear,' mounting with predilections homeward. Like chaff content of evenementiel wheat swept away from the wind of thought, assurances of thoroughgoing idea-forces are more likely shelved as personae magnifying selfhood as one of few, and one of few things suggesting a deductive beginning only that the choseisme of indifferent light or shadows' blanketing rescue hang us by identity's limb enough to struggle with it like no other fate than to break free or die no longer pretending.***************My whole life capsulated is merely apparitional to the oasis I suppose at some point as more rare a source to this wandering event of my plain sense. I really seem to have become a thing of things, not even more strong a thing than a pattern to identity like the sea splurbing blue in the mirror's cusp to a forever horizon come as its encounter as another apposite blue perfect in its wholeness all ousting subjectivity of great predominate energies. Always someone to family and friends even when I do not realize, still I drift until the rhythm of presences rejoin the art of my forgetting.************Exclusive in my poise to get inmost through rocky run-on pictures that have otherwise insinuated an ocean-front, climbing way up, catapultian to its opposite terra-force, mountains above water, no plateaux, no plains, tho' an ocean which performs as a desert, into at least a handful of dreams till now, sounds ancient with its windy verses, a psalmody, so a mantra good to alight amid organs of consciousness as one and against itself with traces of mindrooms to drown in the river bi-secting the earth that swallows the dream ...! Thoughts lurch like a caprid's head to the deep-aside where my feet precipitously try to find the same exclusive point of revered higher ground, just so I climb into my mind.*************I looked beneath my surface shadow's broadcast being. I dance distances in my eyes keeping all the places I once jumped from determining the present or not only realizing the flect remitted beneath my conscious map exposing the indistinct ink and now ready to form lines back into their opportunity or fatelessness. Looked right down on it, I'm lying prone, facing the ceiling in a tree house one night in the month I lived there. Hungry and seeing Lexington more immediate than plain air just at the top of my neighborhood, the city began in a microcosm = everywhere of memory is encounterable, a singularity hangs in these material gallows. It was the death of a homeward map, maybe, renamed with a new and plural accessibility: the measure of my body, underneath breath and stillness, beyond anthropos or rather human in faith only, my arms stretch down blocks and swerving roads, then hands glory in tacit proxies, palms splay, fingers willow and mile after mile target memorialized spaces that are all before me with imminence. And then Lexington was one thing. It was electric, or the heat of mentations gathering window high, in this monadic first I imagine Lexington gracefully collecting in front of me as a lighted mantle, an orison of skin donned as fascinans ineluctably come from a palette of precolorings.***************Kerouac directs us back to America the Beautiful, the Dream, always, always, restores a suffering world's loneliness to their vicarious hope. I wonder too around all the incremental ways if to revere about now our expressions have come from one's most formidable soul-vending confidence--the hang in our eyes with the encounter of our numen, Creation of Adam? but the fresco is alive, still wet, and any Adam off the street, put it that way, well, that of our humanity poised and all dressed in the same pollution. Only that one depends quite a bit on some cumulative wish, that cloudy wholeness suggesting one has recourse, full-up from oceanic easy-speak and an indefinite chorus, we've empirically gone through most obstacles to feeling present. These little notices where we're presuming non-partiality in thus and such really meant expression has sometimes our lux muse reinventing in the commerce of absolutes.************

I loved the maternal green coolness at the foot of the Catskill Mts, vacationing here and elsewhere surrounded by New York forests with my Aunt's family and our Zadie, at the best of times. There was an oil painting, my cousin Kelley reminds me it was indeed a 'dancing senorita,' remembering one time deeply impressed with its spirit. I drew lux maps in my physical visor while she presumed hardly a TV eye--no re-glance, no foreground suddenly spanning and widening. I suppose I wanted a window embrasure to that Summer season's ambulating round their settling house, and meanwhile in my Aunt's bedroom in its dim somnolence I start to trace where the thrall of this Latina's expression might land. The information of 'satori' evoked from iconography had come with my Mom's lucid tastes--a lot of paintings, pin & ink, and graphite pencil drawings, were strewn in our house--both Japanese sans any study therein only that my Dad had artique (sic) which came from his being stationed in Okinawa, and Spanish culture, in design, their arabesques, the Cha Cha Cha, whatever it is and food were natural to these sisters' taste, so kept an open world-view in that roseate atmosphere which their children would contour in our own ways too. So I'm lying down but can't sleep. Looking up all I want to do is bite the fig of wisdom: am I under the vanishing point, and so gonna be liberated through this fecund surface of my psyche, moving down, down dressed in the empirical, from this ludic internal reception? Or, while I catch spare points of glazy foci, why don't I imagine say, the story behind this muted encounter, the muse behind the mind amidst our equinox?***************

I'm watching Jim and Andy: The Great Beyond, on Netflix, with Susie. When I was a kid in the late 1970s to early '80s, I loved the irreverence of Kaufman, that it made a difference to me in culturally antecedental ways, but meanwhile I was afraid he'd be dealt his comeuppance. So, I thought, well, he'll end-up getting in trouble, he's living too fast. The fateful sense of his personality meant something else too. Probably whether I could imagine myself in those incommunicative corners he pretended to defy, seeing a certain existential thoroughgoing meant talking out of the top of my head, partly the absurd, had been possible. He, Jerry Lewis and thus Jim Carrey, are and were fully liberating to the stickiness of my mimesis: thinking and acting on a random world, my travelogue through confusion has had a recognizable sense of the place of my making to thank, I'd call, American ironies to an independent ethos.************Culture with superable responsibility ain't about watchtowers from peoples whose first book of passage is gathered in the footfall toward any other well of the blurry doctrinaire than that of our antagonists. Maybe you want power, or you know something about being in the climate of that power... I feel encouraged almost borrowing the psalmody paced shoes out of the relented dispensation to that of my Zadie (Grandpa), his studied approach, how also a good friend sorta restores me to plain models of independent thinking, who sat in on the dialects before Jiddu Krishnamurti, says to me on a good day, "Long-live the counter-culture."**********There were book nooks in my Mother's house towering in their 10,000 voices, some replacing what it is I say to myself. A Yiddish-Hebrew/English phraseology text, one more ironically could claim as magical encantations, blots in parcellated exercises its ideas of spirit-rich arbors, prophets and prophetesses poised on tongues of Zionists behaving in world-view tumults and hopes. Once I mysteriously dreamt of a ruinous fate for this 'occult' book. I woke one morning having fallen asleep upon more usually my couch across from the facing wall in my cool basement. Mom's bookcase and two windows eschew the night with meaning and orange curtain obfuscated light to the rest of the day so there I sit next to our spent hearth as it glows bluey tears onto just ashes. And feeling that I had gotten up over-night in the wee hours those spaces were reencountered in a dream whose sand I remembered as my dispatching this kabbalah trance by tearing that small tome, however significantly from its spine, just not in half. Thus a certain lament has always accompanied me since then like I've been thrown to the banks of my heart--as in some strained reach--almost free of its blood fuel, rank letters would always again be raised, hydrated to mood once out of an already tattered book.************

I have had a visualization goal which keeps my thinking more plastic and forwarding irony than without the stability of this biblacy's objet de meditation. Without likely inferences I've supposed 'shaddai' as a place of observation or rather a kind of powerspot while never leaving my common grounds. I dreamt then remitted a composite self as subtle-body, an image in mind, there opened to the sky and lying down on white-capped bluffs while handed books chaining from other figures of sympathetic selves just below. From a Bruce Feiler book--while memory serves--shaddai is suggested as being the eminent memorialized spaces upon Jebel Haroun near Petra, while actually no one knows. Meanwhile I have never been to Jordan but ever since a few trips to Jerusalem I imagine the stuff of meditation possible from some objective record, pretended by the sleeping dreaming studying comfiture of a visage only hoping to enumerate 'me' here I am easily portrayed in my mind's eye.********You either settle yourself down into the fact that you've been warned, 'hell could never be made for you,' or the hell answering finally bottom-of-the-barrel dregs, everything of every concern now as leaving oneself to apathy and denial is bore with hooks in the ceiling, no shelter at all, nothing plainly indicating that those things once felt germinated and the career of selfhood but now fettered to time out of the cove-complex tree you called you meanwhile you're not so free and developing. Or changing. I told him, "You better pray, maaan. IT is worth it... Down to the wastes of content from one moment untied to the next ...you must love yourself. Reconcile that: every project per those astute moves with only a professional demand for excellence all those many years, do you like that." One World.**********If the looking-glass didn't lie I'd see a Chukchi native mask animating musterion expression. His hair plaits in mud and splayed leaves, wooden slitted ocular ports keep his wizened expression in shadows. But transmogrifying as likely into a man-machine, skin is donned across an impossible motor and pulse, and he's devoid of creaturely marrow, thoughtless, with metal designed stars, protuberant head-limb gawks as my would-be sensorial apparatus.**********Love this tar playing, and Hamza al Din rich with Nubian verse in gouges of rhythm, his oud plankity-planks, while en Arabia (Arrruh-beeyah) chants couple the drums developing the day lifting us from gradient rhythms out of those ancient dune dreams. History while exoteric becomes corporate as long forgotten antiquations feel and sustain what assigned us the memory to an exquisite vashtu resource. Deserts... His sense of deep canals with green/gold last drinks before dusty complements of human sprawl only vaguely self-aware of their neatly erasable ecosystems, though our fields green up, some good people are fed enough. A part of the Nile has her phlebotomies with humanity's fugue as splotching water's ink start at hungry irrigations, a worker's Rorschach breath is teased then let go to the sounds of clacking waterwheels.************

I have a good Kerouac Reader which I cultivated for a minute. So through his pen/typewriter I'm astride his pacing of fractalized philology perused by his give and play of one author ready to share in conception as embraced to yet more immediate voices, his directions splayed of book within book till I'm dreaming of a circus history opened to pages of black balloons scratched in adages and filled with air of muthoi ironies. That his license on anglepoised Newspapers unblinds their exception to letting-it-be, so similarly I approached sometimes my stream of consciousness just as madrassah students read suras, looking after the delineating verses of a spiritual mind from any cardinal direction. Through it I would have me face something essential but replete to chimera that maybe describing close-to-theoria content ripples then revolts over these visual shores from dreamtime where Burroughs is shrugging whatever-it-is less of 'book' that splays open to our eyes than the confluence of energies which would be this motile ledger in conscious space. He, Burroughs, seemed gentle, only glass animated statuary.************What is this fidelity to the surface where I had seen a man anonymous as hagiographian writers let us call their prophets spare of comfiture in dreamtime only that he was raking autumn leaves prone to the horizon's lure of weekday commuters? Colonnaded or proud as the trees around him, I presume it was his house just beyond clothed in red tannins from near pin oaks. More On than any interiorizing check to his Tuning Out, he looked invented by the report on the pavement from trafficking souls, light and audioclastic cars. He was inanely present, almost mired though his pedestrian banner put him in the climate of Babylonian powers. The bustle collected upon him and meanwhile he's not protuberant like a car competing for assent onto a lane, rather he had the greeting of tacit earth. I drive by thinking had I been as vulnerable to an idea-force made of wind, sun, leaves and space the calculus to this disparate encounter, that my small world looking just as monist in contemplation pushes me from the shore of experience into the stream's glurring middle.*****************Meditating on The Closing of the Western Mind, by Charles Freeman, in no way is a treatment of my few verbs here, only that something proscriptive if relenting before a church history's incapable heights has come to a realistic and really good contemplation last night as I turned those pages, sort of figuring something out. 'The crowds dispersed' describes an interesting anonymity to folks not so loosened from self-reliance when faced with the choice of salvation appending exclusivity out of institution--looking no further than corporations granted their inveighing personhood--is subject and feeling to vision. Legs and body metrics were standing in my eyes so I'm leaning there diminutive of physical success while mind-hand scrutinizes an inward survivor to the content of the moment restored to my inmost navigation of its refinement, so to speak, I slouch right up to 'reminders' of presence, all warm inside myself. And these 'crowds were to disappear,' mounting with predilections homeward. Like chaff content of evenementiel wheat swept away from the wind of thought, assurances of thoroughgoing idea-forces are more likely shelved as personae magnifying selfhood as one of few, and one of few things suggesting a deductive beginning only that the choseisme of indifferent light or shadows' blanketing rescue hang us by identity's limb enough to struggle with it like no other fate than to break free or die no longer pretending.***********There are handfuls of moments with no Theory of Mind however obviously partly unsettled thus unacademic and informal 'such models for thinking' were eclipsed while I'm losing my way in being present all riddling as belly-button windows enduring most of my life. Less so now. Driven with wanderlust intrinsic to the survival of my version of an imagined relativity, the abstract present if true to that balance, has those wanderings a reprieve to the heated conditions of forced thought scenarios, so this Thought Disorder withwhich I contend. One early episode down at the 'Ant Tree' is a powerspot where I faced intuitions of my life broken of continua, the sense that I lived by a waning spirit or by its quickening. Right next to Quail Creek, sometimes too looming of phantom malfactories and more usually an embrace of pure nature and wonder, I felt drawn toward an ant pile near the Ant Tree but a different species, more visible on the ground. They were black ants on the tree and these were probably some kind of fire ant. If the template of myth from Australian Aboriginal musterion applies these would have been the green ants whose power typified in our anthropocentric realm is to guide with dreamt lives given over to all the chil'runs of the world. And just then I hoped and seized fantasy, energies, maybe the stammer of already wizened concerns, said to myself somehow, 'I'll live each one of these little lives, one as a bridge to the next.'***********This is a portrait inmost given the same context and half the letters toward my open window on spirituality from one year back. **Knowin' that I've prayed for this momentum in certain hard-won confidences alighting back to the surface even into a world more expansive than ever actually promising its winsome analogue are: -I taught myself to speak 'moreso' the second time. Imagine. -What people call self-consciousness I see as a feat to my objectivity eight miles high thralled as thingism settling somewhere deep in the past this deep-aside had begun shovel ready, then by handfuls, my 'flect' manufacturing of confidence is disinterred, loamy shadows to light. In kabbalah, visualization is cultivated by the mekkavanim I imagine lateralized to pan-Hindu vipassana meditation's purveyors. Had I apprehended theoria, even in few ways, if I were to look at my animicule inner-circuitry, clouds and dreams, transportation and promising books all dance through the fen and pondering of my conscious maps, these pieces determining a rather Max Ernst divined physical success of extenuating limbs, this body's lengthening to digits grapnel but linear in reprise, as source in long yawns into me thence findable pon the intermediate stuff of inner-tableau. My brother asked me, Why "...moreso?" Kind of asking ...giving me latitude to interpret, what happens down by those still waters? Well, I think, a realist is hopefully what I've become, a listener in spite of believer to an absurd rambling rent vainly and impressionable, hardly eased into any functional mimesis, lends itself perhaps just as magically to that kind feeling I wonder about with Bob Marley's phrasing, "Music a godly thing," that one's whole day deserves its canticle, its song of songs.***************

Blam ! Bamot are Rocks, Belch of Tabernacle to this Outside Wanderer's Undonning of Masks

Like being drawn and tolled pon a crossing through nerves within the project of an image, more refined in iteration as formulaic as this dialectical analysis, Self = Sense of back pages, interior's beginning, Zed inverted to Alpha + the Light of presence. Neil Young drops his kind phrase in Pocahontas and makes me realize what may be "In my little box at the top of the stairs..." also. His 'waters'' reference of the model for Mind is dreamy and surface to places emblematic as teacherly compassion; given the blush on mused faces to students-of-life bound with right answers, salience is orange night fire, light blissed and near to an invisive tear of waterways. So it's true for me, an image, consisting of thought in a detailed and culminate expression as a repair to any distraction and ultima thule to almost all other mentation, drew me toward its interstices just till I'm warned I'd disappear within it and perhaps become rent of its alluring rather dreidel (a Jewish four-sided spinning top's) inmost play or come away dispirited. So throughout this wonder and move inward I just record my advance at the (Meccan-like) 'haram' of these embowering, rather fractured interiors round approbations, rank and oh so blue in sum orisons amid its evocative waters. ********** There came an impression, Hawkeye from MASH always laid-out and tired, doubly worked, that he looked sleepy and stoic but with a circus understanding, that he could readily define effort, even excellence, enduring arrears in pathos terminal to a compassionate void. Dudes withwhom I ran in kitchen-work spaces, like Columbia's, Pizza Hut, Springs Inn or Holiday Inn, as work-a-day fools, were subjects raised so that I could imagine a developing porte after these folks get home, "wha' you gonna do, gettin' outa here tonight, man?" I said. And so many times someone answered, "... goin' tuh behhd." My mind was On as 10,000 TVs, says my first psychiatrist, and what appertains time arriving by the reins of a typically assailant circadian reason looked to me as great leaden vexations which demanded life renewed in increments, diminutive, but starting in first steps toward their millionth realized. Vis-a-vis the honey-groused call from Leonard Cohen in his last published album, You Want It Darker, his song, Treaty, alights similarly, thereso with pure laudations in humaneness. And leaves us all supposing if not the noose of his dreams or its quickening, but its sublime yield and terrible metric on shadows of a deep well to vitality: "And I wish there was a treaty we could sign I do not care who takes this bloody hill I’m angry and I’m tired all the time I wish there was a treaty I wish there was a treaty Between your love and mine." ************

In some foundational way Jiddu Krishnamurti keeps me noticing impulses to negotiate my plodding caprice, that to pull myself through the myriad open doors of self-suggestion, generally if to maintain looking-off just past the content of things exercising me, thinking like I can't put the menu down, would deny relationship: So I and Thou is come to the gouge of rote biblacy or even I and Nature, where she's presumed effulgent and yet rather unstirred in the mundane where I'm fooled with expectation of answers befitting a material puzzle is already a looking-glass seven years adjourned. Thought is fear, he says, is self-preservation. So any trace to movement, like breathing or the study of sounds-arriving, glancing perdurable an experience giving me legs inmost, whatever it may be---that I may alliterate---are the signposts of thrall and will, and so sometimes the sorrow of an egoitic muse allows its one lesson to drive me back into attention knowing actively 'why bother!' *********** Just how far from making value statements will you go? Wisdom-traditions make sense adducing their best interpretation that good and evil is only the cultivable immunity in thinking it so. That dialect in self-reliance would be a promising collaboration ---one that I value---in conversation appending Self and Nature, the most elusive without keys from a pass-go in appearances, till our emotional control shows the reins on one's own prise of contention too moralistic so true to right conduct only monarchical in defense. So it seems, intellectual habit could actually be like an addictive self-realization 'cause' only any purgative suggests the cleft adherence in relativity wanting happiness to follow so to presume sorrow in mounting palimpsest confidence only suspicious of completion and validation.************** No, it's not about George Washington or Thomas Jefferson not denying biblacy's ethos by accepting denigrating principles about slavery and the slough of other contentions disputing humanity as 21st Century folks would finally accept. It's about The Daughters of the Confederacy appreciating statuary and world-view typically more recent than that and spelled-out in Blood and Soil nativism without a care in historical veracity. And it's about acting on a pattern or hopefully not making a move. If one perseveres one to one onto emergent changes inventable as from more elect concepts, political come religious, appended to self-repute, then he or she denies imminent human nature that continua as portending knowledge of escape or reprieve, whatever the latitude on a hope for the world-to-come, is our material time at stake.**************** I swear by Rushdie -- his visitation on light clouds -- his shtick finally sweet or devilish, weak of flesh or celestially enlisted unions, familial and reverse of usual intensions, prowess for vanities and not souvenir as that pop play emergent as sport to realism. Yet pop imitates the East West career with impulse upon sometimes an egalitarian mobius strip, more archaeological in Kerouac's witnessing ways, he retrieves core-culture in reliquary postures to pine awareness of antiquity's traces to the subtle bodies meant as our alliterative restorers. ************** There's concept, the play behind appearances, but the rhythm to its movement as a thing imminent or that realism's-exudate-will-have-done-something sworn to minds apt only to serve our physical success, then seekers of concrete evocations decry everything unworthy of some One that somehow eludes reason for such discernment coming in blooms, but now all inky, a mystery to renown, invent by rote and grudge, and live with bye the by like next to a great river whose ironic momentum makes explanate feeling ever on the road as a long- distance runner whose race assigns finishlines as conceptual as any, fleeting or come back, so to negotiate the impermanence to self-awareness prompting plainly rapt victories across eschatons conflated to lately hoped for patterns in world-views where someone else is always rarefying resource in what should be already amenable in our cultural addictions and the agonic norm of Belief. *************** Methinks, memory is like our doormat at the gates to our habitue of reception, as it portrays landing and solvency, sometimes leaves and all manner of yard drag obscures our breach into well-meaning. And sometimes it's just blown away from the thrall of weather's better voluntas. Funny and usual at once, I can remember content to what I imagine plugged-in with the pattern of this or that conversation, our easy-speak, and wishing not to be spare and utilitarian, but no longer feeling normative as to why thus and such empirical thoughts became emergent, it's like knowing a character to a book or movie, now come so alive, I erase beneath my steps in time with their assession. ************** Consciousness is the abracadabra of a creative mind only reformed by the august truth that its nature redounds no plain inventor; after all you may blame me for something atheistic and yet it's because you argue your Hope only distracted by sense-ready prose. It fascinates me that someone, maybe actually a couple of clairvoyant and then reasonably intuitive folks, have told me my lifeline was split in half. A Book of Life, half opened, then through another auspicious awakening, I raise my head from its white fire warmed from the burning sands out of a foundation of dreamtimes. And that now down to an imperative looking seam to stave me from undress, this mortal coil is my sublime pathos, my spirit rejoined to motes in these temporal midways ************ Closing my eyes still I see a little phantom visage look over as if atop a bluff of shadows. As synchronized to immediate meaning with it, I can assume that I too am looking and peaking with some objectivity into the present. And surprised of any information that I had encountered presence, surrounded by all manner of settled models for thinking, selves from without now felt emergent offering awareness out of my pitch mind. Once upon a time in regular dalliance life, part of the work-a-day world for my brother's business, as memory serves computers made then still had Windows 98, and so I imagined similar phenomena from a 'screen-saver' design I would view pon ever entering Eric's office while his desktop computer whirled inactive. What appeared on screen were faces allured in cartoonish poking-up salutations; the computer looking back at you in just so much apparati anthropos implied a metrication in not only customer scheduled persona, but an idealism on world-view was sculpted, self-promoted masks or the weight of things traducing open nerves. Faces to study. *************** I found myself just at the door and facade front of my house, trying to get in but as a charade in dreamtime implicative of freedom while locked out. In a butterfly blink, starting toward the back porch, I realize I'm compelled to break into waking-state's summery screened window somewhere, and through its thought-world, the one perhaps adjuring spaces less striven or obsolete. Then as the creator to its ephemeral game, I see the escapism of this mindroom chimera from the leisure to nod awake lying again across my material-embrasure, my bed, within. Awake. Leonard Cohen's iteration of some chohan kinda verse might have had the wonderment yet grounding me surrounded by a world indicted of my character like second person. I am 'you' and with the key mantra propping up consciousness, an actionable sense, say, what appreciates imminently by prescription, readily apparent egoity is detained in our eyes thusly espousing Subject, "AND NOW YOU LOOK AROUND YOU." ************ My meditation seems pendular of moments opened-up to dubby effects, layered cants and toasting deepens me in replies to a black and white, give and take, dreamstate. I'm evenementiel in getting to a place beside or escalante as observer-self, watchman ad the-space-for-thoughts, their leafy boughs only accidentally comfitting to a late season. In clear redolence as to boomerang any of these monadist arisings, a circus understanding of their colorfield portrays reception: the muse behind the minds of cauterist magicians put flowers in place of fires, disciplines reenacted within half-parted veils buffer declamations under the wayward-come tentpoles of consciousness. ***************

The Milky Way, satin as our unrecent look upon starlight

Nothing is tracked in yon looks of ways to bend thus-gone & immensities rank going-on like its possibility cannot be turned-off.********In the Catskill Mountains of New York one late Summer morningtime I'm taking my regular walk on down the country road adjacent to my Aunt's bungalow colony on my way to a near blueberry patch. Below a barn just past, below its Amish hex sign, is a tall tree stump shoulder high with a strident blackberry plant having made its way from near cleft high ground onto the top of it. And with only one blackberry, I see a beetle which I spied the day before still embracing it in full-on courtship, though not eating the ripe berry. Too cold or wet the night before? I couldn't know, but I imagined the rather fecund undergrowth and essence emitting flora thinking how it must have been, that our little bug is recently so fueled and somehow living from these same environs, so patient having avoided the fruit now going on a second day that it must only conceive of redolence, air and coming Sun in the whiling-away Summer imbued to its sweet berry. I feel a sense of this beetle's temporal plight and I see the content of Natural things informing my meditation. With places so spare that its human denizens are drastic as to how they are appeased by foodstuffs, in their temporal utility, I imagine plants thousands of years old in the Namib desert. And patiently near it somehow graced I've covered the anonymity of vast distances, while something of an earthen essence awaits no judgment, and superable to any perceptual eternity, the swath of time in its almost dormant continuance is meaningful like a blessing. I can think of no greater purpose than to define the spare lives of these temporal daimons, our becoming less alienated ciphers pon their renunciating record, calling our observation of forever ago as an encounter with the Welwitschias' tenuous success compounded of the conditions round them as a reality to respect.************Waved my freak flag, doing it apropos a few bank employees bleary with schedule intensions, ledger accuracies, so no non-sense oriented and needing a spotlight shown at their perdurably elevated repose per that coming election, yet while mired in FOX repellent News one afternoon. I walk in and get to my guy, transact and with receipt in hand, ask the managerial loitering bunch if they can guess '...what my shirt really means?' I'm introducing 'difference' mind you, the shirt says Shalom undecipherable to them, and on the front some (slightly) wrongly written Masoretic Hebrew, a bit of an Arabic flare to it only meaning 'born, then given a name'= "to yield" over what-I'm-named, would presume a sense of active lesson withwhom I have common views on that name. So, koo-nee-yuh, kuniyah, has the root word Yes in some reach toward wisdom-tradition. Well, they prise from an obvious concretion to bullshit the knowing impulse we weren't believably on the same page, almost sure so thoroughgoing in xenophobia they'll merely be humored, and I say, "...it means Kill Whitey." *****************Akbar I, the Great, an Indian mughal, lettered and spiritualized, living 400 years ago, makes such an agreeable context for words ascribed to Jesus, Quranic, this aphorism creates an East to West stream of present circumstances and plumbs soughing depths by its ascetic floe and thrall, in my view and with a bit of my elastic semantics, these words stay true to the intended sense, Aiwa, yass, in English: "The world is a bridge. Pass over but build no houses upon it. The world lasts the beat of an hour. She or he who hopes for an hour may hope for an eternity. Spend it in meditation - the rest is unseen." Mendicant figures, I'd reimagine, improve the imperative I 'believe' in, which is to keep defining meditation, though it's all exordium, I'm just getting here, it seems. But I'm telling you, rare reader, I'm confident about making an epistemological pattern from otherwise dregs left of ample reading, now sharpened by intrigue, I'm sculptor with the anecdote to the stirring present as statuary, name your pan-Hindu effulgence, in their reliquaries as facade courting self thus appertained to an on-being, magnified, light cued expressions into splendor, these are thoughts written down in my mind's tantric usual.***********Susie and I will dig Nature documentaries and their Humanities' extension into our living economy, say, the manufacturing of motive to contour right thinking and meditation. And it's not lost on me overstanding in the forward thinking wanderers of our Earth suspiring in cultivable Religion as it regards the first science, rational thought & philosophies, that self-actualization is a better goal than a fealties' contest. With the pageantry of an identity thing most leave-off resigned to the immediate satisfaction you'd be known by thus and such megatransection into antiquity's better perceptual world, and then for-all-to-conceive a Right to the hereafter. The hope I see Sysiphian-relented, meeting me, is the hope coming down from up-above, those exiled figures whose instinct it is to kill the pernicious lure to consensuses, lovers of restoration, victory for everything that is known and nothing outside the known, her author's lesson on letting-it-be.**********I delve into the charade of a moment, and silence as its empyrean garment gets hardly undressed. Sure of an unmatched concept, and florid on the lurping banks of an everywhen, my plollocking thoughts are off then on. Memory cheats the present of the poesis of encounter, and then its observer gets his or her iron to steal it back. I'm sensate to the 20th Century whence this giant leap begins: Wallace Stevens records nature like southern India's sthapathis, with a written statuary of reverence, readily renewed with sensitivity to new information, his upful letters have all the caprice through the sublime porte and meddle of street alleys. Less an exile of reason, perdurable appearances metricate over plateaux of no worries, relentless distances provide the innervation of deep wells and an aside, lucid and foreign altogether ...here and otherness, now but underneath. Only to make the evitable mind a bloom and conscious pocket more certain as time's temperature to the cool vertices of one's refutation on fate.**********My feet sit still more solitarian than me, they've done more. My eyes laugh like they reach through my hands; under banana tree canopies they see polygon flappy shadows obfuscating the depth of footfall in Sun caricatures not-letting-go of their light, dark, orange and white ground arabesques. My ears meddle with perspective on night star-shine, in the wilderness of pitch and silence, tether to the mention of a thousand years in each breath. My lungs occasion verbs of change, burn like embers scattered across the field of experience.*********Sense perception averring air ungouged with a rein on acquisitive impulses, is common sense and rational thought, yes, these truths before sorrow and what decides on any relevant, perfectly rapt moments, how the transcendent is revealed in the austerity and merit to your nature's anonymity, one's "organs of consciousness working with one and against itself," Nietzsche proscribes. A feeling I imagine is realized as an adorning of impermanence what one can plainly see as strata of knowing through space memorialized with more seasons' impression laden proudland than quietude of mind at ocean's bottom, still-waters, letting-go, no mental appearance whereby quantum indifference, = our heavens are an existential rank as neverlands iterated, a haunting renewal through immediate sabbatical, dormancy in her dreamscape, nothing demanded, just innervation to shadows, nowhere to be, breath and blood, heat, potency, the mind unknowing what it has known to ask, openly so prone that the shell of the individual one once donned in common experience is now a feeling and answer, time's caprice and the annihilation of voluntas as pretenders nearer to the flame of egoity's more invisive beginnings.*********Once I thought "knowledge" would solve all my ills; determined goals of study and meditation becoming fecund with no linear appetite, as to say, I jump from Point A, a sense of knowing, to Point B, . realizing that monadist dive into the sea of temporary bouyancy is salient with and without the motive of content. Because there is something about Unknowing, the Musterion, that symbols helping me evolve and relate this rarefied dreamy being donned in the threads of a shrouded traveller are in fact important as well. Musterion. No better words could've emerged from the crease of my mind, a conscious map of 'predictive confidence' opening to a book by Ram Das makes, maybe a couple of things in view of his Eastern Thought schtick, said one thing I remember just flipping through it at Walden Books in Fayette Mall maybe 14 years ago. That once one realizes he or she is comfortable in saying, "I don't know ...." And I don't read-on where the aphorism might go. But, Yes, then what? Homeward - I wasn't going to wait. I wondered, and uhm, going back out into the heave of shuffling feet, think to finish what the author could have implied next. That this helps to unrail the enumeration to abyssal walls of blind certainty really observed for what they were: intensity and spectacle or the translating masks our instincts make us presume and emote from clouds behind the minds of those crazy faces.********I walked into the mirror the millionth time contesting appearances of these dominoes collapsing in selves, enumeration unrailed.*******The apophatic sense of subjective reality if creative is to imagine truth unloosened in a pathless improvement to our ambitions.***********No better words coulda emerged from the crease of my mind, already in a malaise as I lie down to doze: predictive confidence.*************Your dust fares as motes alighted through these years sparing you over into more light and shadow play, as life exquisite dust.********Arabesque creator M. C. Escher, notionally ...? Because nice allegoric language I intend as 'one who reads history like any spiritual book,' these words: screed, plain surface and centroidal wish hopefully improve a point with higher thinking on the realm of Absolutes. Yeah, I'm just glad I can be certain of a spiritual ad academic sensitivity, and verily, seeing those more prone of its whole-cloth would-be restorative wordage, egoitic hands on the rather corralled acquisitive hope that one is indicated even served by it, is viewable from great heights. No sense of abiding my actions would be an inquiry on a creator being inasmuch as any vehicle of an Absolute is meanwhile what attends personifying greater reality, its legacy meriting decision-making however inelegantly reflecting a martial god, any god, and any mischief conferring that greater reality as receptive to our identity of some presumption to non-exilic fate. Mystery is not an escape - instead by doctrine their mere banner ethics are the faithful outpaced from a feel-good factory while undedicated in lure and ignorance because a thing psychologic by screeded missions imply human suffering yet down as to one plain surface of resolve. Read: Consciousness is plenteous to belief as it is natural to reconcile the change to self-awareness in the climate of an only wishful centroidal greater will.*****************I think of bones, Kaskerbeh's dragged across the valleys of Pte environs only there anthropomorphed as seed gone to leaf tobacco, that she jumped from her high butte encampment to settle continuance of this musterion nightshade weed. I wonder at my blood, this wine-dark sea. And I think of blood and the rivers of dreamtime staining nerves lightened to her ingredients. If my body had been composed of Herculean hair or a Ganges Bhakshatanamurti's dread, a Shaivite, or the payot of a mekkavanim, of Jewish mystics, then vapors to vapors, vanity draws past as the wind, tremory to the habit of our trees and just as ready to sculpt them as cove reeling mind portraiture. This is my renunciation to mania. The image here is Chagall's "Samson Kills a Young Lion," and from Samson's riddle, "Out of the eater, something to eat; out of the strong, something sweet," is verse not different than in Maitreya Buddhism discovering a dialect of something constructively as 'repulsive.' A cave dwelling Monk comes along, 20 years of solitarian resolve adjuring meaning and compassion then encounters a wounded dog lateralized in view of hagiographian magisteria to the Biblical lion, who lies in a ditch prey to malefactory and maggot-filled there in temporal throes. Samson scoops a mouthful of honey out of his revisited victim, out of its rotting carcass. Honey or bliss, the mendicant monk bows low. Over the dog and facing its laceration, puts his tongue across the yuck and larval parasites, removing them all.*******Yesterday on KET Susie and I watched some of a movie first out in 1934. The actors lurking in those early 20th Century paces reach me as I seek back into time for a hint and nod of self-consciousness. It really tethers me round these, more and less relatable, beat identities that I'm lured toward modeling their concern for the present as if such quickening of relationship is actually an imperative to-my-own-vitality. Memory is weirdly fed of realism's sensational conduit and by telegraphic appearances, like ambrosia is to the celebrated essence enlisted at the feast of life, in our nerves contemporary sight comes way-over, rarefied and inventive as impulse on a more essential cosmogony ...complement of origins. Conscious goals in truth are some record of our agonist nature, even portending an encounter that suggests only hope on waking-up. And whatever blooms esteemable are from moments ago anyway, rooted in forever ago in laudation of a thousand years, and more, yet in patterns of their give and play emitting of symbolic doors with slack reins and anschluss wanderings.********I think of bones, Kaskerbeh's dragged across the valleys of Pte environs only there anthropomorphed as seed gone to leaf tobacco, that she jumped from her high butte encampment to settle continuance of this musterion nightshade weed. I wonder at my blood, this wine-dark sea. And I think of blood and the rivers of dreamtime staining nerves lightened to her ingredients. If my body had been composed of Herculean hair or a Ganges Bhakshatanamurti's dread, a Shaivite, or the payot of a mekkavanim, of Jewish mystics, then vapors to vapors, vanity draws past as the wind, tremory to the habit of our trees and just as ready to sculpt them as cove reeling mind portraiture. This is my renunciation to mania. There is a paper etching by Chagall called, "Samson Kills a Young Lion," and from Samson's riddle, "Out of the eater, something to eat; out of the strong, something sweet," is verse not different than in Maitreya Buddhism discovering a dialect of something constructively as 'repulsive.' A cave dwelling Monk comes along, 20 years of his solitarian ways define the extremity to his senses adjuring meaning and compassion, acerb time meriting its iron in conscious pockets. Then invertedly enjoined and eunomian committed this ascendent becomes healer to a wounded dog lateralized in view of hagiographian magisteria to the Biblical lion, and this Himalayan canine lies in a ditch prey to an unspoken malefactory and suspires maggot-filled there in temporal throes. But Samson scoops a mouthful of honey out of his revisited victim, out of its rotting carcass, deferent if only through abstraction to realize a completely antinomian ethos. Honey or bliss, the mendicant monk bows low. Over the dog and facing its pus exudation, puts his tongue across the yuck and larval parasites, removing them all.****************

True Democracy, Nikos Kazantzakis thought over & round Nicholasville Road

Belief takes air to be consistent. Everything held to it & nothing thru ways in parsimony off other models of experience will do.*************** So to develop what Kazantzakis would say about his Father is of a place memorial like the True Democracy true to years and years of porch-sitting decompressions as I imagine home shores sensate accompli pretending no differently than the mountains his Father turned toward, chibouk pipe lofting its thought clouds and in these environs, sunrays rapturing from Mediterranean waters, anything lassoing the two threads of the horizon with what I could throw at it. Once a gray curtain halved at a pellucid ceiling above me of all the impulse and aerobatic wag to reimagine exhaust from the near highway skirting backyards of houses arrayed only a few houses away, and whose highway sounds of belching and squalling and wailing would report coming moments of inner-narrative all along in trace assignations with furrows inverting of senses cultivating 'call and response' and may well be a standard okaying stillness from a moment to moment radio on torpidity. But through language too, the finality 'good-byes' of leonine airplanes from Bluegrass Airport, their machines hunt for distances. While more immediately, avians solitarian and choral relate of their precious spaces, move and bob like with geometric visors for wont in their occupations of scrap and peckable mysteries, saying, 'Here ...just here,' that their song reputes a conscious satellite and some perch of any one graduation to Season's feeling in the climate of its power.************It's all about the dub, beats so meritably wizened, symbioses in Peace ...tadow, it's for the Beat and always to dance.***********Thus TV irreality, junk culture et al eases contemporaries into elect continuity while time is what we need even scant underfoot.***********G*d = Good while alacrity is invented, unconvincing when the theodicized can't own up to his pathlessness novel amid the mundane.**********Reflections delay the better of us till we're jumping from anyone more realized in lucky rapport, memory & its purveyors.*********Believers cherry pick biblacy's repute because open criteria is from accepted reasons as to reject slavery, alight fear et cetera*********That I'd invent renewal of the stuff I'm made, the mundane is all I am but hopefully moreso the guide libertine at the point of observation, far over, way over, come to this place again and again.**********Drumpf's charade attack on CNN is not only toward his detractors, but anyone at variance to his elite and hardly populist wag, a threat in toto at the free press and the scrutiny which will have brought his more interior acerbism into more developed conversation. The 4th Estate confers core-culture, which the likes of Drumpf and his minions think to carve into their corporate personhood and likeness. The fealty agonisms to our political animals must be ameliorated with a lens out of our technocracy's highly alluring sarcastic realism sometimes in the same play-acting moves biblacy's Holofernes and Judith evocation is implied by humorist and critic Kathy Griffin while it slashes at this Big Man ethos whose pass-go on violence serving their own ends is ruinous to the certain skies which would've belonged to our youth. Drumpf should be denied any patriarchy.**********

****My circulation was a concern, smoking when I could, my heart ran on the danger of being transformed solitarian and broken from feeling rather lost once. Like 10,000 sips from that faithful tea cup, but now lifetimes away, one only knows love poured from it for Tathagata to sort out now what is thus-gone, knowing love, but nothing more spills out of this second nature thang that had honey for my strength. I hate the morass of pain tobacco caused all the economies of my being, while it's equally reckless imagining having followed Mom then when she passed with the promise pulling on cigarettes wouldn't keep me down for long while bound minimally conversant (she and your story-teller, both), she's more in my eyes now than when I stood in her room for the last time, January 2012. Elie Wiesel from his auto-biography quoted the author of The Last Temptation of Christ, Nikos Kazantzakis, his friend, something describable as the human heart becoming prone as a ditch of blood, the skies having opened up like a precipitating sad love and to consummate that love, when relationship becomes that sweet and fateful encounter, you throw yourself upon its banks. Turning this way and that, animating, my heart sometimes would feel all in a weird ajar position like lightnesses slight in the sense of miscontrol and egoitic in responsum to some general entreaty toward healing the healer within the lurch of me definitely unknowable and terrible by exile - like I'm carrying blood adduced plashing through my palms - dreigh interred sweep of bone utilitarian banging around thoughts' dwindling pen. My heart was buried and Susie has made me emerge from the slur of my emotional seat, confiding rhythms, living up. Now, she is Mother-sister, self-consciousness and every impulse guiding my heart.***************Bob Marley remarks, "Music a godly thing," a bop tremendum, thrum, swag of the ekstatic or alluring mourn of commonality, yass, me too. Jazz is as absolutism confides in Creative Reality with a nod and wink over the plenteous thralls found in human paces, eyes turning to plants, breath sweetened from the taste of "liquid language awash ..." (Wallace Stevens). So funny how coming to moments of inner-narrative which is all along giving trace nuances with furrows inverting of senses cultivating audition may well be standard and from moment to moment a radio on torpidity. But through language too. I'll 'hear' that-does-that or way up one evocation of the spirit behind his or her myth of sound becomes proprioceptive in some appreciating figure of saxophone impulse carved into sound's evanescent hillocks. Plateaux, corridor, light, dark, our likenesses recorded in fresh shadows, and all the lush repute of difference and mystery in light rays of Jazz sways with blue neon and slow embrace. Jazz within, I do.********

*****Well, by the way, I've never had a dalliance with hard drugs, not really beside a few intensified episodes years and years ago. And while 'getting away with it' not by some great mastery of impulses, only that I just easily call too many things so this included as imposture and distraction ...well, tadow. That being said, its allegory, variable resource, culture, stimulation and our likenesses bring a world round in seasons and mostly out of being, goal or palimpsest to rather interesting lessons of the human plank fromwhich experiments in consciousness have its players moralize of all the exacting distance and cost to the half of someone they've become. Full-up, guffaw plollocking of the considerate, fiery ambrosia of existence, dreaming of her vessel of such obeisance filtrating the cause of immanent adulterations flowing through her equid's heart, we're mapped in traces of feeling more and more fossilized in riverine furtive provenance starry and homeward to this mindsore, its content plashes and splurbs then topples the last effect of its weathery metabolisms. And don't I?************The Hasidim, whose impute to musterion are in examples rendered through Marc Chagall's hand, have come-correct improving the conversation allowing that "animals" have superable identities. They rally what cultural contrivance likely succeeds in exposing a more considerate and laterally responsible, in my view, evolving relationship with Nature, self, the animal round us alighting survival. Animals, namely chattel, are poised of ancestral spirits, they believed, ancestor worship denying the West's vacuity in such administration, while here an animism is nodded over albeit through a Jewish Creator pon the Chariot or Throne in hermeneutics, Merkabah Kabbalah, gets developed with sense of the physical soul, incarnational animals, the chayot as objects of meditation, define such soul ascendency as do ophanim, circular angels in the message guaranteed to every room and galgalim, transmigration's angels and other angelic figures of Ezekiel's near-Aryan or Bavli vision, Babylonian. And to just define this in as broad a comfiture to humanity now so laudatory within the clutch of Belief but having chance rationales otherwise coming with such ascendency, being the last ripple in the stone's perturbulent design on a pondering world, if ceremony arights with humility, it is rather intriguing toward Islam's view that animals have already 'submitted.' = Living with exception to the world fated of their natural migrations, encouraged there, perhaps.**************Okay so this is what I do - I like a persistent image when barely had the Moon peeked down on me, no sky-blanket having mouthfuls of fire are committed to its belch into my sight or its nuclear lairs are aerobatic and emulsed in blue-black dome covers, eternalized by encounters more immanent. Nothing, I'm lying on a garage floor, burning cigs off of the electric heater, this night sky is framed out of the backdoor window while only our Moon bleets impossible macrocosmia and yet I'm so small like one eye gathering its expositor in blind will. I'm fearing dumbness deigned I'm as blind in portrayal like early Soviet-Jewish writer Isaac Babel's reference to the old ways convened by an old man, Gedali, getting revolutionized but good; a sympathetic figure, undeservedly in the wail of political men, where the image is revived of eyes cut open, a discursively wept path of the human pack will inevitably exact sight. Then I go sit, out of patience claiming more sensate goals, mind allured to repair amid matchless intercalary strength, long on the back garage steps, feeling my backyard and saintly purveyors of a green world - they're upful in the dust - who taste all the symbols of Nature accreting under Maple canopies like I imagine I do lightswitches, doorknobs, these environs, night-painted thoughts!! The reading lamp is on in the house, our dream, now the chromatic blossom whose lepid essence is the Sun, a galactic mind speaks in movement so that I can feel.**************I recall a conversation just a handful of years ago then with my confidant in the whelm of strong currents on self-actualization efforts where I tease it all out of proportion so to grind on, back away from more normative statements, expect deference to change and listen even harder. What would your ground of being look like? I asked Jake, Jacob Watson. That had you not been this drawn to a world through ecstaticism and while some plastic rethinking is possible in this our 100 watts of consciousness, then what is this stuff of intellect and the only door to presence coming on as manikin to our more grave spirits merely good enough? What is visualization now in situ to plain discovery of one's life becoming hardly velocitious or outlanding to a transient record? Truth, as Kerouac redresses with Blake's words or a paraphrase of words on William Blake, maybe a few of them only out-done seeing a lush picture one could evoke upon the couch of consciousness: "Rough rocks groaning vegetate" is in Jake's consolation how he suggests to me once acting on some primacy in feeling that he had to see as plain a-synapse in his hunter and gatherer hands nerves woven adducing of baskets conflated with intramantram dreamscape, like resource coming to light, the food from the feast of incarnations, handed up from at least the hope in the depth of beginnings. His words were "wet rocks" - "It looked like wet rocks." - an evinced solitarian space that trial an observable reality as to say its content distills down to moulds and cool shadows, inanimate and would-be invigilating. Oh brother, the world had a foundation, and where art thou? But I already know, in the gates of the forest round the feet of beautiful mountains.**********

*********Many times drawing that new breath when reflecting then becoming 'dialogue open' to survey the myriad confetti of concerns always reimagined by several usual thread thoughtful technocrats, I rarely completely feel saturated in the report of the whole of thus and such ocean and take-in only a few of its drops velocitious toward this ocean which is never full. It isn't really a choice as it is the leisure withwhich the weight of these ideations filter through my aloof exudating conscious floor finally open to its audition. The dross frustrations enveloping our communication's bridge have all the traffic and consensuses with their ambitious horizons met in cyber-agonisms, language awash in language, that it keeps my head in the clouds, blue empyrean given away to a neverminding pitch of space.*************All that movement and sound has a second long cast at people imparting a feeling of transformation, while acting behind a sublime babylon veil motoring to unknown horizons met. Cavalcading traffic in lopped-off dialects underneath blearing metal, their power is in threatening earthen wretched paths, upon bloodless vascular tarmac. Or bloody. A suburban denizen in lone ant execution wearing his sky blue walking shoes slipped on for utility shores around his house, carries folded clothes to the back of an SUV, really alliterates through metallic thrum of my refrain between his wading anonymous patter and the margins of his nevermind neighborhood. I'm on foot too. I sip water at the waterhose-tasting-water-fountain at the edge of Southland Park; swimming and baseball draws summery faithful nigh. And passing me into the park a boy in atrophied expressions then making me imagine his cultivating meanness conveniently adduced of his ole Dad and/or pained Momma, he's winding-by, buried in daliance loams, humidity thermals... Kerouac would've been a saint watching at a stand of conifers, divining sinuendo reports with my apposite plash at those shores. 'Spend your time doing strange things with weird people is good advice,' brings me to this: I felt a stranger to any heady confidants I'd ever encouraged thus-interiorized. Only wanting those days of heavier meditation? ...I didn't know; I'm mine own best-friend, said Zadie, my Grandfather. So okay, foot forward, yes. But, is 'weird' a state of mind? Is mind out-of-the-way of mind weird, or is statement of presence letting-go, so mindful and exilic at once, and soooo weird the dynamic is Ouroboros, a day consumed into lifetimes?***********"A verbal blur - what the whole thing means - he offered the honouring of the faith as an achievement that overrode everything else" = VS Naipaul's words.**********I look forward to the regularity of athleticism I demand of myself in push-mowing my less than half acre backyard. Susie and I walk our neighborhood roads or one of a few parks frequently as well. And so if I haven't gotten out much, I'll do leg lifts during the week, or do "hitbodedut" (stillness, meditation) in the leisure of my handful of hours until I go to get Susie from her job ...but we dance to the funks bringing in the new week listening to JT doing Old-school Hiphop every week too. I move fast, basically run half-way through, walking the mower backwards and forwards over peninsulas of clover meshed up to a couple areas of brown grass left to regeneration. Feels painfully good and I imagine rather exhibiting a need for paces in a kind of slow-fidelity before all my heavy panting and rounds of slight chaos settles down. The devil that would be my senses imaginable more unconfident seems to be lashed and sworn to avail my physical success staving off the telois of certain change. Music is playing when I come back inside, and recollects within me as solitarian breath, no conversation or distraction, just stillness and sips of water. And how lucky am I to extend what seemes like mere moments fettering me into the challenge of jumping from such diminution of reflections - once upon a time complicated by a warded-off and foul well-being - into overstanding a beautiful Summer's day, a day in this life, threshold to the bliss of some crossed ocean!!***************But down by the still waters I've given up that maybe my center from without awed to alight as from something greater sought here in turbillion rooms hoping and cultivating its animation, calling it an Absolute having all the virtue of a deep-aside, is hopefully as ambitious as to couple expression in mind's eye approaching some control of the big picture. Hope is good.***************Why does Truth expiate whither one steps away from a hidden world, exceeds anywhere at first unknowable? Hidden Worlds, one reflects, somehow barely had we known to look, and toward the confidence the charge of vast powers around us stave off even as appreciable threats, astounded by its evasion, it seems totally guaranteed one imagines his or her own complexity and endurance as having become seated in worlds of such refined and incremental provision. Meanwhile we range in plenteous reconciliations, a thing of many, only observing the blanket origins of our day in and out of trance egoities.**************