Meditation or hitbodedut as is read in Abraham Abulafia's Jewish Yoga (?)

This is something I keep trying to narrow down. Other images of Dahab, I am not yet done with, like sitting in those tents eating banana pancakes. My question is, Do you actually see memories' lapse? It seems to me nothing is rhetorical in mind, so we have a key to a more immense sense of continuity than our mnemotechical complacency imprisoning us. If we have all that color in mind, it certainly is a lot intermediary space striking me as a pallet for better integrated moments if we'd only just say what it is. The uncertainty means its marginal utility--we could have believed consciousness is there to be won, necessarily when we sit by the still water...Here below is a pivotal memory:
Our poverty was nothing like a poverty, which we saw in the then Bedouin village (Dahab) just getting its only second establishment (!?) wiTh electric. No amenities to us were the things used for the basics of ablutions performed in some kind of order these Bedouin saw fit; as in who would go to the well first, who eats first etc. Rob seemed to neglect an affinity maybe with anyone who dared to make themselves presentable, i.e. natives there, or people back home. The stylee I feel I catch too, looking at the pre-occupied countenance of just anyone=she or he so comfortable, yet unknowing they look to inner-attention--is that knowing we are fully what we want in such short spans. Spans luckily in enough of a pitch, the mask we wear betrays nothing about the tent-poles of consciousness collapsing in upon itself--upon the statement of presence having become two-dimensional, tells us the mind is the real G-d behind the praise of universal suns as its beginning as reason. Around the time the twelve year old girl showed up selling cheap scarves and us realizing she was really selling something else, Rob was squinting in a side door mirror of a car trying to shave. The reflection I imagine as my eyes' blind spot, are the paces I stepped past looking like power-spots gone awry--I want my eyes' sight to fall like a turbillion, til thru sheer momentum the world will seem to collude in our lost selves in the under-housed hot icebergs that is all this life of experienced-forms. Take don Juan's Yaqui profession, its beginning has the reader follow an ill-disposed protagonist considering a room as the microcosm. In the desert, next to an infinite Red Sea (read REd as actually its rightful name the Reed Sea.), has something less gratifying yet wholly necessary making us feel it is incumbent upon us the voidance-denizen to stand unitarian & solitarian (say, collusion supposed).
Hang on to your hat--this is allegorical. "for the world has to see G-d as an active participant in humanity not some remote philosophical theory," some theist suggests. Then, what is the definition, of El? He is the High G-d. You say philosophical remoteness is a deliberate act to refrain from our heavenly duties: THat G-d is On-High leaves every other place vacant, is what I say. OR another way to attenuate this distance--in the positive, rather than G-d remaining remote, IS IS IS thru Distance we are to find Relationship. Here is the philosophical notion: The light at the end of the tunnel is where we meet that which is our project of our faith that releases us from suffering if possible. Meanwhile, the tunnel's end, if you will--this Cosmic house (olam), has an immediacy which eludes us. Yet the Clarity that is Relationship say in the light of day, the direction we aLL are headed, is still attenuated thru whatever means the Believer of ANY faith chooses. You say These others will come to this light by the means with which YOU fulfill YOUR responsibility. Do you not see the folly in that sense of YOUR condition? In judaism, according to Wiesel, our suffering is not alleviated just knowing others suffer too. That our condition is between You & The Creator. So lay off that others who you feel can't make the grade. That is not for you to judge--yetser hara (egotistical), in your thinking that the mutual arising of Communities outside of Orthodoxy are doomed. The great Jewish rationalist from 800 yrs ago, Maimon said to know what these other communities say of our prophets is legitimate, and a tool for our own learning... there is no BUt But there. He is saying it is valid. He also acknowledges Belief flourishing before Judaism--the Hoodo (Hindus). That's right Dude--before US. I read this in Guide to the Perplexed. That is called anthropology. I don't run from science any more than I do from ignorance--I don't fear it. To expand on the premise that Distance equals Relationship: The bulbul, nightingale of the Arabias, closes its eyes--its eyes alighted to the singular dweet of his repose in the Tiamah (the Judaic tohu from Genesis, or tehom)--desert, void. "Nothing" of the social organism is engendered- other than the rays of the High G-d who receives his meditation or "recitation" on Distance (this may be deism--an I and Nature relationship). The Reply is none other than the last look he'll take before the seduction of the prodigy of his self-possession.
I have to say U2's artistic & timely way of giving over what MLK contributes to the humanitarian dialogue--in the late 80s?, characterized something I wasn't able to do...never threading the needle til then. And my bestFriend who I traveled Israel & Egypt with dropped Malcolm X into an awareness I need more of--because he seems to bring regard for the American polity toward Islamic things more evidently relative than maybe once was=thank you the ascension of Black Consciousness here & now. But, finding my mystics in another Arabia, in regard to Gandhi, had been an interest of mine before then (sensitivity to civil rights reality)--I knew the connection, but our national heritage due to MLK's efforts had eluded me, something caged in black & white filmage, yet no one speaking to me as a recipient of eternity on trial thru art as the conduit of history personified. U2 said to me Christ worship has a better condition than the dogma made apparent til then, which was the expectorate of Blue laws here in the bible belt--we felt marginalized or just bored by therein...! Consciousness was the weigh station in gray matter I felt more attune to, an abject loss (taking into consideration thought's elusive attributes) in fact from being readied to deal with people as I saw in normalcy--the place I'd run to, in mind, but was where MLK will remain with these others who transcend common language, ideas & complacency. Like I say to the Blacks I am relating to daily at my work: I rise & fall with those in common with the Jewish thing in Culture's importuning efforts, I can't let loose of, thus respect the strong bond of his/her elation that their heritage is become held in High Esteem now in more & more avenues to trod. FRom Jewish student of life motives comes NOT having to go around the corner to see Islam as a point of reference to a braver community... our languages of ecclesia has crossed paths in so many ways, I'll be chasing this dragon as the project of my worth forwards...!!!
So from memory and how semblance of thought is the project of only barely the immensity of experienced-forms, Arabia & the dismissing of those who assert invective about the diversity we have before us here in the US, to now meditation=how does contemplation demonstrated in the intensity of the watery thoughts as merciful identity, instruct us even as hesitantly thoughtlessness gets misplaced?
But what does it do for you?--not what do other's waver instructions over meditation...telling us how. Here's my point that I thought was the intent of this thread I read. There was this William S Burroughs thing I read I think in Cities of the Red Night, he talks about being a transient rather than a receptacle. So, in that we have ideas per meditation, the levels of visualization--if we had attained vipassana=a sense of deep resolve throughout the long ends of our day--Then as per instruction, we may topple the effect of what any deliberative thought has us expect to obtain. So we jettison even the vessel of that cognitive limit/ throw out the window that we'd receive an ideal circumstance... No end resolve, just release...& thereby ironically we get set prone, the incumbent feeling of trodding the middle path, because of the solitarian sense of expectancy of nothing having our back, so we stand before insignificance, like in a bird's eye view, makes relationship in its greatest potential. This is MY intent. I want to be synthetic as to any doctrinal studies purporting to be advantageous. Krishnamurti is even more iconoclast...one's whose "discussions" are an exercise in learning to think. Believe me it is only a primitive attempt generally undertaken 'til self-preservation is eliminated.
As the iconoclastic cultic expression evolves i.e. we'll do better than our predeceased selves, I would like to link to the last remorseful confusion--this is what I know I projected. **I mention confusion, because I courted it, till confusion became torpor & white noise, and torpidity yields to fragmentation/ of the Mind/ & thus humility binds me to reckon my motive only to be the observer--and be very good at it. It is good to be IN the Know. If we can answer for ourselves at all, and not through the pretension of social ego in any kind of weird striving--saying I am, in any one moment, like I am this span of time as a fine awareness--is the I AM of futility. So maybe now some Jazz to listen to freeing up intra-mantra slavery, playing on my jam-box, & this is my reprieve. Jazz, with its distinguishing instruments--one can find what each of these artists means in a kind of voice, & I'd imagine the map of digressing emanations: drums up front, bass pondering expanse, sax like birds calling me outside (where consciousness IS).

Jazz & Truth: Seeking the Inflated Tear

When the band (Red Fly Nation) was together, Joel the guitarist/vocals construed direction typically at least from my convoluted perspective, which is this--as I see what mattered to me then. We would many times listen to various musicians' product as the session went on, which as I couldn't perform myself, there was no leaning on any erudition that of the way things could or should sound like. So when things would dwindle down to discussion, at least then I courted sensibilities, "I am now amongst!" This was expectation. As the iconoclastic cultic expression evolved i.e. we'll do better than our predecessors, I would link to the last remorseful confusion--this is what I knew I projected. So maybe now some Jazz was playing on our jam-box, & this is my reprieve. Jazz, with its distinguishing instruments--one can find what each of these artists means in a kind of voice, & I'd imagine the map of digressing emanations: drums up front, bass pondering expanse, sax like birds calling me outside. ** Surmising the plain hearth, I gathered the concept of having sought release w/ the musicians I ran with, now years ago. The mayhem-tree (I dubbed) down on campus seemed to be the transition in place, of place, allowing me to yield to the currency of norm, which I now objectify for its strangeness--its a good thing, I feel--nothing to prove. Now there is nothing outside of me, drug or otherwise, which would leave me gainful of expression--I am movement, life's grand reward, a positivist's momentum. Why I sense my concealment, at all, as it has never changed, is almost beyond realization: I could be scaling the exterior of life's edifice, a house, wanting to get in--or already confined to the "bamot" (immemorial, worshipped space-literally " in the desert"/ hebrew) with expectation on par with the cosmic--either way I am buffered by exaltation. When Kabbalists are acceding to higher chambers of belief and knowledge, it is due to their concealment that they can bury the heart of the "other-side" into mother earth & define their opposition to it. I am the convergence of wanting in and getting out. ~~~**The author, Wieseltier, feels less is revealed w/thanks & praises of "heaven" than the hard reality that things go away. Death is imminent. Death is the harder truth, he thinks. So why, I ask, is death the substance making the soul feel more refined in the continuum of our condition...hopefully a substantial life? The black & white of this dialect implies Matrieya, a Buddhist practice--a transformative action to find the taste of the sun in this open wound life. What if it were possible to hold reality in this hand--the shadows in my mind compelling me self-reverently, whereas relief of our pain--say standing in the lighter reference of now, somehow generates ALMOST nothing as gratuitous to remark upon this world as pained as we find it? I contend "light as a feather as if he has wings" B. Marley's words--probably something biblical but from where I don't know--IS our usual condition. (don't think biblical here--it is not the point, the pt. would be just as I say: we can't yet contain death.) What to do in THESE moments? Things seem brighter. Sounds seem louder. WE seem insignificant--promoted by less of a "deep-aside." In this instant, in that moment, why do we contend a lapse? Did we require to renounce death so adamantly that the new day wouldn't be born w/out it? Less is there to hold on to, had we only the bright light of day? If we were so freed up, why does complacency haunt you so? You think truth is only suffering? Truth is, only when we are entirely unencumbered to ask why. AND Why Now? of anything that contains you. If it is the sky: the sky is the limit. Scrutinize even the obvious moment, not just the shadow lurking in consciousness. Self-possession seems the goal of so many... I say WATCH the day you let go of THAT. Watch what you see, as Rimbaud said.

A few weeks in a transection of Pharaonic days

To the extent that we were excessively using hashish &/or tobacco together or separately, one might assume there were periods when we lived in a thick dullness abiding the intensity from our brand of liberty, to its other extreme-a void, whence the harsh Arabesque sun of Iffriqqa shone past the clarity and into the mishap of confused reflections e.g. at the Tea house, presuming as I was, some dot of angst would color an otherwise unhealthy unknowing.

There is a boulevard stretching toward the train-station, our admittance to this village, and to the other side our pension, which we'd hoof down away from every day wondering at what non-paying wonders we would have divulged to us in our hikes around the village. It had a Banque there on it, at which one Sunday we had our travelers' cheques cashed. Everything seemed off from the current of modern access, as if 80% of all you could see was submerged, but seethed. Toward my freedom of youth I'd admonish myself self that big fish authorial entities would in fact show me how little they cared what sensitivities I contained in contra-distinction like the others bearing in my path. Like the Governmentally controlled bank we passed each day. The mosque on the other side of the side of the village where we stayed was another such place. A Midnight Express scenario played out in my mind, as much as I could think about it, while considering entering the mosque, which we did-and formidably w/ SHOES. We actually looked around for some object to pilfer from it, however there was nothing within and still I wouldn't have gone through w/ it. By the coffee/tea house before the boulevard & closer to our youth hostel, the place was called Television-Cofe (sic), Magdi the owner told us Jimmy Carter had been right by his place one day only a few years back from then, and then commenced to scatter a few glasses full of water out into the sandy-ridden road? to keep? the dust down. (Hosnei Mubarack had only been in power maybe over a yr at this point--Sadat's power expunged & bureaucracy work-a-day as usual) Far from re-allaying a sense that this was memorialized space, it seemed as if this little African man looked to the promise of an immense cosmic polity that would help people and lift them up-and this is part & parcel the power spot we sought & could sanction (merely his humanity, that is, not the content of his beneficent admiration:- "J. Carter?") No, rather: Power spot is supposed.

The roseate-colored neoned mosques; the US Air-force emblem on the pack of gumless rolling papers; the call of the muezzin, but mostly from radio programs-all a theophany from Higher Ground, is predominant in my drawn experience, there in Cairo, knowing that the smells of the reeking first Egyptian, we met, if sensed in a moments hesitation-brings on the corporeal-reality of the struggles in a desert life--the plain heat. Adel was just then embracing Islam and the quiet message of my Jewishness seemed broadcasted across the dark experience of this translation to a view of their ministry.
Backing away from excesses-whether it be pop-imagery or a volatile self, pushed visualization into mean moments, thinking back to '86 in the Sinai desert on the Red (Reed) Sea. Illustrating my cause was a continual inversion of attention otherwise un-authorial 'til I reckoned green-tiled mosques as an arbiter toward self-actualization. I glanced upon the pedestrian giants at whose feet I sat-the ones in the sky friendly and cognates of those relations whom I already knew.(having nothing to do w/ giants, but everything to do w/ illusion) I don't conceive of hashish use as criminal, but when a scarf selling early-teen Bedouin girl came to our hut, probably offering something other than garments, I felt un-averred from weird thoughts that my American-advantages could have any relevance here. Rob over by someone's car-door mirror trying to shave, accumulated my dissonance, as if nothing could be put-together to make whole a sense of activity recognizably as adventurous. There was no balance between his lackadaisical contentment & my sole motive=motive. Typically at this point it was just denial of release from release, meaning the travelogue becoming my narrative was liberating to the extent I could contain this vision in the New ancient world, & in this case again this young girl as any Egyptian would do gave me the keys to the reckless kingdom of herb-smoking. She took us where we could get a couple of handfuls of bud processed down to shake, into the heart of the Bedouin compound and facing our torments of strangers in strange lands, where we could only somewhat enthuse for our sanction.

My good buddy dates an African American chic & from some evening talking to her it seems, she doesn't ascertain identity consciousness anymore than someone who only has an immediate family thru adoption--meaning her projection into where she's come from is stunted outwardly, & inwardly she identifies with a community at-large--a reprieve in contemporary zeitgeist as if it applies. Anyone may or may not care about distinct relationship ties--yet I glean a good vibe off of Black America thru his/her adversity...following the conscious party into music and literature. This satisfies yet leaves me wondering where the terminus of her conscious map begins & ends. This is not a slam on the adopted obviously, this is rather how we plug in, & to whom would represent blood ties, as that, in the end we are all related.

I just know I have to let the knife cut me. Walking across the street this am. groggy from staying up last night, that measure of peeking morning light, & peaking coolness in the air layered in inclement stratum--I often wonder how at some point all the movement in the fray is actively construal in my convalescence: meaning I walk amongst the tall trees of a day's energies, and I presume it at the center of my graph=at once, & then other times it's merely a goal, & not even an objective one. It makes our minds blink Right? makes our gait in our stride more certain or more haunting. So mind is made up of thought tools which are cars abound, making my stride ambient in its current. And just as I see these recurring experiences, same person or bldg before me--things, yet I have the presumption of its conveyance...so I push, rub up, just as things do me. It hurts a little, but we are "of" the world possibly lessening reasons to be IN it--therein lies the dubious identity thing. That we believe we are in EXILE, sometimes makes us ill-define ourselves as "objects" with no choice but to move from here Point A to there, Point B. Yet we just proved everything else is in flux...we have only the right to observe. What can be more than that?
Black bubble bouncing ryddim (Linton Kwesi Johnson, a Brit Black Panther) still in a white hiss in my head from Fazed Cookies last night (a Rolling Stones cover band), now here at work, I push up in the folds of thought, where I had ducked yesterday talking to a Sudanese fellow--his Mom, Egyptian, and the distance he thinks others should go to see his sense of One-world, has me wondering why he thinks anyone is missing out anyway. You have to care, & I do--I'm there. Dude was a little weary of the consumerism relegating haggle to what we don't participate in. He thinks about the auspicious query he has which we supply with a track toward cyber ubiquity. He knows of Hamza al-Din (oud player), probably well--IS Nubian like him... has the shade of desert acacias seared like tattoos an Urban world like ours manifestly lost in its ploy toward independent identity, we lost in our theodicy to find deist nature the One G-d people of N. Africa, themselves attenuate because of lonely-actionable resourceless struggles into possible privation makes this man & that woman measurably worship Him.

Kubrick's Barry Lyndon as a step into a Jewish motive on my part

My friend said: "The word supernatural I notice doesn't seem to be a stumbling block for you as it is for many many others. To me and others who realize (I think you do) supernatural does not mean un-natural or fantasy..."hypernatural to show that it is something that is natural as natural as God or Nature but is an aspect and facet of nature we as humans find beyond our realm of explanation and that science or natural reasoning cannot explain." Ahh, I like that he deliberates unto the threshold, which is what I call a spectral shore--he is calling the point at which we go on faith, rather than the rational. However, in reality we may ponder the imponderable, but the unknown doesn't fluctuate --yet we do. A new definition for the "high" came to me last night, finally making sense. In Arabic the word for herb & hashish--ashishin, something to this affect, similarly is Hebrew, is defined as "fluctuate." Last night--and those two words are pregnant to me-- I'm watching this Stanley Kubrick film, I'm high & with it, and then I saw that I was imagining the static events of this sublime film--"Barry Lyndon" w/Ryan O'Neil, in a way that at the furthest reaches that I term time & place went on the chopping block--call it the spectral shore--somewhere when I went on faith. I could see my mind was refusing to consider transition thru the movement of dialogue & warm vistas. In fact, what was really the fullness of the moment was breath & pulse and then a comfort in my heart seeing a peasant trod a path into a town--was deliberate as my physical soul being attended to. He was crotchety & driven, intense & the project of the worth I imagined in the lives surrounding the Jewish shtetl. The heart is a ditch of blood, we throw ourselves upon its banks to consumate relationship--according to Kazantzakis. In that moment, my imaginative narrative begged for objectivity because I was only seeing a Jewish template with the Greek author as an enabler. And the reason why I was comforted was because knowledge gave me a leg up from the heart's woe unto emotional release... It was beautiful. This was not TV, these folks as characterizations in the anthropos, didn't have the fullness of the resourceful answer-ridden world of today--it was rather the surfeit of shorter lived lives, work a day, survival of the fittest which in our resource replicating society -knowledge as commodity is impelling longevity without the survival & psychological instincts to match it. So, I met those instincts truly in the safety & promise of edu-tainment repose, from which ironically I wouldn't easily be prized. The Jewish motif only I was seeing was partly something I imagine in the structure of my old synagogue, and also a literary reference from Elie Weisel's, All the Rivers Run to the Sea, but the Sea is Never Full--something to this effect. ...an image of his Grandfather looking down from the roof's eves, & the thought occurs to Weisel that his Zadie predicted rivers of blood being spilled, as the past immerses into its calamity & ubiquitous flow as relationship gets swallowed in pathos. And my prosaic thoughts on this laid me prone to a Fiddler on the Roof scenario, if not dispensation I coordinate and attune thoughtlessness toward through sheer willfullness...feeling blessed, thanks to exquisite imagery from Stanley Kubrick's film.
***

2001 Space Odyssey was hypnotic enough for me in a long interim w/o psychedelia per the use of psycho-tropics. It is amazing from a certain disconnect many of us have gone through, the engaging requiem of cinema as much as relationship has us sustained, can come to the rescue, proving there is nothing which has left us behind. A friend once said, nothing is worth doing unless you are catching up. Like the dragon surfeits our condition once we believe continuity is found, & off we go toward accompli a priori. A Clockwork Orange, had that sublime Singin' in the Rain refrain at the end of the movie. Just that frightened me in the perfection of its cinematic message, like now it was incumbent upon me to be the synthetic well of happiness through all the machinations of urban mischief. I thought, it was a high bar to meet--but the clarity was the rule...so why wasn't I (clarified with resolve)? I studied Russian at U of Ky, and the patois was engaging--and my literary edifice from the stuffed shirts of Russian culture went right on the chopping block!! If you reckon Evgenii Zamyatin--his black humor, and his small book WE which is easy to find, was a piece that influenced the writing of 1984. A utopian thang & to quote: Doest thou love the fog, D-53? No, I fear it, O-90!! O-90 says: If you Fear it, you Hate it--If you Hate it--You LOve IT!!
***Guess which one was the male protagonist--& which one is the female temptress//which happens to be unto his chained Mind being liberated...
~~~~In front of the media-driven world into what is behind it, my perspective not to quite enjoin this fray of glitter ^^ at the house I lived in for 27 yrs...

Bob Marley always sanctioned my worries. That at any one moment, just stepping into the visual context of the cold-lampin' room--mine or being outdoors thinking things in the vista are making appearances as thru windows, was a lot of mental mischief that seemed damned necessary in my patient wait for a better day...and yeah, now IS all good.
Vipassana is mentioned in a book about Kabbalah as similarly recognizing the deep aside in our condition in spans of meditational projects for extended periods of time, and thus a state of mind when self-knowledge is vital & in continuity=no longer merely an aside... Well, I had looked into the light, usually peripherally, & saw streams rather than just its glower casting broadly throughout. I tried to see how long I could look distantly so the image would grant the dimension where I knew nothing else was present--just how a camera under a desert sun takes one or a couple strands of rays' radiance, you know is only caused from the lens playing tricks on the sun which wouldn't yield even without this mischief. Even now I'm back alone a lot, tho' encumbered by relationship this time. Before I was blanketed by the remoteness of the (social)conventions of the known--the foot was on the other shoe. Then at Eastern State Hospital--also where William S. Burroughs did his rehab time--just to live by example of powerful minds, (the 6 weeks in 1993 they locked me up--during which time Zadie passed away), I remember becoming terribly objective about self-hypnosis...thusly "arresting" or capturing alive an awakened moment I knew I alone would bare witness to--threatening that, all the while making desperation desire's brain--desire for peace of mind! I wasn't escaping any addictions, but rather in transition in finding the right (mild) psychiatric drug/ a psycho-tropic, to attend to impending confusion. This is a problem: the rationalizing away of life rich pageant, yet mine is a success story. The mind tends to take us as quickly from the seat of imagination into non-grasping - mounting lack of control I mean, just as this cosmic house IS for a little while--in our perception--we're encouraged to transpire...

THe Gauge narrative

Without already being on psychotropics, I wouldn't be able to partake. The month or so I spent in Egypt--so long ago, was when I was at peak use--smoking hashish/ shisha & herb. My distraction, not surprisingly, was equaling that extreme environment in a lot of ways. A French-Egyptian dude was dubious in this regard. He ended up running off w/40 bucks of ours which we thought would have obtained opium for us. ($40.oo could have kept us in hostel-comfort for probably 3-4 more days, had we not lost it.) In his ploy to get more $s before the deal went south, he tried to get us in better digs--but she the proprietor saw thru him, warning us, but we didn't listen. A weird feeling of dementia as like multi-directional staircases in M.C. Escher's art, made the very sense of cause a priori for a conscious map fall weakly into an abyss of Kairowan imponderable lapse. I wouldn't trade those times for anything safer, tho', I literally felt locked out of the passport to the vulture of culture, swearing always that any ritual as distinguished as thanks & praises allows (social conventions eluding me), I'd be as relevant to Ascetic Standards from a **limb where I saw everyone else pinned**--paraphrasing Leonard Cohen. The surprise is self-scrutiny deserves desperation & that desperation is desire's brain... was leaving me in the mean not valuing society much. Had I been confident, I would do just fine--but there was a lot of common self-instruction nowhere in my grasp. Herb provided an existential survey of the fat soul of plenty that living a real travelogue was considerably all within one house; what I did beyond the duty of hearth & home, was exactly the same whiling away as I would anywhere...just being present!!
***There is a book by an English author, Rory Stewart, about his meander transect across Afganistan 2002-3. It is excellent. I was reading this the while I was up in Ontario,Canada--Iron Bridge, far from the 3rd world, but with the then alliterative path, somehow the effect of privations met under the haze of drugged linear thought, opiates in the case of Pashtunis and the other mutually arising communities, as I read along. For some reason--I guess because it was such a fresh experience, up in the outlands of Canada, that book hit me in a much more esoteric spot. Again, because the choice to level out vast distances, securing a prone moment, though I wasn't getting high, was an idea easily asserted as in how a contact-high would. The author's little images he drew of the folks out across the expanses he trod, were rough shod just how my thinking is, as if I alone piece together the land imbued w/First Nations, I am seeing for the first time. If you haven't read it--you'll see when you do, it stands alone. There are other writings of his about walking across other Asian countries...: his communing amongst villagers of all types is an archetype in humanity. He had an ole fucked up dog--was given to him--& if not for him he would have died. It is amazing how even in the demise of existence, the mind portends the light to be met as IF...(we behold our safety without it being eclipsed). In a great wintry expanse part way thru his trek, he was all weary, hungry & thus vulnerable to the bitterCold. He gave up laid back in the ice/snow upon the margins of a frozen lake--describes the apparent forgiveness for his ineptness leaving him vacillating - emotionally like saying, "How could I just give up?" To, a welcome home, illusion of bodily warmth, which was illusory enough that it became evident to him he'd better just get to shuffling on. Down from the MT in all respects, he noticed the world glossed over, colors imbibed--totally existential, like until then, he was upon the surface of the moon, & now in a varied-formed personified forest-of-life his adventure takes on rational motives again=the telling of it.

HERE's a THOUGHT, wrote that thing the other am. subject Being, Crystal Worship __per Lumiere's blog piece, from TribedotNET::: Thinking about you--my friends, as others, as if some one thing I do, I try to anticipate that there is only an audience of one as a recipient of the valley of time strung in a few moments, when thoughtlessness gives me space... I bet you can imagine, there is somehow someone way more complex than your usual sense of relationship, if you are to come off creatively.
The characters in Refer Madness, tho' I'm not furthering something illicit here--have kinda old filmy auras, made by the old technology, but it emphasizes certain inward looks on the actors faces...(yet, I must otherwise project this reflection on others, as self-reflection, in as much as they are doing it--so M J would be conducive to this kind of experiential sense.) At the translation from the self-conscious masks we wear, the mirror always so willing, & our hearts only covet brief glimpses... sometimes like white sheen of expressions determine confidence the human condition has named you. I couldn't see anyone seeing Me--before my spiritual apostasy, & at one point the field of what I clearly saw as containing my aura reduced & begun to look less of a product of who I once was.. Into the blue, and even leveled off out there, but not remotely feeling understood at all. Sometimes I was so enrapt and yet couldn't tell anyone. I was like, if they could see what this is doing to me...if only!! It was like we all have the burnishing sun availing us of its wisdom, but I sat in its corporeal shadow--its proffer, yet not the center of its project: my person & yours.

Where the green ants dream, like pillow armies in my mind

Last night I felt so high on contentent, a singularity was approaching like an awakening seemed in the offing--but nothing in my mind seemed plaintive for holding court with the spirits I imbibe--like I'd be psalmful. I like Russian imagery sometimes in the wee hrs, because the looming encumbrance of the midnight sky portends the containment Russians - Russian Jews, even the ChukChi Natives in the eternal night of Siberia--anyone in the xenophobic lands of this mystic Eastern corruptable disconsolation. Last night I held no key. Had I, then marbled red, bloodclotted jellied emotions would have my familial good conscience warm & fuzzy, as I enumerated so many other times, even lying in twilight dreams when my eyes are dreaming while imagining they're opened... The impulse to grasp the arm of my father's mother, yet not the Russian side of my family, still is the guardian angel of my imagined spirit narrative, made my hand feel like razors were slitting the tactiled pressure points in the severance of the meet & greet I had with her. The cold Winter's heart of the season seems to be the scrutinized self-preserved ideal, too. That I am out of it means quite a little bit to me--the nature & nurture of my instinct is that smoke in neighbors' hearths, had been sensed so many times wandering in the suburban streets since I was a kid, that being out of it, alights a question in my nerve that's lit. Something about survival--how its procured, especially in a world culturally imbued around rituals of seasons in & seasons out...that the impermanent record we transcend & defy would have been actionable nights like mine should have been. Tolstoy per Gandhi's acts toward purity is the utility of the studies' nod east I feel in a direction of the plurality of my conscience, so instructed from my known heritage into Gandhi's lent vision...in a purdah of distance strung, relying upon an ever new message from what only gets marketed to me by my own standards.
~~Nothing dreamt, a solid state orderly green vista, just sky & earth had captivated me, holding out the last rescue of the peace my old neighborhood had to offer—its extension out over by the farm on Parkers Mill not 3 mls from the airport. I read there Isaac Babel’s Cossack stories of deprivation, mystic churches, impoverished Jews, war. The emblems probably a 100 yrs ago of the stumble into the Soviet early days, a percussive revolution in cognizant immediacy, were perhaps a tachanka, a kind of military wagon, not unlike the zeitgeist we associate w/ the military industry as in the US—how it performs in our environment (fashion, culture, social demise), & horses—the sentience-of-promise in front of me there under a pine tree looking off into their field on this ubiquitous Ky horse farm. The loom of an unknown destiny untethered then in my life, had me look closer at what was intermediate space in everyone’s life in & around me & made it important to me. I called it my own, lived up to MY expectations, & gathered no more than wall flowers, but enough of a kind of inner-attention to bring it all to the table when the new day arose. **~~When it is twilight & we're tired sometimes harkens back to childhood, in the pleasure of dream-scapes we anticipate even Now.
Sleep, ethereal dream-time coming over me would be reductive, right.? For instance, we aren't calculating what next must be done, but lingering rather in a place of security--in peripheral dream-scapes of self-security... still, your promise of a thread from youth til now, may not demand that one should replace imagery w/ some concept Now at hand--"naturally" tuning out and emotive comfort. But in fact, daily we've done everything possible to maintain the adventure of self-revelry--and its proof when the kaleidoscopic resultant piece of art is proffered--the thing we scribe in the looming retiring room. But, the memory isn't topical right then for some reason. It IS you and your product--then. But the sleepiness for me only sometimes IS a waxy envelope I--myself, my spindral curiosity, push up into its folds. I read, late (...for me, before I succumb). And the images go on trial, because the impetus to close the circle and live only for that perfect image, is a motive that doesn't go away. But I want that space First--then I would see what it is IN my waking life that would give me dreams & night visions. And entirely IT is one little clue of spatial quality. I notice how my eyes seem to adjust to maybe a glossier focus--instead of maybe this plateauing affect Not occurring at all (this effect would foreshadow what one supposes right before sleep comes on--something during evening activity). And it won't always. So, back to the imagery--leaving your emotions be--and making room for an Awakened state. How does the yesteryear have anything to do with what you'd do to It, NOw--not Once was...? =there, no piece of mind need be left behind.
I had this dream of my pseudo-illness, could have been how Valerie's ill-health now gets intimated in my self-mythologized narrative... More than that it may be what my sentient well-being yields to as a method to promote the health of my soul. She's reminding me perhaps of the doors I have yet to close so that babylon's rules can get bastardized enough to let me get my hands upon its meaning. The deficits in language comes to mind because we all mutually arise, while observations thus are lost because we aren't reading the writing on the wall... It is hard to know what it is that is coming in from the cold, upon the threshold of the life experience we must react harmoniously to, if we are to get over the little trouble. Dreaming I was still sick--after a few weeks back of a recurring sinus & respiratory problem, my mind fired on it about the inconvenience of it all--which that is where the matriculate empathy for others is fully the shared moment... We somewhat turn away from that pivoting crowd who had lifted us up day after day, because maybe like an injured dog, we go to our little forest digs and heal and wonder over our diminished ability to have that physical synchronicity with others. We so badly need others to complete us, fitting the puzzle of the daily grind with those immediate goals we love to obtain. I laid in bed when I actually was sick, longing out the window into the sunny day. The running dialogue in my head a little impaired with dull pain, and then with just enough awareness, it was as if the gloss of all that part of the day I can't for the moment attend to, came to me like I was still being watched over. It was a promise--it is there when we watch what we see, to quote Rimbaud. Maybe I have sought the near & dear enough, but left unattended the more disparate relationships' portents. So, my family may be baring the fruit of knowledge that is of a spiritual nature in the human condition, while others are all mind, some are soul adventurers, still others have the animal corralled = physically adept, and this happens to be their fulfillment of the archetypes of humankind's condition. This is a kabbalistic notion, how we make up the nomenclature of anthropologic creation. The nomenclature of this physical world is sometimes conscious props, messages that certain folks pass to we the receiver of an Ideal set of circumstances. The human condition is about THIS big=I'm holding my fingers a half inch apart, so obviously consciousness will intersect, is my thinking. Hopefully there will be a fantastic universe to apply ourselves to, from this extra-sensory cognition.