The perimeter of the city in a Red Night and Bright Day

I like what that symbolizes and concur, my friend called herself Pinko, and another friend pointed out roseate hues from a streetlamp a few weeks ago by Maxwell Elementary. We were on our way to Lynaghs. He said this was a "holy" color evoking a certain mood--and I was just like seeing it only in the abstract. Nothing about the color pink draws me into a chimey spirit. Certainly I'm not being patrician or macho--it just doesn't lend any ambience. (I'm purposely not deriving the obvious worded PINK on the ass of many a co-ed's sweatpants. Hot? Yes. Stupid or silly? Yes.) Anyway, Isaac Babel always had strewned his Soviet-Jewish writings with dusks lending a colorfield in variants of rose. I just see the ominous Sun with this, and a landscape in transition from rebellion. Iron blades drinking life's blood at twilight--the recesses of mother night hiding the damage.
~~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. A walnut treed path down to it, but only after my lined street with pines at the liminal point--I am in good company feeling comfortable I'm destined to wander amongst tall trees alone, in a comely loneliness. I read there Isaac Babel's Cossack stories of deprivation, mystic churches, impoverished Jews, war. The emblems probably a 100 yrs ago and my 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 now at the perimeter of a church parking lot, 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.

Alfred Kazin was a good find.

Beautiful air, looks rarified. One time before listening to Love is a Gas, I wanted a glimpse at something, this art, that was sorta disparate and over me in the briefest perspective into what seemed the right auditive wall to scale. That we can visual say our sauntering across a room, is to imagine where we presently lie in repose. To visualize what occurs beyond our scheme--this bubble of experience--is suggesting Everything IS (From Patriots, I know.), and is enough. I found what I was looking for.
Kazin says how Melville takes to the air. Because he exceeds all his ascetic indulgences--they're not good enough. The spirit is drawn in desertified self-possession, actually condemned to emptiness. Man's economy of the spirit is in recompence of life giving blood, but in hellion red hues. G^d only manifests what-is, ...there is nothing outside the known...and we advance upon it interminably.
...path

The last time I saw him alive I had stayed up late after everyone else crashed at his parents house, the appearance house, and listed in my head what I sought after in music's artists--badly identifying at all with some--his brother's influences/ favorites--and then particularly what Dylan and Marley had as a convergent little-trouble gotten over in a similar path... In the mostly pitch blackness, my glowering eyes seeing only a hint of orange from a couch, I think--I start populating the room. Not capturing anything but my indulging in arcs of imagery that seemed to be a call to Yeah Dylan. So if any one alterior self is availing, anybody else ought to be amongst in just considering what-is. So, the little brother tho' inevitably going away, and the dudes that heralded me, heralds him, and to the gathering crowd in my mind. So projecting into the room, clearly what I noticed WAS that he hadn't said look out for my love. Everyone else had. Soliciting the transcendent is goal, so holding the emptiness--there in the corner--in high esteem, tells me I am the Lakota's Yum (from the book The Lakota Myth), the real little brother who rides the backs of his siblings unto the 4 directions. It's just that one direction was the prodigy of self-possession, and I was missing my brother.
Reflecting on a wasted semite, me and thru the lens I imagine from Dylan's words - its conscious pocket and the homecoming like my obfuscated look into a mirror, the one in my brother's room where I was intro'd to his numious vocabulary and insite... Dylan may have come in from the cold while I lay there staring at an orange chosisme--thingism across this basement where we young men kicked it so many times before, and what was plastic (transitional) those times, are now clotted up in loss, sorrow, til I also meet light and finality and all-knowing. The words, "curly covered virility of a wasted Semite" came from Isaac Babel's writings, a Soviet-Jewish writer--early 20th century. What I want to typify is pathos, so that it is understood entirely thru images, and that this reality, that people are suffering can be as remote as KNOWLEDGE of SELF gets, has to be relegated to language as cheap as language may feel. Sad but true, but language is material, and thus is under our control. What we can't control is the fact of impermanence, but our control in its strange adventure and our emoting, we must allow to stream thru the certain vehicle of our relationship with these tools: language... You speak, I feel!

Lightning Lip: fear no evil!

I've worked myself into a credible weird sadness as if I were at the depths of good-byes to my family. Seemed so believable, I thought I had a reason to cry except for the fact it was over myself... Then I was, well "I'd never know, selah." The project of my self-worth is sometimes only in light of immense generalizations these patterns saying communication is imminent. It is almost non-anthropos except for the fact that iconography of our minds is of course entirely self-mythologized. So, when I say I am in proximity to Us, self-understanding is captured.
I dated this really buxom generation-next or X woman, and she all but punched my cigarette, a really demanding woman. Getting out of her car not long before I lived in this what was to me like a bungalow, but actually was a treehouse, I lived with three of my closest family members. That occasion I just was at a disadvantage from telling everyone why I was trying to cultivate something else. I looked to move around enough that a sense of responsiblility would have been obvious to me, while mitigating these expectant employers--more than staying at Pizza Hut very much longer or any job. My girl, then, is giving me a ride home after some late night thing after work. So, looking at some Kessil the Fool in the sky--the stars Orion, not even close enough to precipitate some Hebraic fulminate light at the end of this conduit room earth tabernacle, the astrology had no value but just my body as some starry night, and no mind but some anxiety that it is a blanket draping the heaven, but only just above me. Inclined toward Sisyphus, in that I can't quite find my feet any more than boughs proffer Sabbath--while tikkun, restoration is clarified from without, the limbs almost reach...yet did not. I suppose this was some kind of karmic death, and indeed I am merely a block away from this vision's loci, and the pleroma of something we call liminal and sky-bound is as encumbering and beckoning now as it will ever be... Then dusk will be dawn, and the new day will be the green of space fading in my dream-scape, turning thoughts to reality.

Books and my self-worth: I'm an acolyte of self-mythologizing

Subject: embracing the inevitable, Time is our glory

I went to a bookstore today, my friend did too, a different one. That we coalesce around a similar frequency--the emergent fact of what the essense of the respite of just these sort of places are, is known as one or just a few places where conscious props follows. The frequenting of these places, like a student cntr couch for me, and UK bookstore, and perhaps his attentive stand in front of books, is looking on toward the disbursement of knowledge, a star cluster shattered or brought into effect. Man, really it's grabbing for straws that minds meet at all, but imposing the possiblity in our condition IS attending to the fact at least, and commonly as what ought to be done rather than community relegating a mystery of otherness to loss of inner-scrutiny: THEY wouldn't ask about the mutual arising community...and I am nothing without them. The chair where I have died a thousand deaths can't be a badge of honor--the shame making me high--as in the relish I feel I can re-live past episteme solving earth crisis for ME. That I have died is indisoluable, I know I have. I look at death more or more sanctimoniously ad infinitum, it is answer to a more complete measure of these days gone by. You live alone, but you die in crowds and among the power that rids you of its responsibilty. We are One when we die, we look to be one.


This is what I have derived from reading Jalaluddin Rumi's father's writings.

Subject: thoughts as the garment of night warmed me

So the best thing we can do with experience is to equal it--as opposed to fearing that we might absorb experience and become jaded. We compartmentalize complexity and unknowing all the time. If we start projecting unknowing, and really that is only apathy, then we get thrown on the banks of our heart and its seat of awareness gets as unreal as habit and mimickry. If the heart was a ditch of blood, unrealized relationship is understood if we imagine that love's loss has us the proselytes as being thrown upon its banks.
We taste the activities in the world. Can anyone see we've participated only thru observation? The activities of contemplation and transcending or good times albeit, just that, has curtains draw from the liminal sky and the earth-body... here's where the senses say I am bound by an unconditional single phenomenon--consciousness. Hopefully Higher Ground will be in Equality and Self-consciousness at once... the little Problem.
If you see me thru the lens that I am entertaining the activities in the world, this creation, G^d's mention of his works, it is some justice we may all deliberate over that we all are in medias res of his meditation.