The Flow into my Unknown: ending w/ the Reed Sea here.

The place of all my changes: In my sabbatical from the world, in the throes of schizophrenia social disaffection, I hoofed it around that neighborhood a lot. I'd go down to the church rightt there to the right of the end of Lane Allen Rd. and on Parkers Mill Rd., sit or lie under a one of the pine trees in the parking lot and read. Did so in spittles of rain--it was vehemently the best thing I could've been doing for myself at the time. My heart is at the very center of my being imagining my education in those moments of reprieve. Pines all around, woodchucks scrabbling into the hillock, upon whose peak I was lying in repose.
I'd also go to Beaumont park, to the pit--a sinkhole, and sit within the confines of the fencing, to read and meditate. I was seeking a backdoor to get find a way into a social requiem that had normalcy's vantage point--and clearly ascetic, historical studies were my venue!! ...for me, it worked!
Like Kerouac's rendevous in a stand of trees on the way to the shore's edge,
Ancient rosy colors in my eyes (using Kerouac's imagery), as I sit in theoria repose, has me realize all my power-spots have been well-worn, and now I am trying to find the eye of the needle, so that I may compound what necessarily is my advantage --the need for results.
Lee Scratch Perry is very instrumental in redefining where like the sands blowing over me from Salvador Dali's The Broken Bridge and the Dream, tent-poles of consciousness are the prodigy of self-possession, in pillaresque and unbroken shadows throughout morning's arrival on a desert plain. The desert was the blanketing atmosphere, and reduced characterizations I could ever imagine in a glance at the somehow dynamic "me!"

Papillion's hell, makes heat (in this desert's life) the demon, and the coolness of dreams is still the lure of his agni-mind, whilst skewering insects to dine on: this stark circumstance, pained and monk-like abbreviates an on-going memory reflection I have when I felt this dynamic selflessness was my loosing personae...slowly reduced to more subtle soft-machine "bodies," and less able to be borne unto anything that could show me an exercise in self-worth. There is no woe worth my lament now, I think.
But here's what Anselm of Cantebury said a thousand yrs ago. One can conceive of a being that which nothing greater can be conceived. Eternity maybe, yet I am emanating that quality of Our awareness...OK? So, that which nothing greater can be conceived is the end-game: Impermanence is the rule, for every quality of these 10,000 things we enjoin, if not now, maybe not ever--evidently we can know as much!
My good friend says in a raga ryddim (sic) that of 10 or more dimensions of which we can't SPEAK, but that we KNOW of, makes me respond as follows: The caged monkey is my interpretation of that; the mind which keeps us in the throes unknowns, doesn't necessarily indicate realities, just semblances.
**Meditation upon nothingness, is merely DOING something about Nothing--giving substance to what otherwise was the result of our SENSE of emptiness, beautiful vast emptiness. My interlocuttor seemed to support an awareness on Nothingness, yet then turn around and say it's tedious, uncomfortable. I am not saying meditating on nothing is anything but a result--space the "final" frontier where things go away or not. But once we develop what at once is the absolute, the all or nothing PrinciPAL, we then can reduce our presumptious, strenuously fulminate/foolish selves, that ecstatic mind and soul of ours, in a way for answering for LESS OF it. Less of our life's fulmination, the mischievious mind... THe best way to be. Remember the Use of the Word, Absolute--it is the most supreme value in our vain symbolic language that we'd use to call G^D, Ayn-sof...the Endless, Eternal. But pivoting upon awareness, always a KNown, never an Unknown.
**I know when I have/am conscious of half-thoughts, or have a whole idea. I'm fully aware of deficits in my "education" over the Transcendent...so I'm merely defining what it is to Question, rather than assume there's an Answer in relishing an Unknown.
~~I can tell you the other day sitting in the public square reading intently I looked up and felt subscribed to a real silence. Then I realized from whence it came...inside of me, the very object and nomenclature of impulse in my mind. It was a bit of a warning, like don't chime away with it until I've overcome its effect--you'll need this. Yet sweeter than that, you know.
~~Churchill said, "giants are bowed in anxious thought." On the filth ridden Egyptian shore of the Yam Suf, Reed Sea--we know as the Red one, without comparing my fractious life to tethered-huge-political-events as government industries have made all the world's govs complicit in the advancement in war-winning, sitting at the feet of giants makes it laughable that it could be anything other the celestial events. Not being a positivist means precisely that, that my refrain from some social vehicle is mission enough to ruin any authorities' measure of me. Had it been convenient to do that, truth wouldn't have been found in a pathless arising--my arising, never comfortable saying it was Meant, thru the triune of memoria, intellectus, and voluntas. The ultimate symbol seems inwardly available if having allowed for some folly, that I have eternity fooled. The ultimate symbol for the self is NOT.
In Dahab, on its shore we stayed in a cement hut, I believed clearly in a pleroma to meet was that evening's midnight sky as we were doddling twigs in embers on the perimeter of the bedouin village there. The peopled pantheon of these crossroads were comfortable steps to rejoin. And if anything I wanted to think myself into this world as meditations dissolved the unfair line between dream and reality. There is a seam between me and the outward fact, but I'll never meet it and only just all this sTuFf that may be the climate of this room, in its silent corners. Waiting for any call, nothings seems so dear, I can't say I'm anything other than what I can't control anyway. The showroom quality of stiff agents in the pharoah's chamber, is more my castle of eternity. Nothing to plead in defense of having been captured in emptiness, sweet nothing, on these streets a ghost-town lastly "til the government comes along and pushes it down." Marley's language.