Seen, like darshana, the dust off my feet never washed

Thinking about Art Shaw, Dave Brubeck... jazz w/such exultation that my thanks and praises now get its parallel canticle if only in my sole ululation of the word peace going thru my mind. Wrote a letter to my baby today. She's lept to the recesses waiting for the loading to begin, her pollution hiding should have been keenly understood by me soliciting quiet. The pregnant moments is say Coltrane's sounds arriving, is definitely a "silent" accord, because now in listening and receiving his art, it is so subtle something akin to quietude is the fulmination.
All that lash of transparency collected her troubled-cycle and self-denial, and I have to wonder when is our ethical standard mimicking beauty as we see it, just as in the music we listen to... Doesn't want to be seen like that (in her transperancy), wants to persist answering for malaise. "Old Brown" as in Marley's cultural nuance is baby's symbol for the rat race she runs now. He says Old Brown was my Bed Last Night. It's a terrible lament I feeel thinking about this. All I've seen in my view, is my shoes getting more proud land to trod, yet environs change as people deliver themselves an anitiquated pedestrian path. There's is no where to go if you decide on appearances over reality--I need this veil of our existing's illusion as nothing short of an Orchard where civilty bred peace from order, eudaemonia, the sought after nirvana's predeased last hurrah, and a fountain that I so badly want to approach. A fountain is a resource, coming from message music, and the conscious message received is rarely with language having an understood meaning behind it, but rather has form like bird song. Birds of Paradise brings on DReams, and dreams are made of our call & response with chaos placed in context as in mind-vessels so that our senses can be oh so subtley stroked and forgiven for having made us over-wrought...
~~What are the dimensions concerning I-tal (vital) living? A bridge to awareness. Beauty too, like a deep well, but too short of a rope to gather it, so it remains mere emanations. Beyond that some river, river in sight, suggests One thing's better because it's prolific, unreserved, continuous, bisecting the world until the ocean is full. Walk to its edge, feel the report of the whole, but we cannot enter. Seemingly the passing away of things necessarily has proof that we exist. I dreamt about an astrolabe. If we dream, thereby we Exist. Objectivity about impermanence ensued. Hypothetically, friends say he's amiss, expiring like his lovedONE. If only for a moment, the rotation of our time instrument left me aloft: looking at it, sun graduated then found its terrestrial berth, the moon spiritually true turned my glimpse to the blue of the dome. My friend there is only now.
~~I try to lie near in supplication. I throw coffers in the river for propitiation. I render my G^d unto the earth's evolution. I stand clear of the digression of revolution. I'm lighting a fire from my humiliation. I rent my mind, like wu hsin in Dao philosophization. I burned every bridge looking for substanciation, denied all institutionalization. I ended this fight with a conflagration. Losing our inhibitions only sometimes tarnishes the filter... ~~I'm so not trying to make friends just to be congratulated that I'm expiring just like he or she. But as much, I love anyone in the herd. If you live you love, & giving away light-provoked days I never imagined would pass, conflagrations. Like reading in Beaumont prk I was received so much later than when I let go. The sky & trees colluded, I'm sitting in snow, & the world took its stale libations. Just watching the auditive Universe like a splash & plurb in the event of our minds. I really get a sense of waking up in a dream. Sometimes diminutively, minutely, but awakened IS the feeling. My nephew watched Ravi play and thought it was a strange feeling like he wanted to merge w/the beatific sounds. It was like his heart opened up, he said. We want to find the objective reality so bad, that we are ultimately inundated w/the voidant conscious concern...drowned and saved at once.
~~Step into 1 part of the ocean, & feel the report of the whole: an allegory to The Book of Ethics, Talmud. Under the shade, across the road from the blueberry patch, I'd sit and rifle thru some of these ancient scribings. I was up in the Catskills mts, sand at my feet, the Other Shore seems apropriate in light of the temporal yet spectral space I attended to, languidly furthering the alliterative path. As here, similarly, when I bent over to wipe the plum off in the grass, a thousand lives spent went thru my head. My brother and I sharing blueberries up in the Catskills, or sharing at least those environs--many lives spent and relived. Definitely eating prickley pear fruit from the cacti in Boynton canyon, near Sedona is becoming a constant narrative. I never realize til I'm there, but the utility of nature worship is my sole reason to be and to become an example of a good student of life.
In Jewish thought no fantasy, angel, person, or saint can intercede in our need to enter into dialogue with the Transcendent. If meditation or theoria = contemplation! is the ends of man, then "lament" to whatever it is to that which is greater than yourself, thus not of your assertions about the World, now IS the World's assertion over You.
Imagine a circle within a circle. In the middle is G^d, in the one surrounding is Jesus. X-tians would freely ambulate, relate and coalesce between the two--so that there would be no obstacle, or need for supposing thresholds like intercessors anew. Jews, as with anyone's Free Will, may choose to remain within the inner-circle. Does that make sense?
**Mind furniture in array, and nowhere to sit: if our numinous selves demanded order, feng shui would indicate the imminent door toward oblivion, but no direction home is the norm. My head is a jungle anyway--and dreams are the animal denizens. The likelyhood that I find cool waters to sit by, is when stones tarry, like thoughts on the surface glad and reflecting.