G^d O' Propitiation

At the house where I grew up, out in front of the garage door I'd play the cunga. With no percussion theory, one lesson from Tingo Lee, and radicalized from observation, then until I thought neighbors were paying attention, I'd take to the neighborhood to sit in Beaumont Park. Rhythms just dust-like in my head, I learned how resolved and acquiesced visualization was to what needed to be moved around, sitting right down in my favorite place. Thus telegraphed beats hung, its valence undeniable, unassailable as old brown meeting streets no more...the day erased as below the current of the imminent fact. --that's not meant to sound defeatist!
Life as I knew it was superable--I ran around imagining life. Now I sit here and imagine life after death. The death would take place in much the same repose, as upon a lawn chair or likely a 5 gallon water bottle cask, just dreaming of acorn trees/oaks like their tannins were swathed across my skin. Then something draws me out & I take to the air, and the suggestion that I ought not any longer remark over the simple dwelling having made my time & place is strictly adhered to. Mnemotechniques as this term I read in Nietzsche's Writings, would be method for absolution into the new dynamic...the born anew day only reconciled if I do the recommended thing--getting good at forgetting! Tho' forgetting may seem to be like burying my head in tufts of bluegrass, the chthonian earth as it receives my face is yet a perspective toward the material void, and not denial but positting myself there, and so rank and file my march into the "recesses" of I & Nature...even when she speaks thru an indefinite chorus.

He started to call myself "in" as opposed to "him." Couldn't hear Mem, the letter root of mayan meaning fountain, or mayim meaning water. But I'm not IN like a fish unreincarnated. Nun is the word for fish in Aramaic, its number is 50. Medium #, and still I think inundation. I'm in the world, it before me & not below it; so few thresholds to keep me on strode road, I cross the proud land like I know it, home in the distance & what needs to be crossed is appropriated to get there, permissed at my yawning gait of twice the half-step. Emergent, meandering, in mendicant-ation... the intra-mantra slavery is being subsumed like Obediah/Abdullah doing just what G^d tarried in the stream o' propitiation we have agency within. Fields of the sea, a sure vista toward Oneness, Wakefulness, & the Other Shore.

Remembering the sense that I wouldn't imagine studying for my bar mitzvah as opportune, Kabbalah, meaning what is Received, is become an expression for my cleaving to theoria as a yoke (think yoga) to permiss my imaginative limits. At 15 and reading Gershom Scholem texts had ideas like the Absolute portend a Result... A corresponding visualization inhered because sounds arrive from without and my complexion would be a center with expanding peripheries. Skein over my eyes at once making this one morning when I'd arise have dreamt antecedents of the physical space I was used to, now embellished by glossier proximity to it all. I clearly saw a stairway lead off from the middle of the backyard into the blue of the dome. Maybe 2 people upon on it, and then otherly just glistening figments of iconography / apparitional things in my mind's conscious map thither and giving distance its tangibility. From the middle of the yard where the pyramidal log pile was stacked--a place convened by me so many times under Winter's sky..., by the plum tree & the sink-hole. Zadie lowering his hands down upon the kitchen table--abra-cadabra--has the heatherly skies of agriculture and horse farms assert a new ideal sense of just these domaines, no other place to trod...home is evidently an imminent front!! Personified, painted, a Pasteur of feeling diminutive, this large backyard of ours has a name, and all its guests are in a vigil -- I only feel out of its magnetic principal if I adulterate it with denouement.


The Tzaddik in what his affluence can't deny, the Saddik the same shaman-esque Pious man on the core-community's side, arabs and jews in a convergent past have one and the same principal for a Saint. Whatever can be said, it plainly feels weird that I'm in a community sublimated by the progress jews owe from islamic merit. I think that is why the gesture it is to speak of feeling higher spirit, is placing your hand as if reaching outward off of your brow. And is as islamic cryptic as it is the jews' efficient Cause.


Pot to cook, the yood nah 'nuf--or in my case food is plenty, but the pot that it is served out of is the dialect from Val's promise to me that I should feel this comforted... But tho' she is comforting me (in my mind)--her sweet womanly archetype and as the lens I looked through, is love as I've ever known & now it is time to try a different serving vessel, so evasive, aquatic... my longing to be fulfilled. Something macrobiotic had been my goal. She & I would attend to diet consciousness, the victuals being something of an empirical nature and of course actual food is just the lust for a deficit in our second mind--the stomach, to quit defeating us. Kill the appetite (the excuses for our ignorance, the over-wrought escape into desire) by diet consciousness makes sense... It had taken me a long time into our thing to fall in love her: didn't feel it, wouldn't have said it much..., so now I see our life together (as it was) in discordant days spent, and love always slightly unfulfilled. The lavender mood and climate of the greater will, is her bee-catcher sentient sweet song-bird life creative in my long sought after consciousness in getting it together in any kind of weather!
In the mixed up mind of me: Oxford 1987, at the youth hostel about 8-9 o clock at night, I was preparing--or wanted to prepare for class the following morning, but couldn't. JUst sitting on the floor matriculating clumsy paths people were making around me, indian style with book on my lap, I am desperately trying to pick up a thread to the Yiddish language (mama loshn) before me. A tripartite path to me was rather the core-culture obsolete, at arm's length--dissuading me Euro-ethos was as good than instead looking in its east (the Islamic wisdom bridge), & it--the Sferadic faylasuf/philosophy & Golden Age had to mean more in its renaissance as mysticism became tantric. Secondly, my assumed root culture--and thirdly, the first two as wholly unrecognizable. Yiddishkeit/culture is construed/assumed and possibly not demeaned at my lapse in scholasticism--and still I wanted to add to it. Israel soon enough would have thoughts of my running a parallel path as if "culture culture swooping down like a vulture" *H.R. from Bad Brains, would be foundation enough to steady my gaze into Jewish whatever. So, yeahs need to be yeahs--I wanted to pick up the black fire off of the white fire, the print and page before me...but my mission was not possible. Like a sieve that I might unadulterate the leaden Oxford Jewish studies before me, what spilled onto the pages of my Yiddish dictionary was torpor, leaving confusion as an option toward something much worse and that being voidance, leaving very little to seek. The talons of the environs had the evident bubble of experience around me on trial.
Met up with a Jamaican dude --Norman, and he hooked me up with a dime bag, but I musta paid 15 pounds for it. That release was momentary, but at least I was wizened from the mottled discomfort inevitably to be bridged in the stain in the brain and my blood flow...ascending!!