Thoughts on otherwise un-Realistic Eternity

On campus I'd go and read stuff like Gandhi's history, Elie Weisel's Jewish episteme, Dostoevskii, certain looks at the Eastern philosophies, and then on the occasion when orange lights lining sidewalks around M I King glowering with a bhakti cadence (devotional), Rimbaud finding [his] "mystics in another Arabia" *as Kerouac had said in his own view, had my bro's voice in my head saying, "Do what you want to do." My thoughts were lessened in its fiery impact, because residual voices with their cross current in my translator-face, weren't the call I expected & wanted out of a remote sensation--hearing a voice. The academician my brother was, a professional student, is my example -- how I hold out to a life of study--eternal study, like Chagall's The Jew of Vitebsk, his smoking Jew, my gut bucket moldering goal. What reminds me of school-life intruding upon a better school of life requiem, really is Rimbaud's thinking the "blue slumber of a moon-soaked shade." And all the yellow-orange lighted paths had animicules dormant and prone just out of eyes' reach--in shadows, harboring no ill-will, yet heralding a lightning bolt and a thunder crash.
Voices in its arc, like synesthetic appetites, halloo'd a taste of stale consecrated bread in Eastern European churches, my taunt of core-culture identity/rejection of identity... the edifice unreflective of culture more likely intimated: Russian literature was in the main just the kind of world's conscious map I kept embellishing. So, spirituality is a rational choice, ultimately an academic choice, but our feelings of "finding" one's self in Time Place and Community, like a pilgrimage thru time, holding those moments in high esteem; place as power spot/memorialized space--just being in the right light; and community, this nation of one being united in University as Rastas call Universiality... This is the imaginative narrative, our dialogue with the old throats of dusty antiquity.

Upon the approach to purity as some goal with no ill consequence to attain when its met--like the problem w/assuaging what is profane, take collectively some proto-semitic word, maybe the ONe of a # of deities--a LOrd, that filters into a recognizable term where it is meant to sacrifice the adherent's atomic self. "Kaddish" is the "furthest," the sense of Other--the "separate," and the existential - as in how we define being on, an On spirit--encouraging Holiness. Arabs use this language, as in al-Quds= K-D-S!! The temple High Priest preserves the emoting of seasons' change--how social living is the best here. And Him (just for convenience sake, let's not worry about gender) as the Originator of the Festival's inauguration, imagine Him as every bit answered for, the peak of social rapport--and the Priest's only agony is that he can't be lost to this example he sets down, to glorify his G^d. In the temple chamber, the silence that ensues makes thought imagery give him insight into experienced-forms as some conscious prop, more vital than, than maybe the Way he had set out toward renunciation of anything intermediate with his "objects" in ritual. So knowledge of self is effectively turning out self, sacrificing it, so that we are utterly compelled submit to the KNown. Hannah Arendt calls these bits of self Semblances. It is certainly known that we hold in high regard these things we can't control--the Mystery. So an object at hand that represents the awesome Forces whose subject we are, is the compelling rhythm of ritual, prayers of vigil, lament, praise & so forth. Religion meaning self-actualization, has created a narrative of imagination--these are Thoughts Feelings & Actions, the allegory to Higher Ground. Moses had imagined discourse with tremendum et fascinans--tho' we reference his efforts as cold strictures, these laws were yet the terminus of what he was quite imagining. What was beyond his adjudged reasons for a people's exiles, was an Unknown...therein lies his awe. The awe to which acolyte or an-other has nothing within the Mosaic covenant to deny, necessarily. Rastas, in their Old Testament perspective, lament, Man shall not be Mindful of his Covenant... So, NO-one may speak for our Path of exile, but oneself.


I affected my thinking that new days were not set off into an unknown future, but rather the fact that I had had no thread to the balance of weeks & months etc til then in my 4 cornered bedroom...everything I thought fit this sensibility, that what lied beneath was being erased, & meditating on no one thing in particular, was a kind of sentient greed in itself... If we ever think what we do is indeed a departure from our norm, I'd have to say, the surprise in store for you is walking in the footsteps of another. My eyes in its gaze seem more tired than the phenomenon of the lighted field lifting up from the reflections off of my broken tiled floor, as predeceased as the settling house, and beggardly as the drift of thought pulling me back to the wheel of my mind.
Marley's Kaya was a constant companion--the On spirit's light switch, the lighted field that I saw clearly as a staticky projection of what had been absorbed for so long by my body... now a wall with its proximity an enumerated sense of just what places I haunted daily. I see it closer up, on this occasion, viable because I saw it upon my casual air & in not so conscious space.
"Running Away" had everything chthonian with which I'd answer for, these phantoms from earthly emanations, subtle bodies in their crypt surrounding me like silence abject in corners with more magnetism than the splash and plurb of media. Great thing to opt for, but its antecedent was the glitter/gold of senses feeling over-wrought. If torpor would be an advantage, it only is in an arising from confusion, because one ought to jettison the valley of indecision.


No fire on top, the book of rules rather what I am supposing should be On Top, actually traduces my mind's event in my pre-occupation. The book in question is Kerouac's Big Sur. And I took it out to a rocky bluff out in Red River Gorge at a place called Koomer's Ridge. I'm denied the sense that I OUGHT to be lining this frenetic wooded sensory burial out in the wilds--my sense of it--with a narrative that draws my voluntas, Latin for impulse, will--psychological & philosophical term, into the train of this fertile abundance. Sounds arrive, arriving stinging my face, mostly just noticing my sweating, but all senses ultimately is me taking notice of what is entirely not auditive, yet interpreted as such, not visual but visually bridged so that I may "feel" as remote as my hike had taken me, et cetera. Kerouac should've would've been colluding in the glazey, weary looks into the world seemingly entirely present... with nothing that I'd rather persist in getting past--nothing was irreconcileable!!
Strange little ferret came up to me once in the Swift Camp Creek area, while camping with my oldest brother. We were eating Zadie's rye bread with that loamy tasting freshly ground peanut-butter from the Co-op. It is comparable to xleb, the black bread of Russian diet, & as musterion-induced from Zadie's hand in it as were the little pieces of organic material being dropped on us while we lain meditatively below the tree-tops. They were the droppings of centipedes up in the leafy boughs, what these bugs were eating and digesting, making us consider for a moment that rain was ensuing.

TRAVELING: If our self-realization was orthodoxy we'd be turning toward something rather than away. The void within sought to obliterate itself. In ON THE ROAD Kerouac relates: "for just a moment I had reached the pt. of ecstacy that I always wanted to reach, which was the complete step across chronological time into timeless shadows, & wonderment in the bleakness of the mortal realm, & the sensation of death kicking at my heels to move on, w/a phantom dogging its own heels, & myself hurrying to a plank where all the angels dove off & flew into the holy void of uncreated emptiness, the potent & inconceivable radiancies shining in bright mind essense.... I was too young to know what happened." This conscious void into which he and or the angels lept? Where is that? Entirely visible, for him at least--me too, but it is an enquiry over distance and the relationship throughwhich we conceive to travel only so far. And I'm telling you we people that distance. It'll be the yawn of mind--yes--but it will have the map deliberate as an arm stretching unto another arm, a body heel to head with another body.......or just one body yielding to hill and valley of the discerned physical goal where we would dwell. We see this world thru the anthropomorphic lens. And that lens, our potentcy is the availing al salah al badan - liberation of the body, its purification in denying anything to stop its access to where we would have presence announced...