Big fat Adel was the first Egyptian I ever carried on with--the polymath dude in 7th grade biology class doesn't count. His 3rd world body stench is an insensed memory impression which I do actually want to conjure. It has the frank persuasion of death somehow, yet contrite Thought- mine- that was my ascending momentum circa 1987, was vital and Yes alive. His diabetes and obesity is plaintive and dispensational of some era-mythos in my sentient greed re-enlivening the empath notion that most of whom I knew at this time were the mettle of kaleidoscopic Certainty. I can only abide by these familial presences looking back at pieces of me Then, as opposed to weird equanimity and habitual levity things are recorded with Now. Death certainly has taken Adel, but the open book where his life is narrated remains unfulfilled. And he, like my rabbi with stale bookish breath, together in every other solemn occasion, gives me a paper cut on the finger of the mind after grabbing the book of rules and resigning their oblivion to my shapeless mass & mind-sore.
^^This may sound strange, at first, but stick to it til this paragraph's end, and you'll see it place us back on our feet w/no constraint or depraved moral compass:
In Dao thought it is called "shu"--a kind of self-scrutiny, self-analysis to enter your lowest common denominator and be transformative. I have had thoughts of aggression, as if I was the one thing between someone & his doing harm to an innocent. I even compulse like I am physically stopping them.... On the flip side, I've imagined someone trying to elicit from me something that he'd use toward deletorious advantage--& again I hesitate or shutter as if I am violated against somehow. Like he's Hitting me, cutting me (general themes of suffering & torture I have only read about)--all the while in the sanctimony that I ought to hold in high esteem a supposed reprieve from a state of dis-ease. The strange discerning is a huge body conscious type endeavor. Feeling heat here and there, incredulous at the numbness maybe that would have otherwise just been temporate, or normative. I avoid this psychic incursion now, but it was strangely informative on the odd occasion. Like the shifting around of leaden consciousness, just to catch ourselves on a different limb, pinned but as a part of the tree-community...an extremity way to disabuse certain attributes in their mutual arising, as the example of Mercy and Judgment are. To mitigate judgment, and fall abysmally into mercy.
I remember something tonite. I've dreamt about you. You were one of the 4 souls peopling the profound 4 cornered room--to call it the inner-temple is too reverent. Because it is the ghetto of the mind that one sifts thru before blood is blood's truth, and I want to paint my sister, you and all the earth's agencies of benevolence w/the kindest least of myself...diminutive selves! Somehow I thought that there was little that I could do for my person, these animicule apparitions needing to breathe sentience in the light I'd forgotten about. Thou wert as my sister, and in temporate moments I look forward into that mirror. You're there in a capacity that begs no adulation that I am top-ranking (in BMW's Survival album's sense). I would imagine turning out of the blue of her personality's shade like I am soul-sublimated by a wisdom creed so familial, but mouldering and dumb too as if I can't make the decision to have courage my mind is proliferating on the same conditions she is wont to lead me thru. But, it's my room I saw her in...or is it?
Subject: thinking about a book called Burnt Books, about Kafka&Rabbi Nakhman
I want to believe, but not tote it around in a wheelbarrow. I want to be initiated thru the gate of light, unto the Opening of Truth/Ultimate Law, but as Kafka had in his parabal, rather than the door closed behind us, I'd want it left open after I've entered. Because equivocating the condition in this yah dispensation, is fulfilling the expectation of our usual fare: The door is ultimately closed on us here too. Yet finding oneself in the yawn of release from the clutches of symbolic life, into Infinitude, necessarily locked the temporal reality outside of the equation whence we adduced relationship. Law or Truth, then necessarily--a destiny w/ astral existentialism--plays a cruel joke... We enter thru the frontdoor where we have just exited thru the last hallway meandering on the margins of the cosmic house.
"My body tells me anything, everything that's true." What a great line in a Fleet Foxes song. This would be praise easily and lament as motive. I use it the lyric below, but referencing the lavender mood, and climate of the chimerical slumber in repose when Valerie is delivered to this man's first cause: Beauty.I just give up...submit. Someone says your in, in the door--and I just what door? "Your feet are on the ground, you have legs." And I see myself pinned in the tree, don't know how I'm hanging. This sweet Italian woman tonite, she looked up, caught my sighs whispers glances, and I just fade in fear of vanity. Her name is Valeria, & I'm stark-ridden, Valerie--my lady--whose eponymous name had foundering starts with this woman and the last one I came onto the last time at the pub. The other chic's middle-name is Valerie's, and her girl-friend showed up with the same name as my first long term girl-friend's name. That particular night Howie & I went up past the skateboard punk hangout to piss, and Valentine's Day was on a flyer, jumping out at me. If she's insinuating herself into my sight-seen it is just as well to believe tHat as it is that I solicit the project of my worth, and give myself up to seeing her bedroom eyes in the mummer of star tincture and tell myself that she's anything, everything that's true.
This below I am trying to piece together in a sorta bird's eye view of selfhood/self & body as I am rendering unto maybe even a sleepy blue slumber of you & I as we would lie in bed--and that damned TV would play into the wee hrs, making me get up and turn it off.
Awakened to presense is usually a top heavy exposure of my whole body--more dreamy breathless and fearful views were of a face, but for content and unrarified air seeing the measure of trunk, limbs, cup is reifying enough to call it victory. Anthropos for the vehicle of conversant lapse into apophasis (silent oracle and negation of distraction), has perhaps a quick shutter, and bones are the last presinct. Bone valence thru propitiating Pte Indian gods, were drug in a field, vernal trfoliate life over-coming and the earth's gesture is new life, in a way that makes Native American plant hallucenigenics easily supposed even w/o inducing them. When doing Salvia Divinorum, the 40x product, then at home with Valerie, made me hope to contravene in the norm (w/o this sage herb) that I had cemented a sense that waking up meant petting her and then getting ready and breaking those morning thresholds. The sorta "wakened" state in a repetitive motion as she sat across the room as I was tripping for an interval of 10-20 minutes, made me wonder if I could arrest that same sense--coming out of a dream into her arms. But of course the affected thought patterns, and her looking at me like I was a mad man - I guess I was laughing uncontrollable - wouldn't artificially let my caprice prevail. Just a stale high, lugubrious like the dust in the house was catching up with me. I tend to insinuate a downward trend on these occasions, and naturally think that whatever happens would be anticipated, and thus having foreknowledge means I could have done something different, to make it work. Maybe, maybe not...I'm only looking forward now, and adamantly macrobiotic in the present vibe and love thru our distance but in a kind of osmoses anyway.
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