**LIGHTwaves ~~MOSES' grave's oPen**

The Book of Ethics, Talmud, in Jewish canon says a sticky point that one should pay for his teachers/friends as such. Literally doing this has the appeal to my warrant of not having steered toward them and then formidably not being found-amongst so worthy--but I burn that down soon enough. Dude is is is off & on on the street--now w/another friend and having to come up w/125.oo dollars to stay there. (I'm giving him a 100.oo) No contention that he is a good dude--never exploiting our goodwill. I relate unwaveringly to resourceless long days...cold-lampin' (sic--meaning my definition may not be ebonic). Meaning, coolin' it somewhere, a lighted room, nothing beckoning without, nothing sustaining the hunger within---sitting convulsed in meditation. It woUlD seem possible that I am right outa this situation, maybe right out of desperation at any rate. I'd tell ya', I've never left it! I can't say I have ever wasted my time, tho'-- Brahmodya in Hindu thought is the "parlor" social thing, and finding the silence resuming after words aren't any longer martyred, our sense is that "electricity comes from other planets" (Lou). I'll have my brother around as long as that is the appeal, there is a lot to be said for whiling away (Paul says as much--can't remember the precise lyric... Blue Sun??).


When rastas say someday we'll walk these streets forever---I loved the denouement of an Orchard/Garden/Paradise maybe because formlessness is There. But man trod fully like a mega-transect. Determined to imagine the material void, & the path meets him--stays conflagrative. Form is liberated since wisdom --a masculine principal of the godhead--arises with "knowing" sooo w/self-realization--the maternal womb of binah and now man can't any longer seek the mt tops, 'cause city too hot... Pretty soon he can't, but live entirely conceiving of his power spot as good enough. His path meets him, the Himalayas are moving.

I have a techni-color thought. I have this image of "a sad man wanting to stand up in my eyes" from Elias Khoury, a Palestinian author contemporary with Amos Oz--the Israeli author/Peace Now activist. The sad man is the sand's collapse like "ancient rosy colors behind my eyelids" (Kerouac) where something called Mine sought oblivion.
Momma home in a empty house, son is gone to the Himalayas, just out of the IDF--she wanders the house now at night listening to an umbrella of peace, sounds like "narayme, narayme" the call of a particular bird. From Amos Oz's book The Same Sea, and similarly my aunt, having endured as long as she did, had a sense of theophany as if she pressed her ear to the wall of temporal and flat mortal denial. The message crossed water, watching elders ambulate concertedly, pointedly, leaves no excuse for me to languish: they could tip over like a top heavy glass of milk, but at the same ttime what seems evident is that they are long distant runners, and have been living next to a extolling river, scribing the message of slow fidelity.

The reproach of unrevealed resolve, musterion--like now suddenly it is on the line, is only less victorious if I think so. Tending to resolve the need to think, bodes for rather well for listening instead. Sounds arrive in shallow water, and yet seem synaesthetic in the spectral aircell a room takes on. Just like the appeal pitch shadows & depth are - filling us up w/every languid goal to look again under the street light for the key we lost in the alley, I'm comfortable saying I don't know (or am willing to think how fire/tapas was light of the quality that only my heart fuels), the light seemed good enough. Since cosmic significant light demands just what ought to douse the heavens with now this season a deflated ball/Winter's Sun, light rays ensuing anything Of me or by extension is the Climate of the Greater Will.

Subject: lazy, or maybe actually kinda decisive--derived past stuff--but added, edited

Train comin' 'round the bend...like 3 times a night, sometimes more. Last night, I didn't notice tho'. Living proximal to the long distance traveler (literally), is a symbol of life in all its impermanence=the journey & the journey-made. Tracks running thru skin-scapes moist and with soul-force, has my thoughts revolve around Ben Kingsley's flight out of character like he was on a 6 Flags ride (in Gandhi), just affably surveying India's Bharata-varna, this World as it proceedth in its ancient quality.*** Old garments are shed, new bodies are donned like new garments... Humankind's path is earth, the temporal kingdom, tho' he/she has the freedom to stop inertia, & the Celestial Bodies don't. So our path may be more dynamic, a so-called Conscious-Being. *(P.K., my varietal with some of your language) We see the Sun, but the Sun is turning out of blue, but our reason does not surmount. Our dialogue w/the cosmos is yet impermanent--therein do we live the ontological record. This is the self-hypnoses sung about--I have heard: the ground is magnificate & I am at the top of the world. In our theoria, the thing about dreams is your having perceived that the world is moving around you, you are a quiet-static moment, & you'll sense THAT when looking at the observer in that moment as things move in flux--Kerouac says, big floats take notice, which is the Observer in the dream, everything else lives in the demand of the fray! The content of my goal is only the elements I gather from this trail, and I'll know my destiny as long as my first step remains the singular advantage it purports itself to be: "Forest of life underfoot"**.Patti Smith's words from R. Gere's book Pilgrims.
In a dream your path meets you, feathers falling like perpetual acquiescence to the epiphenomenal...looking up & in, looking up & in, until the requiem of change tho' confused aerial sight-thrum, is compartmentalized in torpid vessels we opt for rather than an Unknown having been diagrammed in the dream's end!
Sorting out having slipped into days dispensational just not on my watch, the enumeration media thru an exile from eclipsed cosmogony bares the fruits of hearing. I hear an acolyte beware of an extinguished norm, like sign-posts in his retreat from solitarian pleading for days end. Get off the path, "Truth is a pathless Land." Krishnamurti's observation of truth concealing reality.