the blah-terraneans!!

I like these few band names just in their plausible open-community sound of it. The Soul Syndicate singing King's Highway, who are Dready because Times are irreconcileable to deal with tribally (hypothetically)--and so these acolytes say I-man is More Dread than that. Peoples just called the People--reducing their self-emulation to farce in one way, and in another way in a place without anywhere else to turn. Soul Vendors or The Israelites--Christofarians, name whose definition means Those who Struggle with G^d. Strive for G^d=Yisro'el. Names imparting being found as the millionth of a million souls, like there are more opportunities than soul resigning us to obeisance=soul seeking that which has no concept or word, so that is to say an Unknown--a thing that we can't say would exist. And the fascinans is utter musterion that one feel compelled to act in behalf of mention of the Absolute--The Provenance of said community, but never having asked for its prohibitive restoration. Prohibative in knowing that This is imminent is liminal, and motive a priori.


^!^Left my Korean Buddha at Alison's apt, back in the day. She was my second, but really the first. I parted ways with her, remonstrating the intuition of her lasting with me, as I knew the same for the collegiate thang too--I'd leave out and knew I'd not have these things followed thru like the world doing and going by me, people meeting goals & each other, moving forward....
I lived on Rebel Rd. eponymous in a way that I'd call it--soul rebel, because "the sun shall not smite I by day, nor the moon by night." (B. Marley is where I heard that--suppose it's biblacy) I woke up coming down from the sincere mountain of the life - 3yrs of it, I spent with Alison - & the tally of where I'd come from dissipates just as the availing path forward was ackwardly precipitous. Ackward, bound by momentum, but contrition in my heart that I wasn't deciding. In the basement barely looking out to the backyard--here on Rebel, the morning of the dubious past and irrelevant future, grappling with the tether of dream-time, I got punished in receiving the day's beginning--light brandishing an awe in my face, too ill-consuming, and literally I heard bird calls emanating from my bird gullet. Freaked me out--not even laughable now--but will be after I read this here in a few days...
I was reading about the Indian girl, in The Subterraneans=Kerouac enthusing motive.

You seed your soul - that's what you shall reap. The coldest varietal of denizenship--me in this habitat--had Valerie sitting there as unassuming as my being innoculated in more desperate climes. Nothing to speak on around us, only glossy fracturing light that I wanted to cut me. If I'd been to hell, the static-dust and cold coming on to this Winter, had colors just so, and Valerie sitting right in the midst of hell's declination. I saw her there waiting--seemingly saying as bad as I found things now or as a mark against my fate, she is THere alas.
::
If someone's doctrine for self-actualization be answer enough, we may also infer I want to recognize that it isn't OF just one condition that you meant to share it with me. The answer here is not that well thIS OR THAT gospel is dynamic, and you would have never supposed only one door to that Light. You may, but under the sacrosanctity that Self-Actualization goals are shared is like the dust in our hair never washed til we change our hearts, and passion & praise has what is dear in its clutches because its content demand approprotion...give it more where it is lacking. So, I wanted the mechanics of your belief's letters to What-up & scatter but as star splendor, --the dust at our feet, however is as upon a well-trod land, we fill up every available precinct of space memorialized with our martyrdom of time--its dispensational floe yielding to effort's recompence: our feeling received in the LIGHT of Actionable Cause. You have One, sir--I want to observe that as I can, in my way, perhaps...lazily too, but in moments that allude to spiritual endeavor so that Compassion is our vehicle and is arguably thru our episteme exchange in weirder moments than that, so to speak if notions about the Light-Fantastic are complex and are observably releasing the dross rendered patterns in our more self-serving mind back to its source. Not all of which I can capture--lazily man...too bad perhaps or really a languid pattern to listen as my response becomes hopefully more eloquent, or rather just in hopes to respond: I & I & I got to fulfill the Book--and there are G^D-Fearers, People of the Book etc with different ledgers with which we feel G^d may finally oBserve us in prescient awakening thusly, knowing & assuming it happens ALL of the time...evolving.

I look back and sense having been ejected from one 10yr span of life into the next that has no even mellow steady flow like my incarnation previously. Sitting in a bookstore there in Fl. over the T.giving holiday the academician personas I've trusted like yellow withery pages in its throes of hero-protags, are actually gray pulp matter and still I am seeing every other color thru some convenient lens. I sometimes have to be reminded that I give myself over to a life of study. Images are fluent by this convention, and I gather them so that when my body is in agreement with my yawn of effort--it won't otherwise surprise me...

^^^Falling falling in the seconds a feeling elapses like I am being pulled aboard some foyer, a chamber perhaps--stone deaf but sensorily felt like a pure auditive allusion to the present line of jive. Sound-scapes are interupting any authorial body, because the presumption of having been called to stake my presence. **Neighbors dog arguing with the sounds of my mower in my mind's eye--an interlude of grass cut which I want it to go like that, but it is like that. He doesn't achieve toil with me, but snaps at my finger--I let him bite me. I knew he was frantic from grass-cutting blades whirling mischief, and my hand was not its provenance... Clamped on my finger for a second but in a toothy kiss.

!#! I love some strange equinox when I fish for just how wrong I am. My own worst critic--I am not. Rather I look to hear someone deny my verity. In that flight of concept denied, it's hopeless to meet my own motive anyway. Their vehemence is enough--makes my yeah's yeahs. Mundane bridge to awareness.

!#! If you say you have a life, you are miles ahead of me. But in my self-professed insignificance, I get a full-spectrum bird's eye view. AND: in memorium, many we have lost--I am thankful for a flimmer of hope that possibly we are still only talking about ONE world.