Folks get all incredulous that we may make room for them at all. The sense of it is that now perhaps they would likely need to do the same for you. Up near Ellenville NY, Catskill Mts where my aunt's bungalow colony thrived, then later nose dived, I spent 3-4 weeks hanging out in a sorta seclusion, but w/minimal familial interaction. Visiting w/Didra my Orthodox cousin seems only to anticipate a certain "in" with which Jewishness would be made the point of reference--as she sees it. Anything else is non-negotiable. I had this movie's CD soundtrack--the movie is called Little Odessa. Has Tim Roth, Maximillian Schell, Edward Furlong and two others we'd recognize. Anyway, the soundtrack has Judeo-Russian themes, opera, folk music, somewhat klezmer sounding in one or two songs. I tried, yet succeeded to give this music to my cousin. On her part that she finds herself giving out Jewish persona, to vaguely imagine this sense coming from the other direction was only apropos because her starting point was her propriety--a view to higher ground without the surfeit of nuances that any unreligious person could consign. Her look distantly to warranted purity was deliberate enough that I could meet it. To be the target of that--would actually be disconcerting, and something I had avoided...
~~
The thought flourish from Kerouac--maybe more like homunculus languid reality floe--that there is "snow" around this preponderant image in iconographic setting--he says snow!--his now departed-from the earth's melancholy locked in this atom-ic cell--a picture not delivering his friend's essence, like, static unsustaining the currency of that love **THAT LOVE INDEED is the point--is taking place in Mexico City. And in similar ways that having read Patti Smith's liner notes in Radio Ethiopia, is the "undoing" of contemporary unwelcoming from all identity having become a commodity there/or anywhere and leaving very few memorialized spaces where I could accede to--to run around imagining...the intensity behind the slumber of perverted godly images--but rather as magnificate! This intensity is one thing--his proliferate consignation where mostly most of us can belong is thus!!
If you burn a book, it shoUld be your own....feel a meaningful restraint than to shadowy & hearty thought--in the valley of the tongues tonite. An expectation is realized, but by this tableau-bound author where his intent is provident. And my opinion that I wouldn't have Dostoevskii's dank student or dispossessed doing-what-one-wilt man becoming demon of his self road written in certainty for me head-scaped in his studies back-when IN my grasp now & again & anew, is been rebuffed. (so, again I am appreciating Fydor D.) Myth --as the layers of alliteration bespeak of hand in hand transcriptional freedom IS not time & place, but is practiced reason. The spiritual narratives of the Alteros Yamomamo Natives in S. America are indeed myth--but at variance from the west's convenient false measure of its import-- to me--it is not myth's ploy to expunge lesser cultural acumen as the sarcastic poets froth over, but only they the myth-teller's lives are exemplar at its vertex (peak). The Yamomamo haven't that media to afford such breathless spittle. That earth denizen speaks of his world on-going--myth paints every day grasping for a lunar (painting the heavens spiritually truth-baring) sabbath of generations uniquely accomplished of eternality, as his gods deign succor.
~*~You better get out yer grave. Your friends don't fuck around, 'cause they as dead as you. You better reconcile to be brave, getting it together in any kind of weather is a leap into the sighs glances & whisper of the climate of the greater Will. Bukowski said he was in better co. waking up in a cemetery every morning--the night had been strangled by duppies (doppelganger). If more than one it could be reason enough to feign interest in a mind of multiplicity. The first observation is that we are fragmented--the mind is. So faced with (1) doppleganger--it might cold I Up, 'pon that bridge... If G^d is oNe (not 1 of, but unique!), I want to fall abysmally thru the wilderness tabernacle ......since the proud land is merely trying to meet each step as we expand across, lumber onward, it does my gait like giant leaps are imminent yet progressively. The following is with a sense of what this entry may mean. **Bukowski seems - thru the eyes of his frustrated hero - to be chased by a doppleganger. And it is his fault perhaps, but he really... is compelled to face that part of himself--the distorted look in the mirror which is a pain very close to the bone... Maybe a serene showroom dummie, Foool on the hilll transparency making him validate the least of his self---meaning "appearances." There is something lovely about disappearing if only into The Good or The Beautiful (or as he did into the Unknown mystery of the hereafter), because usually the problem is we see ourselves too clearly and it is without our knowledge of self intact.
**Zazen=sesshun=sitting=asana...Dude told me that he wasn't willing to change something he had well recently relished written. I said language is transformative, not that we aren't vessels for the only thing given away, but if "liquid language (is) awash" the speak easy breath of word is water w/undeniable attribute of mercy, and water is the vehicle for incarnations of everything seeking time's relevance. Showered of the thrill that we capture relevance, language to measure adulating over its supine lethargy, is language in the surmise of the Other.
**Being restored to a state of knowing: any author, my words your words, media flurries--like it is a vomitorium only to go relish again the victuals of my sensory greed... Even subtle appetite fulfilled like tea-head, dust in a cup--"forest of life underfoot" to quote Patti Smith. The village quorum at precinct edge sifting loamy thoughts, dust kicked up, indecision where silence is resumed. Blood silence & the medium is sand--letters drawn from learning in school ledgers written with tree-sap and charcoal.
~~kAFKA says, It's still OK just living at home. And perhaps his feeling of denied anthropomorphism, but rather as an insect, or in a letter he wrote as becoming bodily like a snake with finesse enough to slide past and into wall crevices, had the absolute consignation living-with-father & family as a necessary escape. His embrace of diaspora ideology and Jewish insignificance, may have sacrifice of self at one's father's hand--like Abraham and Isaac (the akeidah, meaning the binding of Isaac) prescient in view of the melancholy reality that has transcendence out of man's accord... Abraham's Get Thee Out verity, when he left home, trappings of identity et al, and family may have an implication more conventional than thoughts over self and self-annihilation kAFKA otherwise convened. Obviously things in the industrial complex and sweep of history as before him may have subsumed exile as the apropos alternative.
~* Is the spectral shore, meaning mind's furniture, symbolic? If thoughts feelings and actions are allegory to higher ground, whatever that-that sense of peace may be called, so if we FEEL that at our seat of awareness that it is the chair where we have died a 1000deaths, then certainly we become more sincere about the regard for consciousness= ours or anything's!! But symbolic life is the only contending of truth with which we suffer... if we put down the menu and just eat, then how do we reconcile suffering w/o enjoining relationship with the fEElings of its conspiring, expiring, whatever IT does TO us???
A yoga interested fellow says the following in quotes "...self inquiry (?) it may be pertinent to learn to ignore feelings and detach or become numb..." My response was: Well, to this I'd say we move into consciousness and into relationship and when this is not possible or the price is too high, we might have a view to what it is that we can't control: LIfe is out of our control, even as much as it is a transcendental bridge to awareness. It is the material void, 3/4 of what we see seems submerged, like hot icebergs...the essence eludes us. The mind wants an actionable cause, it is the hardest thing to do to compartmentalize "emptiness." To court the benumbing of our condition. Abso--fucking--lutely.
#~#Lepids entombed in crystalis underneath a bridge--two communities sundered by the divide. Or on a veranda door jamb, (Nabakov...) and recognition of parent's concern to have prodigy survey such happiness. Mom on one side, father at the other, a door antediluvian - the wherefore of mom & dad's historicity mind current as entrance to the new day...and the exiting door yet as Unknown and as locked with which samsara keeps us guessing if meaning will avail ! "Vapors to vapors," even the least of ourselves in the wake of exemplars to good enough or not Identity cosmogony, all is vanity--as Solomon calls it... The orchards of Jerusalem, the 6 yrs in the deerpark where Sidhartha attains the name Shakyamuni denoting his "seeking." The knowledge of relationship as relics of impressions that clearly aren't the ends of man.... If immortality is our becoming appearance--mind appearance, didn't the riven parent's tenure deny our exile as iconoclasts sometimes with which presence-ceased is the report of idols destroyed...
Subject: I don't see one religion thru the lens of another
I don't see one religion thru the lens of another. Being a Buddha is not saying emulate a Christ figure. In Buddhism you want the Greater Will to witness you, see you in reverence and sorrow, propitiation. Messiah is to intercede, be a witness, suffer your consequences. One would observe Him. In Hinduism gods are subject to impermanence as any acolyte would--I wonder what they think of my path's disappearance?
Rob & I got bit part jobs for a movie filming in the Sinai desert, in Israel's southern most region. Dressed as bedouin enduring pretty cold middle-eastern Winter's night, in inappropriate dress, we just swilled coffee from early evening on & not getting much in the way of supper. Rob scored some scant hashish pieces and I rolled it up with some tobacco--what a ruinous high especially as observer of a crowd of whitenecks, so to speak--feeling every bit as out of it, I guess I'd call these British street urchins--a bunch of slackers then literally stuck in Israel, lots of street hassle standing on corners making trouble. Seeing these boys crawl out of doorways, no shoes & sometimes a rucksack, but usually not, we all converged on the Peace Cafe, where we had come to get hired.
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