JUst Judgment or Unjust Beatific Epiphenomenon

#~# I look over to this prescious woman, disrobed- suspiring* (I saw Kerouac use), perhaps expectant like I'd draw some formal map to these moments, this creative thing we thought we retrieved like no other...! I look at her back and see a man's back. Not just any man, but MINE. Now how deeply ensconced in my own flesh-felt rapt lost on whatever I could say someone should understand me through? Moldering like hay on fire within--feeling kundalini detached. How through with toxic talk-sick confused spittle belched laughable sublime bridge to the Other's heart, whose heart is but a trough of blood, that I throw body and mind to its banks til I am pulsing freely, reckoned, sweetly, lair convened, did this prison mind cease language-liberation thence attributable?
#~#On Who do you Think You are? I watched an actress--Jewish heritage--find the memorialized places whence her family trod (I suppose that's grammatically correct...) in eastern Europe, and then kin who survived haShoah=the Holocaust. I think ...to look across time into those images, see face's sheen, dogs terrorize, humor is illegitimate-- An inner voice arcs, "I'm sorry--I could have done something--I think on you now--what you leave w/me in this vacuum of of self-serving, would make me give that away, because it's just that I'll know I wouldn't give up on you, give up ever at any rate... ever." I see film footage - a child, a girl, one tremor of expression in a momentary glance out of her pale shelter...and fucking clearly it is the only vestige of what sadness mEANT. Just of a sense that Yeah, she willing to cry again, "please let me cry," she wonders. the tremor is indeed a rarified event; there's not enough spirit left in her mind-body for her to realize the still waters she'd beckon. Just give her the bread.
#~#Like I am the principal, I tell myself what we all endure - the work-a-day scholarly student of life, are the means to the ends of how I look at myself as before the same books. The books are fateful, I am the grim reaper, and the harvest is defined by the commencement of fruition furrows clueing me in from some house maiden in her spring rites, whose warnings are about just how long we have til we starve. This is information I hear from the lips of her sublimated earth denizens. I hear my bros & sisters and they tell me without authorial realization that she's condemned them. I receive their comeuppance plaintive cry, I realize the implications. I wonder how it is I got to know what it is that sues the sufferer of their vital norm.
^^My confrontation with letters--the deepest cuts now furthering comely acceptance of self, has impelled me to want radically One thing and only One thing to stamp my need to define transcendence once and for all. I keep anticipating this One thing as if my will would be triumvirated--spiritualized by authorial bodies of mind, body & soul-- by the Climate of the Greater Will.

^^IN regard to the world in its dormancy--the following is my take on a mind delivered to the first step up to the dream-scape::: I LIKE READING when my weary repose is getting the "better" of me. This feeling of sliding off the fly wheel rat......her than sticking to it, is quite an interesting box of rules to adjust to if only without the certainty of our measure of effort to make the conceptual feeling the author imparts actually last. So, I find I have an impulse of being negligent, or rather that the task is negligible so why persist? But, the pith of mind is still prepared to be manifest if I'd only look. Something like the sofa striking the bat rather than a thwack of the bat with its gratuitous purpose to land upon the dull animal of "the chair of thousands of deaths." I instigate the conduit thought-field and where it leads as if losing my way from exhaustion is part of the multiplied direction... THe new yr in a few days, a so called Yr's end sabbath might be a direction to be severely adduced!!
^^*If there's hell below we are all gonna go... But really there is a tangent concept here. Hellish albeit. Just been reading the author for The Last Temptation of Christ. His auto-bio in fact, called Report to Greco. Dude it is beautiful. He considers himself to be X-tian, Communist, Buddhist (or did.). He was writing about these communities of monks on Mt Athos--somewhere in Turkey I think. Greek Orthodoxy enclave--Europe's first I believe. These guys believed--many of them I mean, in the cruxifiction, as opposed to the Resurrection. SAying: LIFE is Cruxifiction. Really bitter old Christian aescetics. But that they were so devout and believed in Stern Judgment was to my mind instructive. Thinking that mankind is on the road to hell, well in fact creates huge visuals for me--that seems like a thing to cultivate. So by doing that limits the veracity of the conception WE all may go there--X-tians are asked to Witness, to be Initiated--not merely believe--and Jes didn't say that, 'cept in the King James version. So I don't have to go to the vertex of a world of displeasure just because there is such a world, or absence of this one that I can imagine. Right? And instead compels me to imagine a reprieve as only the relics of experience may have us do (endure).
*^*Reincarnation or Channeling? Seems reincarnation is the samsara vehicle of what happens presently. We know we incarnate in this life, that there is one world, we live on the threshold of this imminence front--so I am as much Barack as perhaps Saddam Hussein only a few years ago. But not those who have died in this life of so many more years ago that their tidal wave has content but no form--has color but can't be said to exist... You die an existence, you don't die there again--doors close.