Obediah, Abdullah, Abdu, Mawalli, subjugated self-agency

**The paring of the blackPurple skies humming down I-75 was Cincinati vaudevillian-- had caught a ride with some incarnate of my oldest brother--now the sky as before me droning in my face buried in the antique car's back floorboard. It is like the sky was on stage in my mind's theater and the stars were the courting of figures with meanings of city-states announcing denizens in one stream of color sheen audience-observer, upon the shore-edge of roads' peripheries. I saw punk hair cuts like a dragon whip, and stellar pompous makeUp as if the future-spectacle had been interceded taking people's temporal floor and inverting it. The eyes looking back occasionally into the floorboard were not ocular, but shunts of fluid-bearing soul funk in cosmic luminescence. The driver's back had pretensions to my receding into road report resonance. His back was ocular, as if all these conscious bodies were thrwarted by wards of consciousness sortee's-- the fray of which he and everyone else could have--I was standing still--sitting perfectly still!!
**My cousin's chimey voice somehow gets even-flow in Val's---like really enumerated. I told her (my cuz) as much around Thanksgiving, just because. The vertex that her audition easy speak emotes from me is really I am getting to hear lavender-mood--something really climate. The opposite of talk-embarrass when vox mundi collapses and reckoning of passion ends...the APposite of which would rather have language fragmented and liminal poesis - a white fire taking the whole of our subtle body, glory having been left behind... Her rosy colored mourn (I think I got that from Kerouac) is rapt and uncomplaining. Someone draining in cosmopolitianism (her, kithe & kin)--g^d I can tell ya' I'm happier than most.
**Like a dog carrying a paper, inky chemicals contrive my brain, in as much as I was master and National Geographics were the broadcasted outward fact come to the fore, and under a lamp with milky white light in its pretense that all colors were heralded. I saw the fireplace from this repose in a dream--it is next to the ottoman, a good enough seat of a 1000deaths, without its exterior wall there--and the vista made plain was in the snow wake, out toward the neighbor's RunJoeRun fence -- the one I watched the german shepherd Missy jump over on so many alerted to occasions... Fire with a crystaline visage frozen intermediary conflagrations not obviated--and yet a hot callalou in letters in my upsetter melancholy that if only it wasn't in proportion of just that one corner of my mind--I'd go w/a content chimera albeit.
**To the extent that someone is an answer--for me it was those in the beggardly squalor these Egyptians lived in in Dahab (then just barely a village, yet w/one bldg w/electric, there on the Red Sea), as well as the actual beggar laying in the strolling boulevard (Ben Yehuda Blvd.) in Jerusalem, I feel any archetypal mystic is thing-actual. With the strange economy of spirit & survival --what I imagined as NOT what I need to be interupting, the vessel for his/her mitigation of those factors playing out their sentient little selves, makes every shown orifice look ringed with bLACK within: shadows behind his guffaw, pinched eyelids, olfactory forebearance of unenchanting odors. My G^d they live this way, & perhaps gather silent hedges, walkways into ubiquity, just elemental facts, like a buddha experiencing the denial of the Destroyer Mara in visions ultimately more tangible than the fight of self-worth in killing ego's bland instruction--those few words of obscene deterance --its excrescence, my trial.
**I don't have any friends in high places. Not even myself. If man is suppose to have a kingly self with which to adjure life in one's magnificence, then perhaps a good slave heralding remote land's resources, as no one else could make the decision to live so distantly would be my lot.
**It's all ego says a Himalayan monk. He was interviewed in this buddhist preachy photo coffee table book of R. Gere's--called pilgrims. But taking the varnasrama-dharma doctrine --the thing about our agency, as opposed to our vocation, a monk is what Siddhartha became. Then he finds the great awakening from the dream of existence, to use Kerouac's assignation. So this monk living so remotely--in a cave perhaps solitarian, still is in the crowd of I & Thou & I & Nature...while mitigating I & We: it's all ego. Where the hell is I & I? Because socially actionable creatures that humanity is instructed this guy to leave the rest at arm's length. So his reaching for a glass of water has Varuna (Uranus) with messages from the ancients, and so-that water won't deluge us in the next incarnation, we speak to it, give it praise at its cloy: it is trying our patience at oUr behest!
**I intend on innundating myself in mania--a conscious pocket, mind economy--money ina pocket ...Leaving things out in the tidal pools like exposing my leprosy to sungods and water deserts. That insanity is a force of calvacades exemplar, it's invited--not really cultivated. But absurd enough in vaporous looming the mendicant in me is "a" peasant " walking to the road, to return all that is old," is a spiritual memory that I'd 'flect.
I love the village--say smoking Jew--with certain places (it's Dostoevskian parlors if I can hack it with me) where he'd resign his need to learn: go to a shtiblech. I shtibl is a studyhall, a shtiblech maybe more like an office, but courted by kinda heirophants to engage in pilpul=argument! Language is the victor, vehemence would be vanquished--insanity is redemption whose meaning in hebrew concerns this assertion: redemption, an answer, and restoration, IS our "turning-around."
**Throwing newspapers--barely maintaining a residence myself--imagining the sentience projected from the small minds of nephews I hear as I jump & skip around Cardinal Valley while I volley my route... It was like I was having to swear to these angels that I'd agree to watch over--"asking the angels"--I was "starting to bleed." (P. Smith) Runny consciousness, solitude as the advent of non-stylin' and un-pompousness, still makes a career of that self-effacement that the rest of relationship--the weird I & We--says much has been said in way of these places I haunt. The sense that my nephews were crowding me struck dharma in my heart, self-duty, and I teared up. With Jenny then some, her excelsior-izing Olds 98 coming up and I try the realness and effect of all this upon her receiving mind. Jenny just reacts motherly--and I see just what it is that circumvents weariness. As she & I stand out in my front, I mention my nephew to her--(he actually just walked up on me as I deliberate this) and she affirms, nods, spits and those angels still are in the abject air in my steps behind, just touching earth.
**take aim--she patters around more OUTside, than the purchase of her gait at home evinces home as memorialized space
I get these ocular migraines. As it comes on devolves recklessly and lessens in the concern it causes, I have not uncertain feelings of strict impermanence. Things like I'm as good as buried--it won't be long now; Mom hasn't barely another day amongst; the business would be sacrificed for the once comely necessary distraction it has become; death, that's it. The lion's share of self-consciousness-tho' gets looked at like there's a promise. These black & white stases in the concourse of star tincture and light intensity, makes me ASK of this receptacle, mind, but I'm used to having no answer on ground's consciousness (pocket) and still I observe -- like give & take here makes even the worst of my attention a trek into clarity...& there is no break like the norm IS stricken.