Sight: seen!

**My favorite dream in recent times is sorta a head above head look upon an astrolabe, like I was looking over my own shoulder. The astrolabe would rotate of its own volition. But if it was under my control (I just couldn't feel my hands' dexterity) then therein lies the strange phenomena of time passing with memoria expunged--nothing personal to measure; and my Free-will (voluntas) - that very awareness like pillars of consciousness collapsing because of the immensity of the staged affect from seeing moon arc and go down, then the sun glimmering somewhat like a deflated winter's sun...its light more approachable, but its remoteness denying its imminence. Over & over witnessing day in day out and crowding fluid feelings of my sense of being in a pocket of time: gut bucket weekdays, and plateau weekend in weird sabbatical reckonings--any and all pilgrimages in time like end of year, end of decade, end of any and all dispensational sensitivity...
^^^Subject: canopy vandalizes the ground with polygons
In an oak-riddled dialect with empty neighborhood:
The place my "head made-strong" was in lighted fields, aeries of light embankments--all slightly above me--being drawn up. I thought of deliberative bird song, tastes in my mouth--mantra breath, but no utterance to resume the dialect except for my drumming patter on a 12" Pearl cunga. In the garage door threshold one-drop speaking with my hands, then I lean to one side on my lawn chair, my head consoled by a gesture I see of Madame Blavatskii, her Esoteric & Exoteric Writings. Just how she has her fist as hammer quill to penetrate the frozen sea within, the very tabula rasa I was raising my eyes to...her hand holds sanctuary in a grip of something conceptual, tightness 'pon the head, her temple is grasped, theoria of my Fire brow, rebel stopping the fighting--the two threads of a horizon, white thread dark thread tethers me to anything propitiated in the fat soul of plenty!!
****Look at that adept tongue of Stevie Wonder. His music comes and my attention picks up, and then I'm brought to some equinox to meet & greet the strangely staged delivery. His delivery has language acuity--creative, but the discipline in this articulation say as compared to Farakhan has it established that the Mendicant (=Farakhan, for argument purposes) isn't anymore rife with self-profession than the (predominant) rosy colored mourn and soul of "black riddim bubble bouncing," & "black magic record speaking" (*Linton Kwesi Johnson &*Lee Perry respectively) we adduce in rock-steady and blue beat and rhythm & blues. Louis Farakhan--Nation of Islam preacher, shows something sustained in the valley of tongues which accords with the numinous, and yet shows only an existential valence--and certain colors as in an artist's cause is entirely a conflagration of language awash yet upon way different shores to receive...
****IT is all bunk to think that reading the tea leaves, or chicken innards or the trajectory of celestial bodies--tho' eminent, spectacular, and psychosomatic in the sense that IT may be helpful, has any true rational effect on the individual. Our consciousness construes our influences, our influences don't contrue US that advances evidence the Outward fact conspires for benefit or anything else. I'm deriving this from having listened to Richard Dawkins yesterday--a true breath of fresh air. This Thinker really is NOT ascerbic--he genuinely wants people to be critically aware.
**Miracles betray the last thing empirical that were the victuals of ascension. On & on to devise a dialect with moon soaked eyes, only in the valley of tongues - her taste, at my feast I'm donning plates to consume her providence. The angle bespeaks ocean's volumne of what lights the night...this blue slumber awake. Maimonides principle of Incorporeality to take a stand that Eternity is foundational & not this creation which ushers impermanence to the visage of likenesses, & revenue that beginnings are misunderstood dispensations we can't tear from antediluvian thick-with-it yawn of estates and skies. Unity is essense lept out of conscious satellites--like glowering cars dividing destinations from imminent suburban homes to fade away junctures up in blue pleroma arced from tree architecture comporting til our grasp graspes.

^^Maimon--the name is also the same word Muslims are more likely noted as in the Koran--was the Jewish theologian 800yrs ago defining Jewish ideal as reason. The Love for G-d was not a biblacy exposition, has Theoria & Meditation as man's ends (al-ghaya al-insaniyyah), so prayer & ritual is the impulse... devotion & meaning in being Present. One doesn't believe in the Absolute because there are no questions in mind! Reason Is--yet an Unknown with solitarian validity for you, isn't answer enough in resigning exile from self unto destiny, but rather being a proponet of fate's middling. This "mean" without our demur makes convention less general and shows one the Light in Night.
**In my green youth I just was found wonting--in the trough of sinewy thought what all it meant 'pon anxious cries of its reception was something I couldn't wait for. That weight in a pallet, that wait for mysteries leaving queries for anything coveting things I threw against sensual mind shores. No option to imagine myself in incidious gray days and only succumb to that. Gray mts in a Yugoslavian backdrop, looked bluer more usually til projecting forward was the imminent mt's release of you... Gray frozen ocean within, as Kafka would have it, contents halophilic, elements of its attribute to roil--blood, ebbs at the last step temporally. Complicating its liquid report... splurb, riddim, bouncing, a breath outside, aeries in the shelf-stow of its funky porridge.

Subject: blue monday people & I know there are a few
Winston Rodney (Burning Spear) lyricked IT is DRY & HEaVY... IT IT IT... and we must pull IT, like Jah's heavy load, like the Train on a collision course with the fate of a long distance journey!! The wet paint, an impressionable self is always a sense, for me, when I feel what I am being impacted with what is inopportune... Sly lyricked "If you feel it pulling back, you are going strong." Sometimes the ECLIPSE of some sense of being quite in league with an Other--for me, my brother--gets the empirical outward fact stated so BRIEFLY that I don't know any longer what it is I should grapple with, what it is I throw in with. I wondered about the line, satta massagana, in Jamaican patois... In Rockers--the Rasta movie, at one point some dude is indicated that he's "satta massagana": withal the subterfuge (w/o relying on my-own moral compass) of ghetto-ology shows this young blood sitting on the side-lines of even the minutiae of slackening-vocations from his fellow ghetto denizens, precisely his sitting-unannounced WAS what I call a denouement of something authorial. The guy is barely communicating a nod of support of some norm--and that ephemeral nod he catches from the pity of the protagonist is like he the uber-mensch is barely in line ahead of his submissive--this mon unreconciled with the give & take of goods & services . This man is THAT man, is I & I content with an imaginative narrative, the very thoughts feelings and actions as allegory to man's ends in Higher Ground.