To the Extent I've become the Other Brother

A black american might say in a striking excelsior bout of self-consciousness, "My G-d My G-d people just like these around us, had my nation in links and chains--"they're dressed in the same pollution" says Marley in horse trot riddim indicating the judgment before halelujah time. Even blood knowing the attendant norm as Core-Culture wouldn't naturally be as prohibitive... So, he's self conscious, not in fear, but in that which brings wisdom. And whose numina is the wealth of Identity, I-dren, Sistren...his conscious crowd? Not yours perhaps, but consider his embrace outside our loosening world-savy contentment, and consider our embrace outside that too.
***I was looking for something to do, so I came over to your house. I think then over in the vicinity where the WT Young library was put up. I know Kakie was over that way too, but you too somewhere living with Leslie, and only Leslie was at home where I ended up in that dusk of consistantly symbolic night in Lexington: one could be certain of the escape of time's efforts--the season brought me into the terminus of Autumnal tumult, while my studies in a fluid draft (like a draft horse) anchored me to music's release with the certainty that anything could be as true. You'd gone to a gig, and I see your hat on your bed's backboard. Leslie is sitting on the bed, but I'm reticent to sit around and bullshit with her, like I am invited to something beyond the given rappore. It's winter and at any rate I sit on a cold stoop at the entrance to the bedroom, wanting to light a cig. In the tale of conscious crowd in my mind I had it that folks were on healthy awareness experiments, I assumed ya'll's reserve for that then--but I had no way to verify. I consider the apposite of an event of convalescence, eating right, to have the expectation of drugged conduct beckoned, but when I'm patiently trialing consciousness--so reading awhile, taking in music otherly, whatever it may be--it's through smoking in convened moments that has a day spirited in giant leaps--so to the victory of physical liberation, a volley of power over time's reins!!

**Attention appreciating, unthwarted, wanting Dostoevskii's K bro to entreat my need to Turn-Around!!!
I'm not subdued by the fact that many of my trials were deliberative. It may mean everything is self-duty with the key to self available in loss of motive in as much as one might have been certain. Again, when the course of my life seems liminal, then at least orienting myself toward the ineffable is evidence of probabilities endless indicated right out of our reach. I know mostly *what-is* is out of my control--even the decisor mental event. But what stands out is the distance between my convulsed self and the semblance - the idea - the motive NOT to act. Things are; I'm becoming; G^d is complex, intricate, so my sense is not to justify acting in IT's behalf, but to be the convergence of time place & community. That way the narrative that says I've alone manufactured the dialect with What-Is (Immense) is not so dear that I would be damned for capturing Otherness--w/the intent to deny it's responsibility upon me adjured. Solemnity expected in my mind, not authorially placating my ignorance.
**That there would be a statute that suggests a culture can't advance because it is a vehicle for a mission, has little to do with an acolyte toward his her appreciation of what resourcefulness they have been reduced down to consider. A worthy World View, propitious self-knowledge, is not one that elaborates one's conflict w/an ambiguous claimant's surmise. No prophets typically avail an adherent were they'd most likely have had their most sober efforts staged for a fractal event. Theoria is finding In ('side the fluid thoughtlessness), the liberation of ourselves in this temporal actionable cause, is finding Out. Love Kerouac's use of The Great Awakening to the Dream of Existence--his letter, to my Mutazila's faylasuf *philosophy*: To dream thereby we exist, to deign meaning for the dream's observer is gaining access to his her teacher. The Teacher or Prophet's lives are chimera activities...
^^Theoria is finding In ('side the fluid thoughtlessness), & the liberation of ourselves in this temporal actionable cause, is finding Out. The Dao monk rations out the practical appeal toward Effortlessness. When it occurred to me that I find myself sitting, asana unpuzzled legs indian style, memorialized space is glossy unscattered, inviting me to run into it. Fluidity--thus, repentant--and no frontiers for knowledge, temporate non-self in momentum of torpor-esque persona hushing floutist nuances is the only thing held in the mirror.
**Idols are silent, but the gods are noisy***
This babel falling with it's gravity pulling us with it's reins is more like a voidant possibility. Drawing us into distances strewn with lousy promises, like food as "resolved" sustenance--Babel as what's been deficated, yet nothing in evidence that gives life strong sensory data. Bowels empty, and these lives in transformation yet out of our control--this very message from Without, fortifies nothing. Stillness achieved is just the fable of man's mind that silence is by measure & force his due. It is all so obvious to me that some little limb--divined mind shore--the silence, is in fact tacit and not auditory or sound-appreciating the hue and lack therein, because I looked at it. It is the tethered fealty to propriety of release--in our heads, yet we are indeed a collective unto experience until thru observation the fray is the won-overed motive that delivers the Commiserate to the truth that NOTHING IS IN FACT happening. Not silence, not sound in its fluid appeal to corporeal auditive phonic furniture.