Apropos of a summer's night myth

At the top of my street an old haggard lady sometimes came out to mow. She seemed like the grandmother--Bubby, the comely character from The Stories of the Red Calvary, who fed moldy chocolates to the young Isaac Babel in the duration of times he'd go take lessons--piano or Hebrew?--there in her little shtetl domicile. I threw an arrow of disaffection (not at her) at the red stop sign in the corner of her yard, red like my heart that truly split into two.
Just a block away out behind Louie B Nunn's house there at the bottom of his extensive backyard courses Kenton's Blue Hole--a natural spring. The Ky historical marker sign wasn't visible last time I drove past thru that Parkers Mill treed corridor adjacent. The sense that I'm taking in a recognized historical place, but never a soul to come around but me, is how I'd consort with personifying loci, a place under the sun to spiritually gain focus. Behind the church - the access point to amble in behind these estates - is where Jewish neuroses thru the writings of Isaac Babel made abstraction & absurdity oikoumene (worldly). If I could at all consider to push the limits of that inner-narrative, conceding I'd readily answer for it, would leave me prone--so nothing else to answer for...nothing. I'd finish a study program, setting intellectual goals according to MY feeling, and encant Bob Marley's Burnin' & Lootin': "yes me friend we take the streets again." Then strolling back to the house, the neighborhood becomes especially bound in a pregnant essense, while not knowing who or what would be borne from it, images of Egypt lay at my feet.
Elucidating Babylon seems generally unpalpable--giving it the "gate's" word technology, makes it less the contemptible concretized spaceship, and relays the ideal as "sublime porte."
Rasping ironic mountains, there in the West Bank, inwardly I'm assuming magical space, but these Middle-easterners are vomitted from its sure embrace: under the desert sun & traduced voidant skies, a dead rat once living in these banana canopies, gets consumed less by the elements than ubiquitous ants harvesting the carnal moshav denizen (moshav is a communal farm). Bionic Rats--the song--conducts my life charged w/Babylon falling in a symbolic way. It is plastic in my minds eye, and evidence of the rape humanity appropriated when folks get seduced by the stranger & his ackward lumber thru core-cultures.
Magdi -an Israeli Jew, rides the field manager's tractor--hauling the flatbed to unload into the lorry driven by his ill-contained neighbors, the Palestinians. Everytime we harvest, like once a week, inevitably it rains. 70lbs of bananas sawed off its mother tree stalk is the fruit hod, so to speak, we deliver to the flatbed. Rats nesting in the bunch leap to escape this frenetic jettisoning of its lair. If Babylon restrains us, demands our reliquishing of a kind of escape, then thru the semblance contrived of imminent loss, do I sing in a strange land. My feet are my bed--the dance is to downpress Babylon from its demented telos always supposed, always ego forlorned.

I have seen the voice stream. Definitely in night's chimera, but as if this mind media, tho' thoroughly reified, more than anything an elemental kind of body consciousness came out of me like breath and light thru my eyes. The context of at least a couple of dreams had Moses dwell within me, draped my countenance, with prophetic mantras, angry & unconvinced I would hear it wholly in a vertex of continuity where otherwise I should have been appopriating the suffering characterizing my demonic trials.
The trees' boughs embowered with all this precipitation create vistas of live scaffolding dripping w/mind milk. Its scrawl of their limbs is definitely the only perfect image one might conceive naturally of our mind's physical proliferation.
The sight of these trees giving these 'burbs character, their canopies wail in its remoteness, the leaves in swaying voices telling their subjects of the one place human industry won't reach. Trees look like they speak to the skies in their yawning arc up above, and these oaks with muscular trunks--now below, have housing architecture more to convene in fortitude. The pug marks of squirrels, the clawing scratches from robins, starlings et cetera--make dust on people's yard's approach clairovoyant, niche-like--the demands of my language gifted with new repositories: Seems like antiquated alliteration, but new language to me for the old & eternal!!!
Of course Buddha represents a just cause. He had respite within the King's court (his pops). He got experienced at the most acquisitive peace to suspire in days of succour--mind can't be discomfitted if learning has no tether to closed crowd. If it's just you and the rest of the world--then there's nothing really to turn off. (despite the melodrama riches were not his ambition, preponderant--ugly in its material success) He was an Egoist=his self-interest was fulminate, roiling just to be called by the report at once below the sea's frozen surface... Healing adduced. His education abideth a sabbath learning. Going out, his exiling, had been propitiated...

At one point, back in the 90s, I lost my voice. This was a symptom of intense scrutiny--self-scrutiny, and "how" I spoke was reeling and enumerating in mind's eye - the feeling was that I was serving it up for exasperating reasons, really unto a material success IN my condition downpressing my better intentions... My voice came out really high pitched, and it took a lot of good humor to see it as just one step toward knowing What Ought ever to be said--the language vehicle, my impelling motility *spontaneity, or modality *the ground from which expression is formed, in Expression couldn't any longer be handled in the same way. I needed the song in my heart and mind to come-correct. Just to say the right thing. The sense would otherwise round out a script with which everything said would have had immense consequences.
Walnuts and their fragrant tannins, this phala (broadly saying "fruit") is the rimmonim or pomegranates of a deep aside. Threaded thru psuedepigraphia the pomegranate draws one east, and is the color of splendor. Cite the Zohar here--written in the 1200s I think--meaning NOT in the 2nd century. If herb fi me wine has a libation recommended in paradise, the inside-myself florescence sees plaintive mind's wail absorbed in black fire and its white fire tabula rasa... Just senses bound to letters. I'd drink any offered, merciful milk, wine, honey, eternity's water. Good enough I see these symbols permutated, and people who actually got to clarified aeries--Orientalists--bring the east's language finessed just so. Verifying an academician's romance with IT had this given character that the ideal will get inverted anyway.
Any reading dealing w/LIGHT is a sense that we experience a proponet at our side, thru our senses--the orientation toward the Most-I. Inayat Khan, a contemporary Sufi, uses this higher ground subject, isn't showing the actionable success of theoria writing until the Ideal is represented. The light for sight, ire-ites, the countenances of energies, actually vessels, rooted to anthropos in our devotion to divulge valleys of indecision, releases us--the shadows vacous and regressed so that solarity makes one's struggle--into the field of possibilities--that it may be meditation unfoundered. If consciousness is to be deficit riddled, like a pile of gems having the beam of merely a flashlight to refract speciously, it is only that subjectivity w/o fulminate burnishing rays under the Perfect Source, which compels man to unmix the dross of its (light's) restraints that would brave restitution in the World with less meaning than its conduct we suffer.
Woke up one morning w/the still background of my room in my silent chimerical repair in all kinds of white noise vibratory properties--the walls thicker, more uniform, weirdly stultifying... Valerie in her suspiring repose looks loved and consumately halotosis wealthy--I kissed her lips anyway. The feeling from dream-scapes tacitly emptying, without this lens, without walls colorless dry & heavy, usually makes the mind have impetus (the compulsion of novel expressions, language re-emerging)---and factors-in the projected mean (=life revivified); the sense that my room became such an evident intermediary meditation pushes self-emptying into a mental-scape landmark...: I was certain that the dream of existence was unwed by anykind of awakening. My world just reified dream-time--a proliferate motive if dreams loose none of its retreat in temporal awakening!!

Before the Intifada of '87, a signifier of the devolved state of numinal examples, social expectations spited...expiring in humanity's thwarted key to enlist my rally, in Jerusalem around ben Yehuda blvd, my ego-strife got shorned of distraction, and Rob & I dosed half a blotter of A a piece. The morning after, if anything be told that liquid sky is beheld, an emblem of whose life in one well of time, just a Jew, raises my head toward the Way (halakhah), where he'd been acceding unto. Yes, I dooo ask--and what is to fulfill me in yielding to an Absolute is more a nod of a concession he allows, and I go and be received et al, particularly w/o reifying his formal meditation in the memorialized space of his Chosen* Way. Chosen is just the mythic commerce of a theodicy product worthy of anyone, yet dharma is precisely IT. He steps out of Meir She'arim--a night's day opens like fire, or lotus--the community is next to the hostel where we stayed... Sustained reverence but at the expense of anything else appreciating in my senses is critical for my repair. This next-day-after expunged the immanent retreat one can simply imagine in mind-sore psychedelia--it has to be eVer a retreat, and still mundane temporance cans something more instructive - but after, I know aFter! To reckon renewal is to take exception, but observation of what profundity my fealty to life as reliable felt like, was rightfully framed in the belched calvacade of the Religious (strict minds, strickened spirits somewhere amongst)--to this man into my immediate sphere. The sky had mouthfuls of fire, stars, and the valley of tongues is language sounding like the peal of a bell and the world stands as serene; a point at the ground of being where emanate days are wed.

Native Congregations deny National irreality

Things get brighter and louder as the battle gets harder, and bottle gets hotter (everytime it is reached for). The tear of light, that very intensity, may be a light in mourning, the lament that never gives way--something solidifying integ...rity with what is only a deep aside. Senses do peak and are measurable in solitarian inquiry: for me ambling down old roads, haunting places, like the ghost-town is the last place we experience til the government comes along and pushes it down... I'm haunting myself like my alterior ghostly peer, observations within, answering to the most Self found in the deficit of self-duty demanding the necessary change. Finding OUT is one thing, tho' recompence is demanded by seeing the Outward Fact pregnant with demands for our attention AND is after, only after we hope down from up above... Finding Out references in the bridge toward transcendental awareness, make the path beckon assiduous gaits in mega-transect toward prone repose--Opened Up to chaossssssss, and its proportional gravid development.
Trees say, I am the people--do the right thing; "the health of crowd consciousness is indefinite prayers, and convincing pilgrimages with imparticular holy days." A kind of true democracy is the institute of nature's "cabala." The "reception" of land to sea, rivers bisecting universe, mother's heart as a trek to immanent release from nature to its annihilating propensity. Born of it, cycling and consciousness as its accidental excrescence, consciousness of the furtive voyager in light and chthonian reception--the trees deign man to wander its precincts with pentant slights of impermanence.
Devotion (in seasonal fading dawn!) actionable among the elect is in respiring clement days, & trees gainsay the sabbatical into waned energies, darker days, dormant or viscous sky. Walnut trees and all the bombast of black resinates proliferate around Fallon Rd in my old neighborhood. A place detracting the volition of my changes now, was the places of my Becoming then--in the certainty skies of my youth. Architecture of the trees-line tops at suburb's coalescent mean, Beaumont Park, have birds overcoming, taking to blue pleroma like smoke out of home's hearth, the philosophical thwarting of fires into heady arborial aeries... Dissipating some of the smoke's evidence in our parlor repose--white smoke exhalation (from the woody black smoke sighs) posits roads willfully bound since all that is required is a walk-about.

Castaneda's A Yaqui Way of Knowledge has a few moments of precise content, fulminate, but furtive and fluctuating from kaleidoscopic drug romance..., which has someone Experienced in advanced objective repose. The reader of such content evolves with the tide of considerable astral temptations--the canine witnessed while it lapped up water is my inquiry. How light florescences shower off of the animal, placing it in smart painted desert night as its anomaly--it is Lighting up the night! This self-same water trough across the garage from where I had lain, had obscure radiance of moon's allure--milky but neon on its comely surface, watching me watching it (the moon, the proffering water etc.), etching out the well of time: 25 minutes of life in transcendent bridge, is the conjuration of a life striven for meaning--so the sun always exigent behind, voids are becoming substance. Crowley's illicit repute never could traduce the light and shadow play in my forlorn solicitude--still his lens rapt of danger has night deliberative and judgmental, and yet I parsed qualia from his memoir (til much later when I threw it away into the recycling)--things like Buddhist contemplation never bedeviling me with raven's on gallows for shoulders, as other fiery meditations represented in the different genres, or his...

Subject: blueberries for breakfast--the fruits of hearing=my new mix: It ain't me, babe--the ethiopians--desmond Dekker--Bombino!!!-
Propositions contingent upon necessity, importance, non-importance, if "modality" is true or false (defined thusly in Websters), have to answer if the mores from social-ego paradigm is in effect the Compassionate Edifice. If in repair, that something is good for meditation, makes cessation from non-skillful grasping for modality always-in-flux, contentment and the genesis positing of answers, rather than power over necessities (and any further value statements): this being a thread to hope as it IS in a path but whose goal is negligible, since a path is all one can hope for.
Modes pedestrian in nature, man-free in dire reckoning to go far over, way over--damned goal oriented to Place, finds modality in coves of blue slumber Night purdah, physical map impressed as in subtler thresholds. In & out under deciduous boughs, the shadows impelling mind (w/lucidity) into tree's non-space in silent folds stuttered all along the "thrum of the sidewalk," (all but frayed til goal's reception is no longer the concern). But silent nod is affected-mind, apophasis rallied, and peace is made WITH whom transition can't be rallied: our "open-crowd" in the Hero's dementia of transition (his own), are yet receptacles (they are) to the inconsistant relief of his control. He'll only know to care--this compassionate edifice--in light of his considerable singularity. Shadows make him liberated in
singularity--no one else is defined by the squeeze of night's attrition!

Matter is an Efficient Cause when we suss Form (the Place, as if when speaking of the Absolute.)--matter proliferates actualization--the Observer is destined to reduce his assertions, since Form holds sway. Form requires less reason than it does a disclaimer on our aimlessness, & only after thwarting causelessness caloused misintuited Essense, Meaning meaning Form founds a Natural Congregation, as opposed to a National Cause. The pattern placed in effect from authority speaks of "security" the heathen must be ever more vigilant in appreciation. Psychological restraints are intra-mantra slavery that encourages interest in something immanent, when one rather should begin to use the cues of language as he hears them--Outwardly, rather than as he names his feelings.
Material void is Time--timeliness if What-Is sours from the misfortunate machinations of revision, always refuting authority "psychologically misapprehended," would have minds relish the shame that makes the heirophant (likeness of which he's made a nation of One) high (cleverly clinging to life undeveloped).
Listening to music with a stayed theme--bringing summer days of having been in the country-Catskill mts back to holistic emotion. The streams up in wooded D. Boone Forest ambiguation had still waters receiving wrought confessions--tarrywealthy consolation: enough ebb off of stepping stone banks... Here, in sensei fraught back room, a porch, has the same smell of my now past Aunt's house--and a making of that dialect relating to the Jewy atmosphere fulminate if only in its 0 sum rescue. Spirits are higher, vision of motives and clarity, the project of self-worth I can capture in just a couple of words "the tyrant of mind's vitae, a subtle form in solicitude, but undeniably the uncarved block."
The sigh of first moments observation of chattel mouldering, lying down--its shadow cast, shows the Joy frequently unannounced in man's. Still moonsoaked it (man's) would be and just as likely vacuously unearthed, tho' a cow sees an ally in its own! Mine is too paced, but body consciousness placed just so sky-prone, piles of stars make my margins in a pitch tone, colored like wet sand on top of dry. Ubiquitous by degrees, and present as humidity strati on summer's hillocky roads.
I stink like the black smoke respired, I mark black smudges on the pleroma from negativity invasive--Buddhist matreya-like; the white marks come with my volition thru this ground of being, and are the posit of jettisoned complacency...
Mom, just remember,it ain't news to me -or you- this place is become old.
The spiritual man is mad, I told her & the cement porch floor. And imagining absurdity/madness with sky liminal restraints, is Order enough, a vesseled prodigious carpeted sky instilling antiquity imminent but unapproachable. Rhythm bubble bouncing, depths in pitch, and home languishes remotely--with the lens of the former residents to the Place where I get received, the having-to-catch-up always in profiles from yawn in continuity: I eat what they've eaten. If the gravy-train train was public domain, it is gray water, say bio-waste, making me stink in hotel-like domicile--the first question raised! How long down the end of lonely street? Isn't love circumventing my mouldering solicit of motive to be the compassionate-dweller of another arabia's denizen?

THE "ABAD"==ornamentation w/hues of humanity *Arabic term

My urine piddle is a wrinkle in time; I only want to piss on spectral shores. Next to attritioning river of time (the irony of its slow fidelity takes earth's map into one penultimate direction--the ocean is never full, takes more & more & denies all the purchase of man's alliterating paths, padding thru dust=articulating it & washed of its precise content!), memory 'flect and thought tarries like light in waves of immense magnificate days...
Matter is an Efficient Cause when we suss Form (the Place, as if when speaking of the Absolute.)--matter proliferates actualization--the Observer is destined to reduce his assertions, since Form holds sway. Form requires less reason than it does a disclaimer on our aimlessness, & only after thwarting causelessness caloused misintuited Essense, Meaning meaning Form founds a Natural Congregation, as opposed to a National Cause. The pattern placed in effect from authority speaks of "security" the heathen must be ever more vigilant in appreciation. Psychological restraints are intra-mantra slavery that encourages interest in something immanent, when one rather should begin to use the cues of language as he hears them--Outwardly, rather than as he names his feelings.
Material void is Time--timeliness if What-Is sours from the misfortunate machinations of revision, always refuting authority "psychologically misapprehended," would have minds relish the shame that makes the heirophant (likeness of which he's made a nation of One) high (cleverly clinging to life undeveloped).

Sun's corona pushes my thoughts to the blue redeemed blanket, and starwealthy possibilities!
As some mystic heathen, solitude waiting for me to brave solarity, around the mid-teens of my life, I threaded the white horizon break as companion to katan Olam, the microcosm, healing contained Within, and its Meaning elusive but indicated Without
I am there but not less than her--more. Yet she so ooother, is the beatific exigent to all that world you ever leverage voluntas to work for. Still, her promise is in semblance, and not necessarily in union. Her formal throe into all my social resource, consumes me--consumes everything more than me. She's more than muse - she gives Emotional-soul, the one associated with Mercy, to the vehicle of expression. She is Spirit chorus--the wind commentator--and I am sullied by just a feeling... Without her is one thing, without me is quite another. I am sullied by just a feeling. She's its epiphany--at least I gainsay my fealty embowering thru powerlessness.
Blood spore dissipation, mind-sore apprehension is this one's and that one's utter inept rapture with the marvel of this world notably taken for soluable sensory data. The reserve any One-other has to desire more integrity in homeward loam has all the product of imagination of my vouchsafe in cedar clarified lair--thing actual.

Language is material--martyring its potent affection may be self-duty, a way to "save" yourself from the threat that the well of time, the conscious-pocket, is a reservoir of the Other's extremis in your center from Without.

Imagine that suspended feeling,when the road transpires really very linearly. For a moment hypnotic & freed up. Either the weird security that we attend to in its moment to moment nuance is jettisoned or not--but if it is, this state of mind--similar to the attention we sight in meditation, only reveals a feeling about MORE loss of control... Rather it is much like the daoists claim about fluidity, effortlessness! The road is matched in perfect glyphs self promoting ready to be scathed--an image adduces formally a book of rules--aspirations of imagination. But how the mind codifies the Efficient Cause has Shapeless Mass = Jah--in one spectral vessel, a moment, and just a pulse that nothing any longer is hidden.
PURITY's DECISOR...In death or in life, water ought to be our exigent incarnation. It IS merciful, has all the attributes of Eternality. Heaven is thought of as a fountain..."blue, blue windows behind the stars." N Young* And what is unique upon earth is ancestor revival mischief, but thru his/her source-=-messages showering us with rainy meaning. Its flowing mysterium makes the easily defined ubiquity as it posits the air the sun the buena vista, looks gravid when, say, a stream is met with a recent deluge--a pregnant translucent surface contrives this quality.
It is the big things, we answer for, that destroy intuition. Focus on a diminutive cause. The means are always letter permutations--analytic meditation, as recommended by his Holiness the Dalai Lama, for disambiguation to allay traduced passions, and to tether one to the Truth. The doctrinaire society however bound to integrity for their success, protects it at the cost of the praxis of awakening.

Last night I came up w/ a sense that the Observer is the extinguisher of freedom. Men seem emergent from space, where as women seem to refine Time as a pilgrimage thru space. If memorialized space has convenient thresholds where the intermediary is effective in man's need for a Roof (Rastas chant I need a Roof in Old Testament verity.), just as within a dream, had we looked, Mind is always predominant behind the drawn curtains enveloping our anthropos evol!!! Man hunts the provocateur of consciousness impulses--and one usually orients himself to what is the most evident, and most accessible moment of release...
For a time I decided not to look in a mirror. Other people telling me they've done that always seemed so contrived--like a strange concern over vanity had consumed them. In Jerusalem at the yeshiva I stayed at, went to classes over-together for just a few weeks, the men had no mirrors in the lavatories. (Odd, and compelling--tho' other and unevidenciary.) Driving down my neighborhood road anticipation of my visage now after a couple of months of avoiding my rreflection would have a continguous immanent quality. Not so much the obviate readying oneself for presentation in social oevre as we project and schedule, but what occurred was a feeling that the next time I look it would be a tremulous look under the veil--a purdah of distance strung... I waited til I thought I had seduced the most revealing facade of appearance--a tacit escounced moment -- then at a precise moment, instead of holding eyes into the steady gaze toward rear-view mirror, I pulled down the visor--having no mirror--and wallah, there I look back at myself all King Crimsony as if reflection should be coiled in stillness in the looking glass... The stranger was abated--I knew the red anthropositing of I Me Mine, yet the receiver of my cadence certainly was not withOut: it was wholly within.

June & the summer road apparitions proliferate

^^^^Krshnamurti's definition of meditation develops the point about attention, and not persisting on creating stronger focus. Thought content is trappings of frustrations and incomplete resignation on self-preservation--so content is not important. To reference thought w/any value statement is barbed w/his correct sense of the problem of escape unique to one's social-ego constraint. In Amongst White Clouds, a monk relates When he needs apparel--the demand of weather and health, clothes crawl upon his humble frame. Needs aren't invented, but are fulfilled precipitiously--the world, the path meet him. There is no yawn of distances to imagine relationship--instead the numinous and experiential are immanent (remains within!).

The Observer


The Observer is the extinguisher of the freedom...

occuring in mediacy, it doesn't matter according to its content.

What sublimates the Meaning of Outward Fact? What conveys our graduation (all mediate) to Awakening.

Religion?


Never flourishing in a temptor's face

Never in declination ill-contained & heavy,

prioritizing what is good for Meditation.

So, Gandhi's definition is Self-Actualization.

Dogma--this rhetoric of any intensified-transition
(we want revolution or revelation)
as it speaks to mischief abated,
just means lethargy in its legs to compel me.

I'm not typically assertive that way--ambition is only to relate, and the bread of self-knowledge has consequence and eternality to contend with.


Discipline frames nature

--nature aborts nothing

temporal=breath respiring
(waves and conditions... )

'A burning in my chest and in my lungs'

Freedom is clearly unique

--timeless--

no space in the comport between You and the Catharsist

--and stripped of its descriptors like still waters unimpressed by its deluge victim...

^#~~Reading Jack Kerouac, his first book, makes reflection--memory 'flect, things in shoals of night myth made in this case thru Trees' imagery again developing in fields of opportunity. How covetous minds are in the "million" leaves in sway, trees with a million coves to hide the ephemeral: my changes are literally nothing in the remonstrated day's long ends having only light-play to appertain tree presence--vital, observing, and earth's delivery of fractal awe. In Krshnamurti's To Himself, the underwhelm of tree's boughs but nigh in his meditation, keeps me in tight reigns that the dialect & thought transpiring goes one way...one is just appreciating the whiling arc of the sun as the lesson of other revolves within everytime, just within--it--the tree--does not congratulate its terrestrial associate.

^#~~Feeling the day's elements; languid in the garage. Summer seems the decisor at once then gone. Wish I was in the Catskills, that hideaway--those bungalows, across Casten st all up in the country by the blueberry patches--wholly regular in t...hese woods. Cool streams evading trafficked shitty city, I-man go to the mt. top!
I remember being up in NY w/your brother when we were around 15yrs old. Sitting here with only a handful of times in between brings on memoria in full effect!! My nephews and I would amble thru the forest, they'd smoke--making me feel a strange cause, even esoteric as in how consciousness narrows into semi-ecstatic contrivances. Here there's no tree boughs making umbrella canopy, sharding light and polygons obfuscating distances looking at its ground reception, but smoke philo-heady and retrieved just now makes Ky weather Other & available.

^#~~It is the big things, we answer for, that destroy intuition. Focus on a diminutive cause. The means are always letter permutations--analytic meditation, as recommended by his Holiness the Dalai Lama, for disambiguation to allay traduced passions, and to tether one to the Truth. The doctrinaire society however bound to integrity for their success, protects it at the cost of the praxis of awakening.
^#~~In death or in life, water ought to be our incarnation. It IS merciful, has all the attributes of Eternality. Heaven is thought of as a fountain..."blue, blue windows behind the stars." N Young*
And what is unique upon earth is ancestor revival mischief, but thru his/her source-=-messages showering us with rainy meaning. Its flowing mysterium makes the easily defined ubiquity as it posits the air the sun the buena vista, looks gravid when, say, a stream is met with a recent deluge--a pregnant translucent surface contrives this quality.

^#~~If one is at the peak of his/her experience, it may be when most crowd consciousness is left at bay. In R. Gere's book called Pilgrims, a Nepalese monk is asked of his perspective in light of the physical success the Outward Fact sublimates the acolyte: He says It is All Ego! Rather, what was simply asked was What is the answer in all endeavor toward self-actualization.


Last night I came up w/ a sense that the Observer is the extinguisher of freedom. Men seem emergent from space, where as women seem to refine Time as a pilgrimage thru space. If memorialized space has convenient thresholds where the intermediary is effective in man's need for a Roof (Rastas chant I need a Roof in Old Testament verity.), just as within a dream, had we looked, Mind is always predominant behind the drawn curtains enveloping our anthropos evol!!! Man hunts the provocateur of consciousness impulses--and one usually orients himself to what is the most evident, and most accessible moment of release...