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.