Fanning the flames of my wakened state with dreams

***I feel I've arisen last night--and not today, not this morning. My book Wanderings, the first thing I read intending to get caught up with station in life all point to reading, has those blue-gray pages smelling like newspaper, to tell me ...where memorialized spaces I would leave in troves of imagination, the tool to connect with and don new allies in time (and place). I read it back in about '94--this is the first retrieval of those expressions of sublime efforts. (In this book) The Helenism in Jewish thought what I've just now left off reading, is remarkable in that there are 3000 Greek words having made it into the Talmud. That gods (their gods) are subject to the same circumventing mistakes of something temporal--that pagans manifest, leaves what is expectant of earth bonds and its iconography, in light of Jewish theoria, the things held in higher ordeal. Meaning, a world-to-come to prevail as earth's denoument, is threading the astral hope in the weave of aural wailing as opposed to life as inverted from it and inconsistant when history's well-being is foulable with assurances of intransigence.
***One knows he has resumed, just not resuming--he's acknowledged neo-beginnings, and no path seems to prevail like emptying the one basket with kept serpent, while all other baskets try our willingness to exhort hai hai teacher father uniFORMity. We're convicted by the moment--the moment entreats us to expectations as its subject of surveillance. Certainly we're circumspect when a path eminent meets each striving step--and knowing where I was going - fluid & tacit - at once, consciousness came to me, & not necessarily as a-becoming... It was something spiritualizing me, that I had run to its passport probity--a path. Something gotten away from me & then reflecting, I concurred: it is mnemotechnical--I was trying to negotiate what wasn't news to me!! I had decided to erase what was beneath the ground of consciousness, so that something more bleak would compel me...less of me in fact, less to assume from my life, but in immense refrain forwarding the only cause life would persist with--vast distances to trod.

***Hope is luck. Hoping down from up above is deliberative over a path. The path gives life its transcendence, but it is creative--so luck as nothing to do with it. Mom's sister had cancer for over 11yrs. Dreamt suburbs, I'm padding the trapsing path she made - after she passed - I'm trailing her to the garage whose guffaw received us, which had the nomenclature of only a brief frequenting of the place I'd go & begin my day mowing, landscaping. Damnable and cursed these days, which in just one descriptor was my being innudated by two or three whirl-winds in the yard of one of our clients. Hellish, and yet now in somewhat convalescence, I see this space in thiS garage as perhaps the one unforseen in the dream. Mom was in the dream too. She and I both were following my barefoot Aunt Eleanor into idol-esque and stern intermediary dreamscape. The dream tabernacle had eternity all marred up in its inconvenience over my control at just where I grappled at the path meeting each step, quick-stepping, watching the mute persona of my Aunt.
***Lazy siesta, languid morning a couple Sundays ago, while reading Kazantzakis--his theodicy Report to Greco. Everytime my blue nod met the morning arising, a serene pleasure jettisoning the sober ego for the dreamt inner-verse, gave ego the pliant spirit that my particular brand of social fever would be fortified with everyone feeding my feeling of being Understood Through It. I'd gulp at the last calvacade of Lextown traffic, and as if these denizen vessels emanated from the quailed glance dowwwn the proximal corridor dowwwn into downtown proper, my kaleidoscopic inner-eye sorta naturally, sorta divinely watched semblance of day's constituency peel off the watch-tower half-empty cup. That some poingant designs on my ego is becoming variegated, the austere and remote rather signals folk, friends and family, drizzling into the precipitate identity cue...it was formidable that my mind, like loaded gun, shined out by its distributor thwarted an exercise in the day appreciating anything between me and anyone else mutually arising: it seemed like Nothing existed (between us) to make whiling away obscurant!!
^^^Where were those people of my historical well-being? That sociological water that flame consumes and is not deterred. They are borne aloft=black sinewy and dissolved... That need... I needed. The candle said HERE I'll appropriate it. No no I needed the candle for meditations, not tribulations...not yet one more relicked shard of self for curio in moments of release, that actually question if it is at all observerable. Is it Observable Release--the meridian of knowing we'd feel life escape, and no way to follow? Maybe not ask WHY I know I see, but just let its content distort what otherwise remained the Uncarved Block.
Go so far as to say this stela of self is the best of corner stone, and still the house stood without it...

Cornerstone rededicated: MARK, my brother. wrote

You know, I liked looking out that window because it was at ground level. It was as if I could get the perspective from the earth itself, perhaps as the little animals do, feeling part of the earth.

In my 90's respite--my room--I'd sit on the floor, basement window to my back looking out to the backyard, sometimes I'd light a candle & assert my meditations would graduate more formally. The candle presides in sentient cause like it was not only advent of my focus, but draws in favorable assent from those especially in my midnight raving who had congregated around--in pronouncements of my historical well-being. The silent assent comes from gaping gaffawed world broadcasting my ego-centricism, yet this crystal palace gets its character denied--the ego limps along: self-profession melts into smoking black sinewy smoke... At once I imagine the flame fed by factoring-in the solace of peers--it's familial, then the flame wields and flutters, throes of personae borne aloft take on new climates of exclamation... They're consumed like my eyes emptied of reservois of dire need: sociological water, and no water could put out that fire.
***A 1000 deaths in labyrinthine shadows behind me in the redoubt of place of study. One dream purporting of rivers of time, filling bottles of unseen Axial age Dispensationals--so to speak, meaning soft machines, people. 10,000 doubts occurring one & against the 10,000 things: These "things" maybe reconciled memories, figures and glyphs like 9 clouds behind "asha" (an Avestan word) = order, the world in Right Action, the Tao's version.
We all pass, but the mind's eye reflects on the inconsistancy of the impermanent record in the hesitation of a look withIN. We surrender to the inward journey, and notice refined reasons to give thanks & praises for the irony of our security