THOUGHTS on Sarah Tilla, and other pieces

***I don't think somewhere in an Ultimate Reality that it was decided to deal me a full deck. Yet, I'm inclined in every game, halfing the deck, determining the stakes etc.... My fellow players thru a haze of pollution and night circumstance, look over in the place where I've taken seat, seem to suggest an existential surprise--basically mine, I'd come from the din of an agreed concensus life of sorrow.
***THE sun is not rhetorical. In fact it demands action and reaction to the event of its rising. There's a book whose title suggests that something makes the sun cast a shadow of its own--like something everybit more bright, intense, and perhaps vivifying. If the Absolute in What is-not is shared in the approach to the sun's What-Is, certainly, the thing denied perhaps tells us where we stand, and if our living supine is its supreme identity establishes us as its quarry....
The truth is closer to a big tale, an unfurling banquet of vast resource, and sometimes we know we will never dine.
***A hypnotic refrain for me continues to be Mom's literary trove. Isaac babel was in The Jewish Caravan, as was plenty pseudepigraphic material, Scholem Aleichem, exigetical stuff like the Khazars being possibly a link to the world of Scythians in Hasdai ibn Shaprut's letter reproduced for scholarly interested Jews like I thought was in my state of Becoming... And Russian histories, with varied interpretations of dispensations--the one I query now, that of Rasputin. This dangerous character seemed like pending doom. I probably imagined him as vacuous and imminent like an opposite affect to that of gentile kids and their Santa --I've barely indulged in his conduct & influences over the Romanovs of late 19th century til now. This book given to me by Rob Olson's buddy from H.S. is a good academic work, is precisely the feel and taste of things coming out of Mom's books--but rather from his Dad, the former county attourney of Jessamine cty of almost the last 30yrs. Progressive politically, his parents, worldly folks too, and a way for me to seize demonstrations of educational standards I would assume but without the reconcilation you'd think these folks demand. I didn't make the grades, I didn't get the romansbildung, but I do get the sense that a mutually arising would occur to me like them, of the episteme from cultures' contagion--walls I'd concommitantly drape theoria in the event of mind-sore prone to their books' proffering.
***Told Mom what haznea lekhet means. Later my brother informed me Mom can't "think" like she's used to. There's no delivering him from his point, cliche or not, he's the worst person to come to any psychologic straits with. If my idea of brahmodya, meaning the employment of that which is manifest of the silent accord when fascinans is salient, is this so damn less intrusive transitive life--I'm clearly less ambitious--when is it interesting to make an appeal to him or those like him, to fully divulge my lit wick of disambiguation? The sense of other is a ready refuge---if he were any more concretized emotionally, temporally, I might start imagining a general awe that may inspire. I saw him once I suppose in my worst thrum of which life unravels with schizophrenia at his dinner table, just up the street from here on Rebel, impenetrable with my signs of constraints in hellion awakenings out of the House--the House--and his baby and he were in static gesture, him feeding it. While I whispered roseate room 'flect light and heat at the pivot of baby in beautiful worlds, worlds, I didn't let the subtlety of the vision of Jeremy at the end of an umbilical cord escape my sense of the triune of meditation, travel--however experiential, & memorialized space, I tend to want to endure. Haznea lekhet means simple and humble. Lekhet I think denotes "way."
***A ganglion of self projected in reflection over graphed streets, like infrastructure all nerve-like, and still hidden in what coves we deign subsume us: In the suburbs, looking in the dim lanes, the thing so inviting in my life as a dog, was always the edge of drives, when they're neatly bricked in and tufts of grass all solemn and dormant--its patrons gone off to work or school, leaving me there sauntering by as the claimant. Also, shadows in the dust under trees, a blur comes to my eyes that there are impossible depths testified by its negligible contagion off the road, in squirrels' repair.
***I'm telling you, in space and in time your body all sinewy in the strain of illusion, for any distance between you and any relationship--physically space schismed or orbbed emotionally conscious props, creates mapped bodies, hand to foot til "there." Now what?
***I'm more dead, than asleep. I'm less busy being born, than I'm stultified, then waning into awakening. I'm dreaming more in fields of possibilities than its renomer in subterranean mind-sore, the sub-conscious.
***I like how character divines the degree of incorporation. Being denied meaning makes all things possible, since ground of being is contagious. If tobacco is burned in in proportion to its avatar ill-concealed, in her marketing it as votive, a season is imbued as the high in vistas of immensity rendered clement.
***The cultists of self-reliance may or may not prefer to effect cause. Meaning may give well-intentions, but has nothing to do with everyone's limited access to truth. (Moving into) consciousness without is love's price, what is dear is straying consciousness (without)--how the fray contrives our transperancy. Sight the holy fool as alterior I & Is, the gray core of over-stimulating when one is unversed to say his next existential garment was he who had the bravest ornament of release. The duppy's charisma requires the acuity in our moving transformative pirs saints mrabits - these kinds of teachers, into theoria renomer, meditations soundly credible, in their intent in making ground of being poingantly tremendum & reductive.
Moroccan Jews called their saints saddik, sayyid in arabic toward their holiness-purveyor (saddhu so clearly resonates with this...but I'm in the semitic theatre, really hamitic.). Jews almost never required piety thru miraculous possible healings by frequenting a saddik's grave, would usually visit his memorium to gratify festival's relief, wine to share with sometimes the Muslims there for same holyman imbibing coexistence--and definitely expected in core-culture's certain crowd.

**THINKING ABOUT MOM::: I know that she glimpses season's change and it isn't in fact what the time of yr is actually. Just flights of thought of what the temporal heralds, in memory--recent sensitivities to the sun's wealth & flourish. I'd say meeting elemental facts, with the entrails of calendric timeliness impossible to ascertain.
***It'll work, I swore I'd prevail. No filter between me and who suffers, sustains, lets go. I'm certain I'd always been accused of "signifying"--this awe of futures, suspect because telling one makes it seem your retreat is final. But imagining the sun inciting me, knowing my problem is being late for convening season's change--rather in an apex middling the calendar's solar proximity... If I'm incited, I reconcile not being born, & womb-tomb is nigh in every verily away cove.
***
The West goes wrong with destinies of spirituality, as if we're dogged til our implicit believing "problem" has our worth projected onto Mysteries. Certainly one's pain is proportionally a state with needing restored margins--rather, distortion & urgency definitely won't placate one suffering self-abnegating origins. If religion keeps the standard of selves-profession, cosmogony illustrated in lying prone absorbing in big circles immanent star tincture, out of mouthfuls of fire she's coming straight to me. This visage in electronic ocular prayers--behind my eyelids, Ginny & I went out Frogtown Ln., driving up to some farmfield. I step out of the ride, and a skein of crisp margins echo me into gravel and turf off of the road--it was like my shadow 'pon pleroma in her ever murmur from the sky.