OFF the cigs, man

***12 yrs earlier on the dot from this New Yrs, I had begun smoking cigs then for just around a couple of months. I had just starting dating my lady & we were at her apt where I first met her Dad at a dinner social, so to speak. The eeking theoria I was trying to making intelligible, made painfully slow in-coming in my diversion into something strangely inverted in how I imagined translating the horizon as my bridge to self-rescue. All in the mixed up mind of mine, lapped up on the shores of despondency I knew would be this transigence, or lapse of who I needed to be. Dharma, dhri--the security & reserve for self-duty--I know Now, then was just a gravid term and no grasp of its implication other than the cluster & fiery resolve in my head "I had to live Up." In the hodge-podge of night florescence - there off of Kirklevington, Wintry clemency- I mention the Hindu Thing as if the implication would be nigh in the experiencial... It was months before I'd finish the thought. Thoughts in the late game of conversations once ensued, but solitarianly professed, to right self, and stain truth with the lacquer of efforts soundly renewed...but later, alone, and salient if release is the event of social reality at least momentarily extinguished.

***I'm an incense burner, if u must know. **If you think an immanent grandeur, self-perceiving, is monastate, I think remonstrations of burning, committing to flames, whether incense or the little smoke (think Beats!), is more likely inspirational of unselfing sentient greed to emancipate cordially this ego's impute. It would make a good book to see the implications of conscious crowd deigning libation spirits distinguished from meditations acceding per smoking herb. These dueling means of ecstatic probity have kaleidoscopic flotsam freed from larger inundated mind fields/streams but once and seen no longer objectionable: had one loss of refrain in any incarnations had dawn fade emotively, inwardly questioning the sense of expression or wind of our passionate seat, it'd be inconclusive if I'd pick the deserts or mountains in sorting out the high that-really-lasted. Meaning, you can find your mystics in another arabia, but mountains make eminent keys to renunciation. Mountains have everything to say about material-void, physical success and longevity. And deserts make relationship with cosmic incumbency (what has your back), prospective distances to halucinate over, wield plaintive outward fact in emphemeral contract.
***IF there was a SUN of Dust, a life in the expiration of physical success, creation in destruction, vitality in dissipation, thought in pieces of us left behind the doors of our past, we'd all accede to what this life has become.

thoughts on pravritti-=the advancement of addiction--and orienting toward renunciation

***I'm telling you, Find somewhere--the Place, to give-you up. There's a reason why your friend was archaic somehow and tremulous with spiritual utility. Your passport is something to stand on. Sublime ports can't merely be an escape with inconsistant symbols of time's effort. I think the typos of proud land, saying Higher-walking, to buy into Lee Scratch Perry's attention to meritable travel, transcience, Soul-adventuring, won't be enlisted once the threshold born underfoot folds under our insistance to move into fat soul of plenty, the taste of space--there memorialized--a great awe to yield to: Conscious void, volatile only in challenging its exoteric trace in mind's eye. Had we known abbreviated silence, i+ as stricture in the cult of self-reliance, makes the uncarved block scheme to deny desperation's salve of emptiness!!
Yet one knows the still waters, closely.
***'round about the mid-90s I'd take treks into Red River Gorge up thru Koomer's Ridge by myself, the last time with Kerouac's Big Sur in hand. The clayey damp sand at my feet on the final couple hundred yards up, I noticed my eyes dimming and taking in expanse to foretell as opposed to the path as it met each step. The gray skein over my eyes left me guessing at it as a supposed lens in the immediate unfurling solitarian trail, life colluding, forest unwrested and yawning, at my efforts. The sense that I'm walking upon a genie's body, a giant, some kind of body, made the trail a parchment of sorts: leaves desicated having left imprints like symbols in muddy glyphs, scroll-like, writ ready, leathery but human skin... A 4-cornered room should be as much a travelogue in convivial literate spirits, angelic tools authoring time & place. I'm observing my lair precipiticously in every shallow awakening, but in sleep had the void sought extinction, I'd dither in oblivion again.
***When I'm up, she'll be down. It'll be like that as long as and until one of us remembers to define my peak as not what is actually me. And her low, not as actually a low. A low is gotten actualized when one raises in high esteem the thing that is less a proponet of immanence, but rather is assumed as one's own emergent presence--an exoteric sigh, glance, & whisper. If Kerouac's void within seeks oblivion, a zenophenomenon is become cliche. So language is especially less willing to suffice in depiction of still-watery mind = illustrated, one is prone to emanations however symbolically poor, oriented and wanting to yield to something past this frozen sea monadic industry that is self.
***Walking down from Natural Bridge with Valerie oh say about 7-8 yrs ago, I imagined til then that cultivating relationships was about the roseate beatific scenarios. That I for one got to hold in its resonate esteem experiences that were actually subtley JUST right. But you know what, I find it was moments that were epiphenomenal for whatever! reason. Because we were cold out there, and I felt strangely bleak...but WITH her, and who else but her, and with me in contrast to the gazalle finesse easily attributed in some fair woman, just not mine, so perhaps not me? There has been strange events since, just sitting around the house before she went away to rehab. The house was palpably extruding emptiness: and we sat there wondering what the terminus was that we'd then share emotions over this bleak terraine of our domicile... But I knew it was a real low--and she was imponderably at a loss as I was... As long as one doesn't run around taking exception to the existential, taking exception like the empty morocca as if in one's chest trunk flittering within like it 'flect thing-actual--then integrity of said relationship won't be trialed, it'll be a praxis cosmogony. So, no fear of failure, just impulse and energy found in resuming higher walking.
***Words permitting, permutating "carcadia," a bloodred tea, hibiscus, drunk in Egypt, is absolutely the most satisfying imagining self as ragged "carcass," void of blood until attributable vessel without is inner-economy divulging journey into self succour in Objective Reality--the possibilities of experiencing the Other Shore. Fruition presented like its remote possibilities--its providence, are retained even in our incorporation of it.
***What I was doing when I tried to OFF myself:: ***Reading Isaac Babel's Stories of the Red Cavalry. If only I could speak to how this lit. hits home for me. (IN 1994--I think) I drank a fistful of isopropyl alcohol, then slugged down some milk, puked, and drank an 8oz Budweiser, which "makes" the terminus of my studies, namely his books, seem to be what it is, and almost as it ought to be--then--living in the house where I grew up, arcing toward nirvana--a not so terribly unpleasant Unknown-World where I was headed... The dreams Babel could induce are something I feel here at this moment as to what I know I willfully can cultivate. It's tacit, and I'm answering by name an expectation that resumes idealism in view of academicians I've known and aspire to have at least a figurative dialogue through. Man, the poison of temporal lulling sway the world thwarts me in my pacing corridors advances in its appropriating a life... The stain my contemplation makes in the airs between me and these Red Cavalry stories are just as I had looked upon them now so many yrs ago. A huge impression this author has made, even as much as Dostoevskii I'm confident to assert, and little remonstrations of his times--the early part of 20th century--are paths of descriptors I leach onto now. The peasant Jewesses with hefty bussoms, he says, seem like negroes. And it isn't entertaining deprecation, rather, it is an author who knows about the world--a world view--everyone is included.