Acquired silk paintings w/possibly Urdu calligraphy

***every body knows oblivion is the 4 libations of paradise so I'm filling bottles of time with transparent dreams

I went strolling up past the old synagogue, sat on the steps facing Jersey St., entertaining a scroll ("megillah," like Queen Ester's-- *Hadassah is the Hebrew of that name) --the "one" of symbols or signs of the Hebrew Aleph-bet lodged in the scalera opaque--the whites of my eyes. Letters permutating definitely shading in the lay of the land in chromo values, will have me one day meet Illusion in the embodiment of Mara the Destroyer with his 10,000 Eyes. But the garden in our grief that history resides in instincts, futilely dispassionate, or ecstatic--hopefully observable in release, at once, made indefatigible the physical memory we apprehend of the Outward fact. (where Mara remains, vigilant, I suppose) Our identity traipsed-on can't but yield to an impossible regard for a symbol of self, brahman, personhood, existential crises purveyor of senses' crimes...
So, an end of vitality thwarted by distorted self-knowing, makes a beginning of immanent propitiation. Strangely the child--in me? gives away his heart, and by extension his name, namesake... The one called now, the Stranger "with" a Name.

All intimated, roiling thought to favor at bay, Valerie looks up at me after kissing the wound on my arm. I'm in this world--but I'm pointing to it from the door, ...a nodding east, unredeemed mendicant doesn't explain joy anymore than life decidely makes the slow yearning for it develop with the force of the entirety of existence at stake.


***If we can speak to anything--and any one thing is born of life-exquisite dust, language thus fallows inept. Dust we are, but language can do no better. Our tongue's rigeur is our senses riven with the veil of everything terrestial. On your own means precisely this place where dust-occupies and to be as alone, this single adversary to water... It is obvious water speaks like turbid relationship: look at everybody--they're riddled in liquid stars, as ribs & bones (destined for one thing) of sky scaffolding & outlining some celestial self-image.
***I have a pic with my gesturing in gait repose at my shadow. It arcs in front of me and as I remember, during that summer month, my senses picking up on the obfuscated grassy vistas of Beaumont park--the immanence of clement day blocked by my fancy that something in mind recesses anticipate Reflection rather than Absence. In my eyes--they suss, looking for advantage in light's subject, looked at a bit more than gray-shaded grasses. I knew the star tincture was phenomenal, glossy refraction, a sense of Within in a project of Without...
***People suppose their provincialism, if they're lucky.
This thing performs in my mind, acts as promised--I'm its acolyte striven to evolve in the dispatch of those temple grounds. Impulsively I ran out of hebrew school class solely in order to be circumspect. The availability of island self never called into question coarse states--but no rigor--when getting beyond is no penalty to mortality raising the bar per chance of self-knowledge. There is clearly an example of simple lair in 1000s of examples of our margins from it. And temporal palettes rationed my patience, razed it.
***Calligraphy on what I thought were my Urdu scribed silk paintings, are actually Arabic. Very close in a lot ways, yet these paintings having reclined Rajas, an elephant, or festive female acolyte, energetic from subtle contentment in Oriental prone chimeras, speak to rational senses--time, place, and community allowing no dearth of meditations availing. This tripartite perspective, at once the wealth of observable release, yields a narrative. Most say this sense at its most essential is an I'm Present contemplation, and still it would not be the only attributable prospect to the propriety consolation. Why say the deer drinks revitalizing cool water for anybody, any god, or anything other than the sated creaturely patience in its temporal reign? Succour divines presence, but mind open, light mind and step ...into its resuming throes of yearning, has no creator or necessarily no meaning for acquisitive missionizing doctrine reproven in man's complexity!
***...this place is a convene for the cult of noble pathos at its best, and at its worst, maybe just cold--so indefatigible Knowing, and less Understanding, or definitely dusty!! Antiquated! no way, it's about killing the threat of transperancy in how we are reduced to assuming, and forget to thwart everything in the way finding the dream of Existence or Waking up from it. Emancipation from pain? Or Exstinguish the pain? maybe, but suffering is relative, so perhaps Movement as is suggested from the exilic compulsion (emancipation)...always resuming and therefore getting behind us the well-being of our history, means Emancipation should be contemplated!!!! All the hagiography is about it--makes certain that Will, its expression, is in the same Place as Absolute Redeemer--whatever that sense of Ultimate Reality salves in the Mind-Sore. So the Passionate Soul as opposed to our Ends seeking social generis, our Animated self, Physical Release, making final the experienced lament of taxed impermanence. Solitarian, an enjoining that it is the least of us when reception is vacous--is an interger of Good Enough.
I'm rife with pleasure. It's a play, and the emancipated hero or heroine change their name before an eponymous ledger. The symbols and therefore semblances in glyphs from this writ are finite definitions whose backpages absorb his or transmigration (in time's digression) thru moon-soaked shade... Its obfuscation one may notice in streetlight inattention to trees' emboughering!!
***My breath appeared as habit, it had begun before I was born. Intermittant slumber, the shhhhhhh of silence in a place where body has withered, yet in this place its conditions are the experience in redeemed states of becoming... Industry of self--the mist's rainbow of her webbing!!!
***Had a standard dachsund back right before the turn of the century. In the span of time having Reubel, his companionship matriculated even in dreams. I dreamt that I was sitting on our roof's peak, on an Esso can while the dog paraded in a circular leaps over my lap, onto the roof and back again. The dream was precise in its realism strangely phenomenal to me since chimera imagery had been well radically different til then--this because of the Navane meds I was on then, I was certain. Around this time we had had a deep snow, so adventuring out in it, he could be my spirited reconnaisance out in the half-acre back yard. I chucked him into about a three/four foot drift. And here is when I gathered the news ole boy wouldn't be around in the near world-to-come. He seemed to say, It's bleak--and I gotta stay, Man. Sad, sad--he was complicit with the contagion veil of earth's comely covering--he seemed to project he had not much proud land to suss anymore. Not very long after when the weather cleared up he quit walking, then his kidneys got weird, and that was it.
***Scott Abraham- Lakes
Not all words are revelations, but all revelations are words, of worlds revealed. Things are at least thus (tat in Hindi), and at most supra-mundane, as opposed to immanent (coming from "within") (penini ruakh in Hebrew), which may not be expressed. Just sayin' heathens!!