En het enyeh

***I think bears will inherit the earth--ought to. In Iron Bridge to next door in Blind River (I'm told Neil Young's hometown), a strained relief and interesting vacation, put me in dank, voluable forested world, getting a good few glimpses at bears. Valerie's riled dreamtime, like this animal in stone of mind promises a nightmarish dramatis she wishes she understood better to make her really like to sense or mettle w/the visceral pull of that indeterminant threat. Enduring as they do in Ontario, in their backyard a landfill, tho' their front yard seems to be the encroaching phenomenom letting me recollect a nature's victory---and here we had to slowly-quickly evade 2-3 bears', our having navigated the gate pedestrian, encumbered, heirarchical, everyone chirping and nodding to some of this effect, more so, back hoofing to the ride, I thought: the elders prodding somekind of time-signature. In some margin say in some too cool evening, but in a pool, the house of Lexington neighborhood processed in city boundaries, her dream promoting what's captured for me, just going there, as a there appears of any psalmody chimera. The tune, her lament, like a need for security... In water, this above ground pool she describes, bluegrass like in a local yard, but countrified in Ky anthemic way, or in Canadian wilds as her emanate bear/animal mind's eye content might appreciate, they are in the plastique transparent water with her--I've had her dream. Around Chernobyl, to the head of Babylon, it's evident an unlikely nature preserve, may have these animals proliferate, if distorted then weakening gratuitous numbers of the organic, so sentient-delivery machinations of radioactivity, but what of the odd superable genetic ascendant?
***He said we're using the same language--but putting emphasis on its diffident order. An approachable incredulity is what all this catharses invents, if one supposes there are states of unknowing, just as there are plains of consciousness... Arranging what is induced from word-technology w/o supplicancy (mine!) toward a goal, had him fooled. Language indicated identity supposed in rights of probity--and tho' a conscious prop is beheld, eventually one's conscience gets unstilled by antecedents in winks and nods toward definitions of some netherly campaign of escape=the heady repose beneath heaven's acquiry...while denying a temporal escape, was in the end what's needed. Words are cheap, and unfurls the surface, making imminent considerations the context for general-awe of life--its the efficient cause... Good enough, hopefully, because accruing memorialized space in ethereal future for a soul defined by scant evidence, has only what is sensed in usual defeat from its rigeur in physical liberation, likely impermanence.
***In my long distance run in the 90s, I'd sit in the split-level basement, house of my making, feeding the fireplace--where my eyes traipsed glowering into rallies of the inverse--that fire--of my empty cauldron. Bugler cigarettes, rarely if ever any green, but whose incidence with fire of mystic glyphs, taste now of my statements of Presence/immediacy. A brick on the hearth's been riven from the heft of logs dropped on it, now from greener wood and outdoor moisture has a gloss of gray and black. I think of its surface as serving up victuals from flames digitageous grapple into throaty chimney, and before that my solicitation... One wafting ash caught like artifact of compassions' boundlessness, I thought it magnified--as in The Last Temptation's messiah, the night confides in him even to the point extinction, someone finds him.
***In the Haroon Mt orchard, a date tree grew as provident summer's day retreat. My entrance was an exceptional passporte from a life which abideth in ever toppling the effect of serenity in potencia, with availling awe enumerating its examination. Had I stayed in mts' retreat, habituating to what would be unmissed that I'd endure w/o complexion--vipasana visions, however impulsive has authenticated an apex definition in a compassionate theatre. A nod to Kerouac: Just call me your broom, woman. And when I ask about eternity, remind me, Only a little to go.
***Experience is landed from up-above. Little blossoms of Mom's polyester chimera shirt, she's clouded cumulus abundant, omni-provident, stepping aft & no prospects she'd divine where I was following her, except maybe to the maples. The one to the right of the porch I've clung to and taken refuge upon the flat-porch roof--the last time the bland blue of the smoothly unreferencial sky, made this house's interior in its grasp demanding my coherence in less aerobatic hauntings... I'd do better to lurke under the eaves I imagined. Feathers falling. Ones sensory resolve is to go into it. Moving into experience, even in every tethery conduit of an enumeration of the possibilities--in sun born plateaux, which wholeness packages, expedites, thru it we're subsumed. So emanating relations sky-fallen, it falls, we're subsumed...down to it, down. Reduced yet bouyant, piercing truths can only inspire incumbancy.


***The window frames the yard - objective, willful - like Kerouac in suzerainty over the gnarled tree in a posture toward Mt Hozomeen--I'm here. Next to any window, like glad looks from sliding by neighborhood dormancy, warms in greeting-Kongfuzi/​Confucius-definitions of humanity. As Kazantzakis tells his reader, the best warmth is next to a window. His/Confucius is an Axial age conduct when the world's core-cultures reliquished a proud warrior god toward the edifice of peace, to be erected in the hearts reclination as mind-sore's salve. Revelation which inspires, its death reliquary, the loam of all fertile consent---I'm going to end up there. The seasons are up to the task to evade my graduated therapy--all the time in its sway, illustrates man's unwillingness to wade into the climate of the Greater Will. One might be reduced to deny heady inclement privations in the unknowing meanings of earth's consuming flourishes.
***Slatted window shadows project onto the opaque wall making trees liquid in its negative space--my tote of a deep-aside needs renegotiating... The Great Transformation, Karen Armstrong's book is before me--NPR playing--but I want to find a Dao concept, the Way, as if?-- tho' a "way" isn't one teacher's recommend--so perhaps the "daode" is what I need--the "power of the Way." The unfurling of March 3rd is throaty with thresholds til the long ends of the day. Let me clear the way for the suspiring unsaid. The mesmerizing sheen, now just a dusty square figure, hand-splayed sized, make my tired eyes cross, ...these hard-wood floors resonant letting my woody eyes filter night images, and new manufactured motives.... I put Chex cereal underneath my scarred front-yard tree, it lies uneaten surprisingly--the 2003 ice-storm & lightning damage since as this trees personality framed in proper rigeur. This cellulose sprawl --tree-fount of of liquid messages rained from ancients, where I had guessed at its demise, is up to a great vital struggle, her potentials match the task to stay around longer...
The one thing that may stunt my fantasia about living in the past is unhealth. But then again I'm fraught & mindful of dis-ease now. In an Amritsar throe of pathos--the reading of it along with the stupid Orientalism apeiron & undeveloped cult, lines up with haShoah--the atrocities of WWII in its humanities' contempt, I see a humid-roseate stay in some bungalow where Gandhi resigns himself in brahmacharyin conduct IN a fast. His attendants in harmonious machinations toward ahimsa--an awakened message with clear moral clemency, in this dream, I align withal in self-confessions. He's in prayer modalities and I sluice-by past silken curtains, but only catching my self-agency in thorough-going factotem wiles. In my seamless night slumbering--these days all in early 20th century-deriding of the coming industrial deluge, sleep comes-to in the intermediation of my bedside: white sheets cover my visage and two unknown persons veiled by too much day blanching this nesting concourse. The observer me in the dream, I'm looking as from the ceiling light, delivers the sense that I'm coupled with two others. H.P. Blavatskii & Gandhi are persisting in the skyline median effluence white sheeted but humbly dormant for a morning what ever intercourse.
***Making music mixes= beastboys w/bizmarke / w/Lee Scratch / them doing an instrumental jam dubby too called Shambala, different than but conveys what it good about P.K's Mandarin Jade; reading the scrolll draft of On the Rd; read about Hillel; staving off boredom, no-ing it is the root of a weird depression which persists but "doesn't consume" as my old h.s. debate buddy put it. __________If getting outside of ourselves is a strong representation in patterns one may get wise to--some extremity limb of distraction, I certainly can step into my shadow, meaning outbound of my formal mind-sore (a displacement, psychologically, of the greater yield of brings one down), and call myself present for the advantage in dysnomia/ a mire to be readily discriminated. I'm more bitter than acorn tannins. As Bob Marley's 1rst producer lyrics it, Thank G*d for making me Mad. So madness, miasma of intensity, is yet intensity, and intensity is the Key...

The charge of more enviable better self is when I feel luckily drawn into some halfLight, if giving-in has this so valent apprehension. The recommend of those having seen me thru incarnation in artifacts of my staggered paths in & out of their courtesies, dangle keys--if I'd only...? These folks framed in glowering corporate/domicile lights in the dullard tricks suburban living does, does it in salutaries breeding its weird silent science.