Let's do what we've come to do...

***Thru a kind of corridor in feverish salience, I could see the sky above as a general visage, or anything--I'm thinking walls--but through my eyelids. (In monastasis life as I would accord, in the 90s) Like the impulse to look-on to something mattered little if eyes were closed or intending glances were to suppose the empirical lay-of-the-land. My eyes were hands grasping in blinding light, or pitch night--there's no ascertaining what was all so provocative that I might see. Thinking back, it may have been 'round the time I'd left off looking upon myself in mirrors. The anticipation of moods were strained into a hint I may have still-waters to envisage character--I saw myself running in dream-lauded discernment. The mirror redounding as clarified chromo values was like something lighted yawns in echolalia, as if I was a considerable force, but now assumed really close up and looking upon transperancy, a gloss caricature, ...and in that nothing "space" my face gathered in replete red mask, emotive but unknown in any situation but monadic intensity. The G-d's eye we would make of yarn and sticks in Sunday school, left bluey thrum, spiritual lapis, its first mystic chromo "inner-sensei." (I think that's a word?) Nothing-s from sky mind-clouds had the relicky bold-step out of a few thousand yr box of withering time a pilgrimage refuge--to get there apace in furtive whispers.
***Talked to this ole black man down at G-d's Pantry. He's 71, moving around well I speculated to 'em. He told me he was muslim--but had not heard the more uniform and indicated ascendant's term in the koranic typical mentioning of the "mumin." He did seriously have a scholarly countenance--dark man and has blue irises. I told him, toward his interest in Hebrew, that "Maimon"ides, that word for "believer" in there, is a Judeo-arabic bridge. He seemed to accord his identity just like Jimmy Cliff, original Peoples conduct, not leaving certain particulars denied. He said he was talking to a dude once he says looked High yellow, that I did, kinda like him. World-view capsulated in his momentary "mission." Reminds me of some my poeple's urge overkill to be a political-jew--it's an open door to ugly servile heralding of dry contempt in their definitions of what is profane: I'm saying, they can't compete with the social prerogative, and then retrieve the learning so curious in fealty one almost relishes. Meanwhile they are getting things out of the way, including contrarians, because its his imagined universality sustaining an awe, somehow remonstrating his solemn campaigned rt. as before me.
***Checking the box, foundering in the fray:
Time is freedom,
if you control it. It may be said, time Out of One's Control, so up to some Thing else, is actually a conscious pocket, out of constraints: Tho' aweful in one regard, mental economy, a discipline? definitions of capsulating senses?--this sense of our mythos as liminal, may just be an agreeable constraint...
Time is place--if memory is studied.
Pilgrimage is change, if the ekstasis
--a stepping-out, is ascertained in an expression of Thoughts, Feelings, & Actions. In gratuity to time, place, and community, the aspirant would at least know the case of Observable Release.
***‎1rst an apologist remark. I'm no yogin, not even close. What I field is what I sense from "thought disorder" its exigency from "heated conditions of forced thought scenarios." So to speak.
...within the agonist debate

***I decided my footfall on one pt. of concentration: Sanskrit for this ideal conduct is ekagrata-- a rather concise lingual antecedent. Getting everything out of the way, not necessarily roiling lighted things, economized imprecisely in mind, these don't always have to elaborate over what truth lies just beyond. I get no gratification, yet will, in seeing I committedly performed this mind economy: like weeping willow limbs I looked to graft skylines--they grope ill-tacitly, rapt in winnowed shafts. I worked my way toward this in solitude. Thoughts refused were leaden and the rt sense of muse trough--a kind of agonist debate in my mind made senses disciplined in rank aquiry--its usual complexion. What is the day rt now, what does it mean? Negative-lands of language elite, symbols enumerating a self less superable--thems that hear a plaintive cry succumbed. It's already happened they suppose--they've burned the mind media, so anything left to measure in weak hearts have their haunts for their appeal. It's therapeutic to imagine my spirit took the Shankarcharya turn at samsara (incarnational cycling)--and now I just have to regard memorialized space as none other than temporal; I had to come back to it, and pedagogical esteem of something greater than me is the wind winking, stirring thought, as I breech outside, withdrawn...
***Big country speaks to some ante-political, maybe social referendum, all-doors-open demos convention, where like Elijah a sup seat in thru any domicile threshold awaits me. I wanted to test this, but since I had no choice but to gain willing access from complete strangers, which I'll elaborate on, sorting out such a constant refrain, remains untested.
A ritzi friend of the family had some x-mas party and we - my immediate family & I - headed out to Lakeshore. I was certain I'd be misrepresented, folks imagining my contempt for something--faux elegance (authentically bad breath), to be certain, but I wasn't a-wondering them as my confessors, not as acid as my anxiety would make folks jump with weird joyous salves. A death knell of "We've all be waiting for you," makes me pained (now less so). I leave the party, in the snow--yes, perfect molded white/gray skies, the heaviest as perhaps dust can be imagined weighing down what we hear or see - the emerging glances of atman/brahman, cloistered smell-less neighborhoods... I get over to Chinoe shopping cntr, having advanced from out somewhere behind the synagogue and saunter into a video store. The burb where the party lofted in revelries, unreal concerns, unreal apathies, in my sidelong glance, held no image I could sustain in mind maps--I didn't know how to get back once in the neighborhood.
When I walked out of the formaldehyde strickening plastic store, glittery and w/ strangely unhappy people... I mean these films can be really very entertaining! I stepped into the cold night-coming-on, and like that penial band on an earthworm, I felt something schooched into one serene wine channeling energy a garment cinched up and cut from my heretofore clothed self, torn from my arm. Pain-fuckin'-fully. I headed back up the way, and as soon I got to a near street, I saw a stormdoor without the maindoor shut in behind. I walked up and called from their phone. I couldn't see their faces...
***A smokey flotsam apparition levels me in weird bloated skein probities' of an artist crossing over from the time of this mandala in-its-making, to me in the artists illustration of the event chiming like mind clouds. The candor I approach is only toward self-consciousness, I'm leaving a frail irony, wanting to bridge blanched truth 'pon a cornerstone of fate's phantasmal force once removed. The air, even in a consistant registering from an aerobic acuity in respiring expression--the blood mind body by calibrating a questionably filled willing well of vital proffer, looks like throned silence, and no commands would have a world subject in anything but a shapeless mass, as yet a book of rules wanting its definition in anthropos symbology.
***(someone reminds me) Patti Smith is excellent, say, not in the usual theatre. I saw her sounds-arrive under red ceiling-lamp (inheriting my bro's b. room), mosaic on my b.r. wall, coral hanging from my mirror, metal ocean sheen sura-shir-sutra reflecting sun-shams-star (-mogen)... evasive & aquatic as she tells it. Castenada telling me to lay rt down in my favorite place: grappling with the flavors around her Babylon definitions. I need to dig that again. Radio Ethiopia of Patti's gave me a good intention with what studies in Kabbalah wrought, as I was then just approaching that material. Shooting holes into like acquisitive media targets--this trunk and mind, its/kabbalah's names (of Creator, angels, prophets) - that hagiography provide - making all that crowd of my schoolmates names whose herald was to only make the Tathagata targets an unusual proof of the sorrow of not knowing purusha-peers-junzi, like I thought striven meditations could charaterize, and characterize an unshod visage, lame. One may get burnt in having names no longer apace with his studies. I saw how my brother met her, gravitated Marxist then, I was left guessing, Mark had Janecek's or Roland's what-was-it Riasonovskii's History book, helping me get things out of the way about dog eat earth eat dog, the endangered dharma dog maybe, I was looking East with whatever "easts" could get ciphered out of Judentum, this occidental convene of symbols to immure me into it.
****In Texas, I was taken aback as a 6yr old boy, that Mr. Hall lived in the neighborhood (by Quail Creek, in our Laurel Grove 'burb) whose life's pleasure was clock-maker. Then yrs into Ky living, I found prone moments to reconcile the fuss over my body & humours, innards yearning, organs of consciousness working with one & against itself, where a filmy exigency of this design of awareness, kept a black northerly night-sky in a so-to-speak 2 dimensional gloss interspace den... Me the receiving space, committed to the rails of the train's (self-industry? !) meritable function to contrive adventure with my ticket to ride--luftmensch of machine flight in subterranean time signature, I followed pedestrian posts along the transect. Ante-ing up a penny to lay on the tracks, thoughts as flat as a concourse of constant media in wrought flourishes, I'm teased that body consciousness is sanguine in leading me where the herd orients, this horizon, where oblique thresholds traduce my responsible one, would invent me anew.

I feel I know her more than campaigns of identity exposes in any one moment, which is the surface that calls for all my refrain.
***The goat in the machine: I may be creaturely just as the average goat, but I sleep like the extraordinary ones - doing it in odd intervals. The ones with the weird genetic disposition whose existential praxis is to expect their sleep-time to actually deny waking life, as opposed to choosing to...
Sleep comes tumbling, and the room in its assumption yields particulars subconsciousness only delivers in opaque facades, verily humming a light that ought to stain the mundane in tacit relief, but is rendered to a morning's voluble day readied.
***The garage adjoined to the house from a kitchen door, takes shade and recesses from an ascendant's sensual mutual arising--she waits in the nighted room. A dream has it I conjured my mother waiting there for me, yrs later when the garage became a pitch room star-shimmering upon floors that await an exquisite dust in veils of silence and murmurs, glances, whispers..., tho' I had certain flexibility to contend any and all mothers, leaves to consternation my cinnamon girl. The ego has lit chambers enjoining my willingness for passorte social isonomia. Space adjournes at the other side of wonton social doctrine. Dark just one step in, I'm prone, but this car-hold demonstrating a cush escalante' breathing blue of sky dome making its worthy distances musterion, climaxing unknowns, so bleak as to a closer untallied map--like space nigh is unreachable space dominating anything I'm likely to watch in seer's self getting beyond.

A wasp/hornet mud hole of home, looked like a distended innocence of a rolly poley, an inch long, gray domcile, mouldering or developing w/o our seeing -- it is inside what is inside bumping around thermal cells I'm imagine as space in 20-50 yard blobby incriments. I remember precisely talking to breath and air--well, let's always have cool breaths like this, I chant, ....next to my garage seemed finally a cool little persona was born rt outside of the house. I saw the event as possibly punishing me by losing its important imminent artifact in a pregnant memory. I was doing something with memory even then that defied certain simple agencies. Memory was heavy-lifting incarnationally--I took Texas environs seriously. I came back to the the rock protuberating wall off the rt of the house & became resigned to knock the nest off with Dad's hammer. Mom was taking a couple of us boys somewhere making feel I hadn't much time. When I hit it I leapt out of space, guessing and imploring my lil babylon head of creaturely existence, that it wasn't jettisoned...
***
Pain is a great thing to cast blame rt at the fire. The fire, if cordoned in a question lit has what is open to its invulnerable transcendent libel against cool blue earthly partitioned ready world, the very established place of considerable ease, actually as essense heralded. Star attribute intensities create mts, deny lands' langour if time is unusual mystic and self-aware. In the context of cauldron unproxied something is incumbent in the ascendent to elaborate on a mean world. Mts in blue slumbers are good to sense this evening's hiding denizens. Shadowy inky lines of tree limbs, make house facades coarse as tableaux for heady medias' violence in chided eyes, ironically resuming. Vision left unrestored in paces not meant to be captured but only by naturally affected emanating-days, sliding by with only the subterranean, unresolved hint of self.