My goal on Cloud 9: thwart the temporal reins!!

I'll have another, & hang from telephone wire's shadow cast, an avenue's plank toward confidence in my reductive dissonance. I wish creative exemplars, just in their reproach where I thought I got there before them - was me verifiably the social scientist I ought to be. But, all the while I thought my following into human perspective (an author, a wise grandparent...), me as a shapeless mass, made up for a lot of ground. Seeing the Exiled of mind appearance, close-up and intimated what ought to have been shuttering temple haunts, is what made up the travelstead exultant.****** ******* Leave this chapter out: If I've decided upon gathering the concept of my first siddur, then I have to imagine it has achieved a kind of recorded roseate past, its well-being, and convenience to throttle human history, human history where I'm damn freed to take morality into extirpation in inopportune moments, wanting words to taste sweet. Sauntering toward power-spots, space's assailant of the grip (mine to alight and grasp as a bookcase, therein such & such book...) that barely precipitates its marveling strength, this concept, ....I'm enduring the same trade peddling its breezy remonstration, but to restore what--and why imagine a book, any book nigh? I'm only present for a circumstance in approach toward my interest, not the appurtenance of an aweful approach--the modelling of self actually consumed by authorial self - one's affluence in attention, wakefulness: these reflections are tied to likeness, while nude image, raw soul or vain flesh, deny the reason to consider equality not a state of mind.******* *******1:21 am and a rolly to cow me in dreams asundering. nothing much intuition speaks for emotionally--no trials inside the gates of the forest, no trials at the foot of grandmother willow... I'm wondering at an evaporating corridor sense that I'd withdraw at all from the waiting, the revelry--its taunt and contagion--today not ok, but saccharine efficient--still a millionth day in million, pleroma extent... and then What! w/Valerie Abraham - the groovy muse, the rest of it? A threshold I'll cross whiling seeing a first step out the door, a singular embrace, and what-is to avail a splendid mystery.****** *******I wondered how to ask mOm about an insight, if I could tell her a time eclipsing visualization idea I felt I captured in dreamstate. The watery shapeless mass of self in dreamtime prompted me to redefine calendric shores, blighted by being left without the report of ocean totality, as in a desert. (oceans are compatible w/space, read void--interchangeable in semitic language) If vital, liberated & exiled from time, in the prodigy of self-poessession, I see a astrolabe but comely, unsymbolled and spinning, because it looked like the negative space just-as sky pleroma comes in clemency of night, and lighted days' ubiquity alternately orient the skies' observer to miasma of time rallied in emptiness. Not toward inducing stranded impulses surfacing in unknown futures forested in transcendence, while the individual wonders how to appropriate such & such new day--and her days waned.****** ******* *******Taking in a summery inclination, this star kept earth in sunny aerial filtering motes flew alighted while I restored my imagination. In the basement, incorporate stomach stretched, gravelly but appetite riddled navel of domicile tethers my mind all gem florid in some unhurried reflection: impossibly a silent din of the corner of the room gave-up its odd greed to look as squalid, as an odd allaying affect to jettison a sonar dialogue. I'd lay right down in my favorite place, smoking out breaths into the hearth--but in this favorite place was its assignation of more cultivated space - socializing in effect dreamt teachers, memorializing day's clemencies in & out of shallow walls *******bought a nehru political bio, smoke by turgenev, and the gandhis and nehrus by Tariq Ali w/Rushdie's intro, in Oxford In Oxford (Aug., 1987) at my youth hostel which remains closed during the assumed busy truck of the day, this afternoon, I sat outside, no reason to saunter into town. A tree growing like a huge water maple in the garden became a good perch to imagine a spot to absorb the Yiddish studies I was there in England to execute. After a few minutes reading and then burned by a shovelful of self-conscious...ness, it started to rain a bit, so I climbed (coffering healthy hesitant breaths as if to remain) the fire escape and slipped into my room anonymously. My reeling thought-disorder made things ironic, so humorous, and final if anything be granted from academician standards: so there was nothing but a box to check I was up to a good but useless task--achievement had a ridiculed charm. A couple of nights I'd sit in the woody halls to study (I was there exactly a month), but with an ideal self-reference, that I'm deposited into this time--freed up from a future of more excuses to care about the lens to see my way thru knowledge-succour per the sense that my peers were accomplished in just this. The Yiddish text, written by Dov Katz, a superb scholar--my professor, & gentle if effeminate man, laid open with my Yiddish dictionary, and all performed in my eyes like I belonged well mainly to me (and coarsely not it), but then toward another unresented convalescence which was an alliterative path stopping before an ocean wealthy in a cultivated project of self-worth. There was no suppressing or capsulating confusion if an advantage would appertain what looked like bluey glyphs of hebrew characters in my glazey eyes, to hold onto one word, allow the grammar of a concept alight memory mechanically...make thorough this culture with academic or historical sensitivities a content persuasion.******* *******Some bird flew across the immediate skyline & was a stark reminder of my sentience, consciousness bound by ignorance which slowly-terribly-intangibly I'd beck willingness to evolve from it. By evolve I mean make some final spire over a tree in tremendum personae, a mayhem tree, this bradford pear over at the university, pulsing with 100s of wrens like an irradiating nerve, dendrites rooted into a... morning sky. Bound to thoughts' continuity in aerial clemencies, birds are but once the song of the prodigy of self-profession, and then now in a calvacade of a lone but vehement piercing of a morning yawn. I thought the urea saturate gave airs in coves behind battled limbs, were places bearing weird sensitivities to inescapable array of thermal dew laden dawning breezes layering, layering. These animals leave no one wanting to share its seasonal prosecution of instincts in song and in woody resonance of dance, because its easy to see this represents terror from being mightily chased: they're chained to this tree, and the tree grows unannounced even to adjure its temporal presence . The morning silence only precipitates the riling creatures as ornaments--the certainty of space as an absolute value is its predeased night, tarrying if only into arising potency of sight.****** *******As just mentioned, sitting here threading constantly ego advancing some other yielding of rapport - Dostoievskian studious, my friend reaches across water, plashing impressions riling a sober box - spilling it out, makes me certain of something: He's saying, the crystaline affect of some appreciation say the subtle trialling of imagination music would have, and as if a portal offers now your-attenuating that artist or his/her improvement to frame the other, its progress has every bit the commitment, a constant now with it always into the field of possibilities.******* *******Wandering images on campus, upstairs, into hallways--transmogrifying into a squirrel--then defying physical categories and coming back, becoming the usual shapeless mass & a book-of-rules. I mean a coherence of a shapeless-mass, a body consciousness w/full "attention" say upon the elements of outward fact. This would be in opposition w/some fragment of self-image competing w/my better intentions. If I had not been a sh. mass, self-image would obviously have been frustrating/derivative, in the dream.... All too busy of a dream-scape was my presentiment of an interlocutor who hadn't the time to address me. I begin to fumble w/some writ, symbols on paper which avail my eyes only whence the eyes focus upon the opposite page. What I saw is only just committed to sounds-arriving - maybe to further the design, reifying something written in a dream by what drew me into more elements, chimera boundaries, is to move from wordy acquisitive ethos (a blindman's message in cleaving grip) to a pedestrian alliteration, "Forest of life underfoot" (Patti Smith) as I get to the perimeter of campus into My own. A Chinese man comes across the POT square w/the Red sun at his back. He's on his bike coming my direction, so I climb atop the (now gone) fountain, & take in distances academia has yet defined for me. The day is coldCool, steam coming from vents in places, but the bldgs are locked & rather it is the final day or days before the M.I. KING library would close for good (on the Univ of Ky's campus). Still the dream. Assuming some thoughtless Asana pose, my book called Pilgrims w/Dalai Lama's wordsAmongstimages-- tells of nirvana & refusing it to lasting resignation on earth--my telling of it: dream definitions. My sitting in this posture could be informed in the yogiclike practice of Abraham Abulafia--13th ce Seferad (Espana). My eyes' recused vision of ancient times always seeks Hebrew symbols, letters, especially as the lazy mind becomes delivered of the dearest cryptic scenario, where the heart lies. Nirvana may just be that chamberOFwisdom, the hekhalot of kabbalah, that presumes an advantage in intercession in the form of the community we identify w/most. OR that crowd we channel that may not be an organism of One-mind like gems refracting from the illumination of a flashlight, rather than the burnishing of the ultimate Solar-disc comely equally! Maybe I am you, he is she, and somehow someone is revealed as sun--as opposed to the zeitgeist of the media driven world. Read Iconoclast. Anywhere and there I find myself, a khalutzim, pioneer or pilgrim, on the way to the temporal kingdom. Only to find patterns of language, the way we constitute the onlyAttributes of G-d we may otherwise have no way of articulating. The Glory, as Gershom Sholem relates. When I was 6yrs old at the neighboring st. in Laurel Grove Austin, Texas--I sought to be conveyed in a few moments the thoughts that constituted what was to me My lifetime. So to be articulated into something not so easily defined, I thought I should start At-the-End of the path/those thoughts/that day/This life. My question is this: we tend to sort out the last 5mins in any kind of constancy, our life's totality i.e. generalities supposing some inertia that there is some Grand design to our efforts...usually means something epiphenomenal like the image of the rabbi, in my mind, that has the dust of archetypes upon it. Life's exquisite dust, assumed in the tea-maker's posture--rather a motivating emotion I suppose in meditation. Is this K'fitsas haderekh? translation: Skipping, what one does w/visions & thus the experience of presence. ******************************​********************** I said to HannaH, my 19yr old niece: On good advice from rockdom, our hearts are stolen gems--illuminate your seat of joy with austere discernment. Rapt acquisition of the right amount of light, the sun's as opposed to neon's last gasp of human element gratifying like an unneeded salve - everybody's gotta live a life under the sun. Be happy. Be a slave to yourself with skillful effort. 3/4 of all that appears is adjured & buried like dross essense divulged in what is left to sight like hot icebergs. ***************************************************** The most cryptic of mind shore is past languish into the counsel of lazy mind: mind of this soft machine, "slouching toward nirvana," to quote Bukowskii. But unfurled (prone mind) is only to trial the heart at its turn to discover something terminal in the nature of the living osmoses from ocean salient life and its bitter elements just as in blood, and reflection in the still waters, dreams enduring, lose nothing - if the dreamer be consumed - from expectant emotion to appetite riddled passion. They're filled & replenished from what falls off my pale cheek, a callow tear. ****************************************************** A heart cleaned in snow--discussed in certain islamic hagiography, makes aweful (full of awe!) the animicule denizens we are made up of Mostly, people are another plurality form of life than us. And what conjured diminutive sentient cause the causeless are, if our hero pulls his heart out of his chest, exposing inner-scrutiny like a language of yes, cryptic though and it follows everything cryptic is upon the pool of a retiring mind.