Where is the insincere literalist? The Observer of linguistic thought

Having lived too damning of long-lived joy, just makes leaping into its sure grasp more immediate. And wisdom is witnessed unquestioned because it's ambient chariot had a sure concourse of reducing this wisdom, radical integrity alighting the other... to plain clarity, a thing just so. Tea clouded skies, colours twist in mercurial shadows, but I see joy in them - rife with identities one's mission it was to claim the nigh mother or the mother night, or reckoned saint covering my incumbent back of earth obfuscator of aeries shelter. ************** ***********I wonder if anyone else has ever been afraid to look at an image in their mind of just what is before them? So, not so much as a theophanic mantra inspiring roseate colors acclaimed behind the observer's eyes--nor as in a yantric object, tho' it could be and not of meditation in mandala emblems or gold cross upon a purple background... A pair of robins are my example at the moment, or the cigarette ashes spanning a coffee table, languidly observed, while regularly persistent artifacts are opposed by one's moderate appeal to the places of mean stimulation. Light arcing through a room in peaks from sufficiently obfuscated windows have the very voidant light tendrils, filtering ungathered at once, then for a willing acolyte, what is illuminated has the light shed as upon awareness--its irregular monadic fate.****** *********If you see creation fraught & sorrowful, not only is it ulitmately understood by traditions East, but Christians railled into (destructive European) oblivion were thinking as much (the Cathars). If choosing eudaemonia, a kind of harmony, is not at the expense of the half of you unrecognizably deferred from what-is-thought a salient given, then when can the ascendant find meditation relenting to sentient greed? Things like a desire & ignorance as if to sort out you have a Right in the goal of self-actualization--who particularly has handed that over? Myth is only good enough if truth makes no intentions on empirical currents rushing to your aid in your prone state upon its banks. One throws oneself there if discontent over water elementally verified, is mystifying the mercy ancients bear from this world's sky fountain. Reason can't hurt if your god hasn't been discreditted in the realm of our schools of life, astutely and from the constants of core cultures, has G*d of humilty recognized and not the god of the gaps.******** *********ok so this is what i do - i like a persistent image, a sky-criming moon, nothing to speak of in terms of pleroma (meaning): no blanket having mouthfuls of fires are committed to its belch into our sight or it lairs aromatic emulsed in the blue dome covers, endorsed by encounters more subtle... Nothing, I'm lying on a garage floor, burning cigs off of the electric heater, this night sky framed out of the backdoor, but only moon like one eye gathering its expositor in blind will. I'm fearing dumb deigned I'm as blind and Isaac Babel's reference to old ways old man getting revolutionized but good yet undeserved, the image is revived of eyes cut open. Discursively wept path of the human pack will inevitably exact sight.******** ******Amadeus is Latin for "the Love of G*d." Theophilus is the Greek. I've seen Theophile J. Meek, a scholar of note? who translated pseudepigraphia for instance. (clearly a pen name) Slavic is Bogomil. Looks right to me Hovel might be the Hebrew/Yiddish. "Ahavah" is Hebrew for love; "-el" is G*d. My Hebrew name is from the Aramaic into a Yiddish version, from Shraga (Aramaic) to what the rabbi calls me at my bris (circumcision) Shreg'ai, which has the denoted G*d in it too. The recommended unpronounced term for Creator rerouted to a maleable version--the "ai" for the tetragrammaton. My name means east. Whereas G*d may mean thatwhich occupies the indiscriminate thanks of the unknown while manifesting only the known. If only.******* *********As the ceiling fan whirled upstairs from me, at the nerve cntr kitchen, it painted all of my thought coves with one static rotation. Part of my journeling efforts then were mostly glyphs and memory 'flect images, so compartmentalizing glossy lumbering, assumed lighted, sensory threshold, happens to be the smooth flow of the fan. There is nothing like repair upon my ancient tiled floor to listen at music ending and book burning--this world is to be an academician sponser redound in my hopes it was definitively committed to me. If sounds-arriving, the tarry of breezes, are as good as finding a key lost in dross alleys, but found out under the street light, then senses appurtenance are derived in a mega-transect of patience and pitch numina.******** ********My cat just confided in me something very interesting. He said, Yes I killed the mouse--and it Was for G*d. If that seems from left field, I'm plying what an Imam in Aryan aspirations says over the US having gone to Iraq inevitably to exact instability. The Imam calls it his advantage. And yet as he tells it, the cat isn't a devotee while still rallying the defeat of an enemy. So here's a case of Literalist's equivocating, in fact. It not so fantastic that he well feeels he dispatched his prey for some special Higher Ground, rather, I know I haven't the ability to tell him what assignations of Higher Ground I would ever flout.******* ******If from sophism I complete an argument that a chair is in fact a chair, then my 1000 deaths upon it in its use of interment makes no definition of this place of repose other than the experience of a due awakening. ********* *********At what margin of where I usually drive, the quarrel with blanched roads still sympathetic, I peak as in an appointment kept - alighted tonite I sent my regards. In spaces that not even a verifiable query blaming mind in striven ellipses --I want to sort out just who is behind the next sabbath of this rarified day's season--and tho' I assume curiosity & enumeration, one can also see its other persona evoked--likely me inviting me, a me I could easily dispatch, toppling the intimacy. Like you, why care, or why the weariness damned determined as if to warrant me oblivious? In terms of unconscious impulses certain chimera is neo-scaffolding, at least had me believing, black balloons with scratched script of white fire, words of dread--and they do mean dread times: my evidence I would ever Evolve, maybe. They were extent in dreamscape of derivative sky-born animae giving colored content to timely event, a mystical land appreciated in a conscious map--me there on the road, at that decisor light, under that sun & this star. Streets fractalized like two dimensional forests, I feel inspired tho' in moments tonite--tethering bouyancy like limbs bough-ering, never to immolate because I'm pained, enduring trees getting lush emptiness done--doing "nothing" sometimes I feel if only for me justly in a glazy eye.************* **********Bubble bouncing ryddim cuss of thought, when I woke up, I thought I took habituation in your dream. In my dun colored tableau actionable in dreigh blue ceilings and walls, the morning looks training-in of live long night blanket of black solace, and sparks of day's introduction weren't arriving. Dreams are not my own authorship, and emotively still more intimate, so the nights belong to you, I think--and now the conscious allure, sun arisen, is a calvacade of comely unknown restoration. Inward landscapes bridge then populate a new sstate of attention, I'm appreciating it outwardly--I'm manacaled only to those chimera lens. The triune liminal human perspective has foundations like Gabriel of skybound strength, a ceiling with cloud hooks necessarily conscious-props having the perfect contagion to strap the perceiver.********* **********A large bee stung me when I pinched a foxglove flower cup last summer and I like the idea the lesson I & Nature imparts--my instincts, awareness and its credulity. Not just superficial, this season's herald, a bee making his rounds under notice of the climate of the greater will, seems to prescribe a right I would have of similar consternation to doubt all comers. The exacting hallowed searing thought verbage I yiped had me enduring a bell peal, like the sting was a quick and vapid argument. There's a wisdom accounting and a question in my nerve lit--mind rallying almost revenge except the sense the little bastard would have anything to say I'm otherwise translating into a his stranger idiom. But no action taken, tho' the lightning bolt & strickened adrenaline rush ambushed me--it made me laugh: I met the bee in heated conditions of forced thought scenario. The thought was, "Don't act." I did it on purpose.********* *********At what margin of where I usually drive, the quarrel with blanched roads still sympathetic, I peak as in an appointment kept - alighted tonite I sent my regards. In spaces that not even a verifiable query blaming mind in striven ellipses --I want to sort out just who is behind the next sabbath of this rarified day's season--and tho' I assume curiosity & enumeration, one can also see its other persona evoked--likely me inviting me, a me I could easily dispatch, toppling the intimacy. Like you, why care, or why the weariness damned determined as if to warrant me oblivious? In terms of unconscious impulses certain chimera is neo-scaffolding, at least had me believing, black balloons with scratched script of white fire, words of dread--and they do mean dread times: my evidence I would ever Evolve, maybe. They were extent in dreamscape of derivative sky-born animae giving colored content to timely event, a mystical land appreciated in a conscious map--me there on the road, at that decisor light, under that sun & this star. Streets fractalized like two dimensional forests, I feel inspired tho' in moments tonite--tethering bouyancy like limbs bough-ering, never to immolate because I'm pained, enduring trees getting lush emptiness done--doing "nothing" sometimes I feel if only for me justly in a glazy eye.******** ***********If the eye of the mind was now corrollary to the world-to-come later, a high, pleroma alighted greatest denominator to think one received what may be an unsorted heaven, for these purposes could be recommended as before the shrouded traveler. If. If eyes spoke, and verbatim toward a conscious life, they would merely say "soft machine" drawling belief in an intelligible universe. The Objective Reality. Sorry to feed you this but the idea enjoins clarity and sundering it descriptors of (life vessel) compassionate void, for instance, subtle places of theoria. Incredible perhaps as cosmic things nigh like a Creator, a seat of Compassion, even emptiness, within the envisioning sense organs, but placed with acuity Without. And why not just meditation on sighs glances and whispers, while surrender is its climate, "peace" comes to your lips.******* **********I couldn't really imagine feeding myself tonight--almost resigned to flight & not to eat, less prompting to field the day at all opportune, and an inevitable more concern that I'd faint. Calling my unconcern "choseisme" - alerted to a becoming (strange "thing"), but not positting it anymore than conjuring progress at its quick, I can't be frauded by the sense that it is lent me stunting rhetoric, unqualification, because had I real bread of discipline of course one should raft toward these sensitivities of privation less austere. And more humbly: real farm eggs, just picked jalepenos, & just picked hot banana peppers, in olive oil--and I ate it like dogfood...****** **************A memory: I'm indicating something on the fan light in the kitchen, Mom is cutting an onion for soup. "I'm looking for something spiritual," I say. She says, "the spiritual man is mad, my boy." Starved in restorative pleasing language awash, embarrassed to have continuity in the grammar of my concept, I plied wholeness in nothing much bound to reflect in likeness. I know, I can only offer my "confidence" in a sovereign. While flouting stylee & you'd have to know rasta themes; popular preachments, literally here, like one's style is too self-serving, thanks and praises over G*d & this Creator approached through absurdity, the madness is in any appeal, the driver behind spiritual nomenclature become logos then musterion again. Just so, it happens on this long-distance run, voluable times hand me the lit candle of pilgrimage when I've lain in the gradins pit, with only my daemon torn from the cauldron of self-scrutiny to say that there is anywhere to go.