Telling on the daemon to Mom & Zadie

I, the reader, want to notice "outward fact" slipped in here at the beginning of the following. It's crucial to imagine being committed to the climate of the power, weird power, totally, of the exile messianism contrives to resolve. So, talking about it serves to illustrate just that and nothing dialled up spiritually like a saint that would cover my back. (so as to personify) :: I'm starting to h ave a messianic sight (like Dharma orienting the way toward Brahma who manifests what-is, & Nothing outside the known) into outward fact in simple levering inversion, at once before me (scale tipping inevitably), and then gratuity of self (now terminal & efficient) standing, peaking, yawning every bit with all distances railling relationship in the guise of my intentions. **To think, endorse the sense that sighs, glances, and whispers start as woven garments, kaleidoscopic as finding seat of awareness, raised perspective, as under a cold lamp, maybe a deflated winter's sun, with antiquated reasons to revel in obuscated shadows under summer's bright pleroma eye.********************* The night stabbed a somewhat draining dispensation--but it is never as bad as it seems. Still, I felt this way. Painted my thoughts into the moon spiritually true... I write an ode to you, one word, "Sad." I'm thinking and imagining your philosophy works. Just very sad today--emptied. Wanted to try but my mind wouldn't forfeit a reason my spirit would believe. I don't know why I'm here. Odd and un ambitious objective reality, life slipping into nowhere I want to be. I don't want to look at people--nobody seeems knowable. My conscious map is dangerous--my sarcasm meets nothing liminal--I can't incite progress as I understand it. Nothing sets me apart from what I'd espouse. At the moment I go under somehow I'm washed ashore, stillness, solitarian, unworthy. An angel calls it finality vision. At the moment a plane flies overhead and the words, "steady as she goes" lodges in my head.************ *** One endures meditation, because there is never a time not right for prayer. Insight for candor that one would propound a preachment merely from the grandeur of the sage or the "absolute" quality painting a said doctrine unchallenged, is in the deficit of the illusory.************* **********Funny how this man's weapon (news article) rivals everything else toward his lost cause harnessing instincts, mounting the world with displayal primate ornaments of victim & victory. You'd think the arising possibilities would have intellection revered by more usually finding justice without merely the corrall of the agreeable, opting instead to cultivate becoming more prone, humbly available. A spectacle of self hanging off of body, industry self, "don't make me!" bullshit.************* *************Budget your theoria. Mental economy has all the graft of moving around leaden thought, savoring irrational sentient greed--getting it and putting it in you. Yet, the uncarved block is only paid off by nature. The most refined measure of nature is consciousness. Econonmize your philosophy by shortening the complexity of the worth THat you must know. No one is denying the intensity and sacrifice toward self-actualization, duty, self-awareness, but as Gandhi had said in his Experiments in Truth, the ascendant shouldn't keep a snake in one basket. Propitiation is giving away nothing so dear as clarion dispatchment of identities from empty boughs, empty boughs having reared season's personae unperturbed.*********** ***********Imagine my thread-voice like the wonky voice of Charlie Brown's teacher. That is the totallity of what this all could mean. A colliding morass of proverbial claims of a day's vain expression. ************* ************It occurs to me drawing meritable travel's memory while I sat in a village/town called Luxor, in Egypt, drinking black tea/chai, that a kind of distance strung of social conventions, fits a narrative over our being the first out the door in anything that one would experience. A cup of water scattered outside upon the dust of your threshold, is a threshold spilled out to a more receptive passer-by, if he or she would jump from parched dalliance to cross water.********* ************Seriously, imagine, if we could, any other species having the conversation of an understanding of their demise. In safe corralls of ideology & monies, we are still positting social even cosmic telos of extinction. We examine it palpably--biblically, ecologically, institutionally, & in violent revolutions. And that animal, whose intentions are obvious here, sight this feeling in your mind again of just such a tremor of impermanence: of course the lame dog, wasted kitty, scavenging polar bears if you've tuned into documentaries of the circumstance, this increasingly hotter planet... Do you think these creatures need to consort with authors of self-realization, a book, your G*d, anything other than a dramatic sunrise, to award or deny their spirit? Look at what we have in common--we are in the throes of the same intuition.********* ***********Remember these words, I tell myself in the fascinans of unfurling path into a valley with the solace of solitarian shadow, "I'm frail but stoic--concerned about life." Reason & beauty are always going rival misapprehensive mind, derision of acquisitive behavior. The purples and opaque pith of mind only remark on transparent coves s addling the outward fact with thoughts an entertaining mind expects to embrace alighting to what is just beyond. If thought traduced a gemini dream, the anthropos archetypes of self-reference, ranks theoria "epicurean" (secular), as opposed to implicit tethers strangling the skillful attention on "musterion narratives" to support reflexive tendencies in its least expression--finding oneself in relationship without.******* ******** In the school of life, the student is locked up in associations of egalitarian media; the guru moulders ineffectively as one's dull concern a thought subject is elusive - the lullaby of a graduate's concern ! It makes sense if I want it to imagine. A dialect defined by ad absurdum teacherly, academician stern-talk, making little appreciation beyond chil'run in a bubble of human breath mantram meaning "made-up" words! - primate endeavors over word-permutations, making content "pigeon" (liguistically) at best, bird-song at best too, like the untranslatable Brahmin liturgy in the Vedas. Expression is untrialled (we don't get to know content & authentic motive), relevant as what goes along with Expression: Spirit, Mind, & Body--but language wafts spry & in flux with soul dynamo, a triune of capsulate witnesses, victims, & unlikely victors. I'm starting to have a messianic sight into outward fact in simple levering inversion, at once before me (scale tipping inevitably), and then gratuity of self (now terminal & efficient) standing, peaking, yawning every bit with all distances railling relationship in the guise of my intentions. Complex machinery in identity, instrument in my physical success is toward prising a piece of loamy surroundings--making it me. I expect a gift to contribute to this certain malaise. Language can't compete with my intentions.********** *********JUST do it right, confidence comes later, or not at all. My view is, when inspired, suspire. When intensity leads to a threshold of promise, make certain the token key is understood that intuited passage meant gradients alighted as the usual, is because the usual is actually excelsior & irresistable. And still life has been a mapped or alliterative accord laterally, like reflections in a golden-eye.************ ***********Watery maternal eternality - to dust unto dusk, every life lent to the night, sorry star tincture souls. But physical sensitivities are the decisor to eudaemonia: loving-kindness & balance. No smuggling away notions of superable identities in brain anomalous conceit of these ultimately pedestrian strides into the lap of Creator unfortunately with regimens of receding goals: this can't be done. Why goals of once Bronze age social hellion reach without a concept of our word technology but by luck?************** ************As if I still lived at the Russian House, aloft and calling down from the porch roof which my front bedroom was borne onto, Zadie stood in the overgrown yard, in this dream, hand extended like giving away what nobody agrees is ours to give away anyway, life & redolent perception of it. I asked him to stay "right there" - this Zadie identity ronching in the conceit I would ever matriculate reality again with his stern grasp of my tarrying days. I only knew to develop concern that his slo-training watery personhood could ever feed me in mine--but it concretely wasn't enough to feel fathered & understood in these days no longer of his whiling bridge toward transcendent awareness, and alone in mine, incredulous nothing has changed. I sustained this sense of visitation like holding a theatre of diminutive chimera chromo values in a conscious pocket--my head, my only concern!--communicating to Grandfather I have the keys, & here "Keep your hand extended." The dream-catcher objector of these funerary thoughts redeemed, seems to nod affirmatively, while the turbillion of waking states was more likely his nod to the inevitable. I threw the keys to him, and like a gullet of some starved abyss and still enduring the shallow thought's tableau, they fell through his digital appeal offering or proffering into wet & tall black foresty foliage & grasses. Unreceived--I am--Zadie imparts my thorough-going possibilities, "Not yet," he says, and a kind of, "You'll see."************ ************Like a whine in a pattern of splaying row upon row of houses, I'm in wrought gait nothing in the world slowing for affect. A long-distance run of the mill life is beyond grasping its polluted relic of end-days--I'm trialled by a report of immediacy, 3 in the morning going up to Gardenside. A steady and painful ease stumbling into the self-knowledge everyone yields to dreams, while I'm in conscious? life, and thought I was dreaming too.******* ***********The dream left me to convey one mask. It was a warmed lost-in-domicile mask, but futile to characterize anything but dun corners, spider valleys, highwire fragments of sun in day's long-ending. The lure of translator faces restores even unremarkable introductions to my historical souled evidently slightly closer to her-life abiding self. To observe unassuming constants are also deliberately an adornment-free tho' reliable dream "coat," which is to say If-only I were some damned samyasin (ascetic) and clothes crawled on my body as needed... at any rate, the light alighting as garments ready to be shed, is prayed for - as potent as the need for some kind of hallelujah.*********** ***********The Golden Age: In my dream, the Hebrew I expected to be read & shared by the rabbi, turned out to be an Arabic recitation. Call & response seemed tentative just as my formative yrs' rabbi would have it, a nerve lit and a feeling radicalized of wizened scholars to drag the student into the white fire page, and poisoned in rich succor by the black fire ink. The younger language had preminence in Go itien's Geniza translations and Bernard Lewis' histories, what I had been reading, so not having to go around the corner to grasp certain prayer technology, left this dream, maybe two others, proximal in an intimate train of contemplation. In fortunate orientation, my interest in these studies, were tracked in convivencia to its authors of bellowing lives exchanging histories aloft and mercurial in the past, nigh and readied.********** **********Black tea: Chagal intones the Hasid in himself as a purveyor of felaheen, Arab farmer--as in Palestinian considerations, for me, and with the Arabia found elsewhere, and hopefully a nod to a variety of primacies, these lives of eastern Europe. His green agrarian lulls as wayfarer to the animal religion's love-damned glance. The shokhet (ritual slaughterer) in town--at his convenience, his kashrut (dietary laws) stress mercy, is enumerated in myth, because his blade is readied in theorias' reach of a gratuitous plan.********** **********Don't buy into the generation gap. The only self-profession is the very old in their imminent liberation, and when speaking of physical success. And in a vacuum they live outside machinery and devisement of transitive life, as examples toward impatience with deft withdrawal from the impermanent record.******** *******Anything that provides an excuse for aggression, people just lap it up. That one has the certain cloud hook, those who would imagine just once they had run for the whip--and not the whip to flagelate anybody but themselves to revere power, someones over you. Thinking about what it feeels like to route thought even at the expense of convenience.*********** ************Seriously, imagine, if we could, any other species having the conversation of an understanding of their demise. In safe corralls of ideology & monies, we are still positting social even cosmic telos of extinction. We examine it palpably--biblically, ecologically, institutionally, & in violent revolutions. And that animal, whose intentions are obvious here, sight this feeling in your mind again of just such a tremor of impermanence: of course the lame dog, wasted kitty, scavenging polar bears if you've tuned into documentaries of the circumstance, this increasingly hotter planet... Do you think these creatures need to consort with authors of self-realization, a book, your G*d, anything other than a dramatic sunrise, to award or deny their spirit? Look at what we have in common--we are in the throes of the same intuition*********** **********It occurs to me drawing meritable travel's memory while I sat in a village/town called Luxor, in Egypt, drinking black tea/chai, that a kind of distance strung of social conventions, fits a narrative over our being the first out the door in anything that one would experience. A cup of water scattered outside upon the dust of your threshold, is a threshold spilled out to a more receptive passer-by, if he or she would jump from parched dalliance to cross water.********* **********