In the vein of a different kinda cyber cloud

doing a little different cyber cloud: Half the day in the contour of timeliness of any rising sun, a novel beginning to imagine, and I can barely cross the room, don't even test it - feeling every bit the prone observer emptying - loading begins, just streamy - kinda fleeting secret of nothing. Mom smoking playing on the computer, my brother's exquisite pencil portrait of Anne Frank 'pon the wall while I tremulously style the day the yr the ? in a target of dust motes & tea to drink, milked from ostyuden veins, flinching at a certain grace in his inverse Jewishness crazy Ginzberg in a remarkable place my violently psychotic cousin occupies. His sisters are all brilliant - I wished I coulda served the same g*d. I think I do in an apophatic ethos. Right now I'm gonna look for Delroy Wilson's, Slim Smith's...? Rub up Push up, if I dance I live. It's no medicine, but a turbercular mind's only recourse to restore & appeal stern teacherly numinous by a cauterizing sea. I'm borrowing a noble movie artifact on suffering and the heightened status of passporte observer w/wizened hero's mask, as when Papillion finds himself at the shore of a leprosy colony, there he'll find sea-craft. Maybe as in a certain melancholy drift today this Sunday gray with a new guise on what blue laws left up in me, impulsive-currents is entirely the same sea, if sea legs dance in roiling blue-beat (listen/read: rock steady or ska), alone while received old brown meets the temporal. The sea empties of those lastly using its spirit fount as tonic, a dionysian answer, she's chased us from the glazy eye nomenclature of earth to its aerobatic philosophy reaped terrestrially--trodding is the dance of easy-speak. ************* *********** The thought one reads and borrowed out of behavior ward, one mask in the hall in one hero's haunt, would look strange or inversed actually, a watery glyph and not at all the precision of mind's demand of order--these thresholds, if expressed splaying and hortatory padded hands cultivated a greedy reception. Human perspective is in its first media our having clave to a life accused, to control things uncertain in pondering phantasamagoria, impelling shadow-selves meeting us like footfall razors steps. The path that meets us is the paradox of the path which punishes us for its potential--likely "mitigations" of where we ever will be--I'm likely to believe it might be followed to my cessation. Because I sit here and bring avowal paths trickling before me in field of possibilities, sighs or whispers make the temporal a goal and thus reckoned pathless. ************* *************** Sometimes I get the urge to call, feel compelled to try, but can't imagine she is suppose to answer. I was in bank to bank ambulation, one week to the next, wanting her to rally the troop(s). Demand my attention in the guise of distance str ung, with deference to symbols of our love only I can see. She tells me she's invested in our future--the narrative, as deft toward the realistic as my passion in shadowed assignation can remark, must be good enough, and tho' poorly evident in silent retreat, the silence is rather a fiery murmur, with only longing to shovel the coals.********* ****************** I kEEp adding to this--this should be a final draft:: In an unravelling blue slumber, the day seems unsympathetic to startle in affect much of a bridge to bounty its long ends. The dreamy lens lent unshorn (of night chimera) left the room unremarkable, streamy unlighted by the settling points my eyes musingly reserve. Valerie was less a project in a day's emergence than she is fascinans in still night of sighs & glances, a moon festival's delight consumed by a thrum pilgrimage and dream-shroud donned. And this day is like the hand in my head no longer in a greedy grasp on identity, but delivering it to you. And yours is a phantam acknowledgment. You haunt the cowls of my translator face masking sentience of my mind in renunciation dream over the time giving character to our distance. Sometimes I get the urge to call, feel compelled to try, but can't imagine she is suppose to answer. I was in bank to bank ambulation, one week to the next, wanting her to rally the troop(s). Demand my attention in the guise of distance strung, with deference to symbols of our love only I can see. She tells me she's invested in our future--the narrative, as deft toward the realistic as my passion in shadowed assignation can remark, must be good enough, and tho' poorly evident in silent retreat, the silence is rather a fiery murmur, with only longing to shovel the coals. ************** ********** Know why you hear what you hear. Imagine the "volley" and that you felt impressed to tote the concern. Out of bound things, or toward the margins of experience? The Call of a Mullah, the rally pivot "dovening" of Orthopraxy Jew. The aerobatic guffaw violence of pathetic fires--a world burned, and we've only named it home impatiently remembering impermanent records. There is a difference. Thought leans upon the standard of intimacy, practical or impractical self-preservation. One only manifests what is--so if say xenophobia appreciates, the impulse to demand a Right from resignations in this detainment--certainly a mystery, and definitely your fate--this space and point of reflection, will have the content of one's reserve jettisoned. Experience, not the "politics of experience," but reality is in its refrain only going to moderate the effect of what it is like to indulge in our interests. It'll make restorative sleep without mission-ready compliant restive action of the day its necessary conscious pocket--meaning, you think less on it, this caricature ally self in serene blue slumber, while evading a furling of the least of your responsibilities.************ ***********Is Love. If you and I should work on an ideal circumstance, your uprising heat forced the frozen sea within sating the otherwise purdition without you, of only to think upon each other--an idea as between us, ideation on the experience of this love, your feminine understanding will become necessary in congress, would arise with fire.************ *********I am unleashed to experience a life of liberty. But now I have space to contend with. Space thoroughgoing the compassionate edifice as well as relationship's edifice variegated are modalities receiving-architecture in what is toxic nigh. Compassion is goal, but truth withwhich a certain navigation in a prepared and prone moment would only then reveal immediacy abideth the ascendant's humilty. Had one still been detained in his/her approach, leashed, the distance would be levelled in a giant leap. Who we are and a reason to be sustained tho' now exiled thru auspices in liberated ways = alighted to the possibilities in human perspective, is by looking within and knowing scrutiny reveals why one should prosecute identity.******** ***********The thing that made the sun have a shadow of its own--the face it shown. Lie your head down and on the same plane, maybe your head with your pillow flush, have a book open with a piece of artwork even already intelligible, already digested. The transparent yield of an author's voice is pivoting and he/she maps poesis clueing in the reader, whose standard starts subdued in the crease emptying of le tter permutations. But this is only an example of the imagination in practical use, getting reduced to hidden in plain sight auditive review in author's filament voice. The appeasement to go-on-lay-your-head still has slumber to count of its cloud-hooks. What scrabble now of even formative subjects, classic subjects in trees flowers sky blue dome swathes crowding the more peopled lens one salutes by instinctual conformity--everything leads to the beck of a face beaming expression, attributing a sighing perspective that beauty looks back, or danger takes to your resting eyes as if it's the first taste of merciless unknowns, but just a face. And symmetry to be the object of requested meaning is mind-appearance, incorporate meaning, this appetite and a certain discipline to the imagination.************ **************Biking is likely the closest thing to flying if bird's eye view would appertain. One, we would imagine ourselves as pedestrian, as opposed to good swimmers. Meaning, a swimmer I'm guessing affirms what they do is flight. Yes, true, but not aerobatic--which is the same field of possibilities shared terrestrially. And two, if biking is about intuition over what lays in his/her path obtrusive in some sense--demands of navigation, then once the rider experiences out-of-body acuity, flight is become sensorial. Truly obviously other activities resonate--but the esteem biking commands is an excelsior thing how amongst trafficked city-scape, a natural objective to sky and earth fellowship winds down roads in a contract of honesty: not having to "borrow" much to level the biker having been marginalized.************ ************I'm all for seeing out West on a train, Bukowskii and companion child, what he the sarcastic poet means, calling the sea ugly. Some kind shrouded traveller as upon a train--I've been on two, E. Berlin & Cairo to Luxor. Then one more time in visualization, lent in dreams later and in dreams of aspiring sober ethic, what is otherwise grandfatherly framed from name to eponymy. What I call the self-same sea, a frozen ocean (within)--Kafka mentions just that surface he'd hit with a hammer, evidently the discrimination over nothing, magnificate interment of compassionate void .******* *********What may be impervious in the broadcast of this objective reality, places receiving but offer lax condoling in herd mentality that somewhere is sensorial, can be re-placed imagining your Dad's car smell.****************************A flurry of visual apparitions would occur to me apposite the alliterative goal supposed upon the floor of my library, bathroom. While sometimes people speak my mind, the material void--this place arising mutually with mind appearance--reflects it. Scholarly exudation still persists like white fire media divulging black fire symbolic universe (the donning of writ) to score dispensations where expression has me gainsay mere memories likely the dregs of images demanding placement.********************Salman Rushdie is the blob of light, rapacious over his letters in the skein of my thoughts.... Reading "Fury" tho' there is more revealed East/West-wise in his other books, a contemporary orientation I think more relevant. My thought goo is the following:: In abridgment in status times I could walk in a room and naturally not call a friend My man, or have his conventions-sake shoulder to pat in c onvenience of the familial. Now there are just a couple of folks I may immure with with such conduct, still with a sense they've trod in african profiles conversation over their forward aft head assuming I'm picking up from behind. The naked emblem of his dust having settled 'pon convalescent soul unsated, barely persists like a tremor of transformation if only how I am understood is afoot. Valerie in her own world looks nuptial-rapt in intercourse with her arc and lumbering 'flect into object reality. I know her more or less accepting me thru a similar lens of dithering unglossed me filing by far-from-unearthed social-living.************* ************My solace commits me to her discrete reproven unplaced ritual. She apprehends remote sanction, moves in stereo in mind theater, while the hero stages his presence as if to recite love's provenance in a dull mirror. In my last dream of her I found myself down by the Mediterranean, at the Gates of Hercules as I visualized from letters with approbation its sedentary clemency in lulling night--rocky earth meeting the voluminous eddying Atlantic in effect. I split the surface, went under and found my pained mosquito heated heart under wretched antiquity shellfish perturbations. When I bring it to the surface, the sun proffers definitions of its wrought-idealizing that I am chosen in plastique emptiness--dressed in pollution, I gather her garment of light is of the same-sea. If I were to discriminate the emptiness, a heart bi-sects the world in blue ubiquity, gets written in its passionate scheme, but only after it is prised from a sea of possibilities, revealed at the last meeting relationship would ever appertain.************* *************Imagine, your anger will never meet something as definitive as the rational event occurring to you. P'raps you couldn't have known enough to illustrate accurately just where the emotion is directed--so only a harried fulfillment. Still, ignorance on par with desire (relished vengence?), if only to promote the saccharine identity, proceedth with rank relationship lulling prone upon the banks of the heart, finding oneself there out of the seat of wonder. The fire is extinguished and passion is ignited when there are no limits to ones reception--but either that happens or the ascendant is bowering explexis conduct. Ultimately the decisor artifact seems to profess (the world in animated fact) to Observer selves asking for moderation, and its easiest rendering is pathlessness.*********** **********