Great Historian: Paul Kriwaczek

Before the news and after having nepalese tea & a last cigarette, I went out front yesterday to play my cunga drum. Everytime I imagine a stall in what I would ever communicate in percussion, the channel of something primary has an inept beginning itself. The second I placed my hand on the skin a single skyborn raindrop meets my slowly brown-spotted aged hand. The gray overcast was in filmy dust respiring provenance, again I qualify emasculation in bitter what-ifs--what if the air was something I knew about? What if the flush cool was ambrosia theoria, a garment of pillaresque winds to prove me stately & prone--not reduced to vacuity, gray melancholy and an infinite redound in playing to an unhearing blue dome? But getting full-up in yet a compromised bluey vessel, and my cup on offer as I know it, somewhere in its recesses the shadows make sense, the very sun's shadow, something more immanent - that it resides within appearance obfuscated - radiates with more truck than our emotional sun: the sun embowers me, and the sun is in its undoing embowered by a macro-cosmos. ******** **********I bet a good eau de parfum would be burnt oak leaves: porch-sittin' thought while reading a minimum of Jack Carol wic-wic wack's "some of the dharma" - a singular dweet, warble & knowing. I swear by a tree, gashing firmaments of black balloon memoria thing-actual. The trees look quickened with egyptian headiness, "void leaves" J.K's language, xenotropic with a thousand coves hiding the bark and toil response of tree ubiquity, which has spoken to humankind for a 100,000 yrs. En het enyeh: the castle of my eternity--pharonic in cool breeze, eyes cease, and all is wonderment. We the green ascendant leisurely never answer back--trees halloo, makes blue dome liMit wallow in preachment, circumvents the indefinite skein of moderation & emotion to which personhood alights. Manna fell from siniatic trees, an ant expectorant from acacia sweet tree sap. Propolis salve out of their veins, auyerveda slow night nurse smiles into the night to remember your new day sorted out in golden age boughs. *********** *********On Casten rd up in the Catskills one summer, I established certain train of thought, a sense of ethical levity in writings from Pumbadita and Sura, towns 2000 yrs ago in Babylon's vicinity, kehilla (Jewish community) supporting the first writers of the Talmud. A talmid is a student of Jewish ethical writings, "eternal" is the root word of "talmud, talmid". The other world-view experiement in tru th was edutaining Native American history, which was as spectral an event really until visiting Chaco Canyon, the wooded northern haunts incumbering and framing the natural world belonging to those easily closer to it than my cosmopolitan thought revenue could speak to. If I hadn't committed certain sovereignty to Judaism, that it would have performed in my mind as intellection's scaped-chattel & gray cloudy gnashings 'pon sacerdotal hearth, Native American to wax poetic in some kind of birth of another diaspora, would have been as peak in gainsay what transcendence couldn't have offered otherwise. *********** *******Post-Oxford intensive study: Once upon a time by the Red Sea. In Eilat, southerliest Israel, the Peace Cafe was nerve cntr to we europeans of every sort, british rednecks, rabble all and where I saw raw feelings in unjust moments & not being able to speculate on spending a shekhl, restoring monies still suspending me in unplanned chances of victuals being proffered later. I was becoming less and less sensitive to an essense until then revealed, now feeling anticipation supposing 'tis enough to know I was framing intentions on a gem-mind gone hellion and raiment-free to ornament intersection of well-being & the present moment. But, a tea in hand this one occasion, I went up to the one dude obviously looking past these moments, verifies he sees no one as resolute as his projection into the Negev. A mountain in intimate backyard setting looking into Amazonian terrain, makes a distant Negev mt an appanage of his butterfly consternation, the target of homeward aerobatic march one day soon, he submits. Into an abyss that made mine rejected - out of daemon aulic rhetorician, I feel I am told he's in the court of a king whose left no known anointed if the weapon of my lousy dispensation dispatches expansive truth arbitor--would-be assessors, in limbo telos before I can look past too. ******** ***********In a mild pocket of one winter, I dreamt a.c. outside my window inducing a glassy vexating wall, auditive chamber of chimera dialect. Within I felt courted in frictive origins, has me assess a field of possibilities discriminated now by the tool, yantra, the mosaic in mind media of a.c. mechination, sounding out random & inevitable stage where life performs as from the look and feel of where I le ap--this somewhere excluding too many unfielded possibilities. Mummer as opposed to birdsong makes skin-toned auditive hulking hearer spited in visualization method; careering fellowship with daliance and muses behind the unfolding week in liquid awash vesper glances leaves me attending horizons to experience the tongue withdrawn from a well of silence. ******* ************In solitude if allowing what excersizes my time there, language awash, anyone would speak to themselves more slowly. You will wonder at the languish to defend hearing, as it were, yourself, once the daemon rhetorician within leaves without assignation. "The felled tree" becomes, t-h-e f-a-l-l-e-n..., even stunted leaving mantra-slavery in ever more lapsed completion. If one speaks slowly inward, lapping up like waves against the mind's eye, he or she see more and more the illusion, illusion, that inner-attention is misdirected. The world in its mean ascension bade our silence and the mind is provenant. Outside my open window last night I listened to the gentle thwack of leaves falling out of the battle-weary front yard tree. I kept seeing one or two thought-parchment leaves getting away from wrested semi-permanence of their allied season's trifoliate taking their ornamental obfuscation in a bed under the tree. Out aloft streetlight high with more radical intentions, the avenue would trace the escapees agnosticism. ********* ***********While I smoke cigarettes, it seems to vent from my bones and teeth, rather than my lungs and sinuses. It is terrible to loose body consciousness that rarifies the event of suspiring. The sense that I am more corporate langors in mnemotechniques--cellular memory is merely the disruption from last night's last cigarette. To speak of Kaskurbeh, a Native American elucidator of tobacco use, is referri ng to the guy who first cultivated tobacco. Every night K's wife would ask him to go watch the stars with her to the edge of red rock massifs--imagining high desert here where they live is probable. The path to their awesome look-out has a stream, and as this native cosmic house-maiden crosses every night, K follows her yet to her demise: she throws herself over inevitably. He takes the carcass and drags her across some meadow or field, the narrative says, and her bones in the loam produce the tobacco for the proselytic enjoyment. The high is endo-skeletal, seems plausible in that her body basically deossifies and then represents the plant: symbolic death framed is sublime chaos, like a greedy earth eager to give-up its numinous succour, baring out anew an extremis repose... The shadow cast by trees next to this Lex corridor, looks like a draped grocery bag, denying contours of the produce within. Cars are belched from the crest of hill, beyond my sight, and are tamed by the empty rapt presage of the day. If my shadow was a mirror, mouthfuls of fire would dot it--out of them comes the pollution of my philosophy at the present moment. ******* **********" Vas makst a yid? - I thought of the following only today. Remembering Ohavay Zion before the move, and before that. Thought I'd share...really just felt like venting to the picture on the wall of Mom. I think the hebrew (signs, letters), if it copies and you can see it, should elicit the creative as deep aside: nothing there to haul but origins & poeses, and assure a schedule floe in what soaked a sense of Higher Ground for those reflecting, in this case that of study. While the exiled and its gravid implications to be exiled are prosyletic (warners), the exhorting with bluey spiritual language technology over tremendum, fascinans, and mysterium experience of kaddosh, קאַדדאָש holiness, I've seen more interestingly defined as "other." In my youth attending Hebrew class early-on, one afternoon Devorah (fellow student) was having a conversation with rabbi in Yiddish, ייִדיש. Yiddish is mostly Hebrew-Germanic written in Hebrew characters. Their calling back and forth with rabbi outside the classroom and in his office, and to my left Devorah channeling this ghetto language past me, white noise-cum-colored audition, language in its exclusivity of deprecare, to seek to avert, say, objective reality if it were concretized, consoled me in yet the ignorance of content. Still in my Yiddishe-kupf, Jewish head, ייִדיש קאָפּ then is the weird style of Hebrew being written from right to left, and the phenomena of alliteration in upside-down context - in effect recommending the "word" approachable & facile by any inversion. ************ **********In southern-most Israel I worked with Emmanuel, a Ghanese dude, in a tile factory, home depot kind of place. The African influence tho' mollified if only in foodstuffs, I noted from a can of South African pineapple, before Eilot, while I supped at the moshav, a communal farm--here I harvested bananas notably for sale to Palestinians in the main. In Eilot, down from the factory, or warehouse--whatever it was, a bleak jail sits where I heard what seemed to be yelling, maybe torture I reckoned, feeling subsumed enlisting the event of my liberation and youthful trek. Emmanuel seemed even more inculcated in some kind of limbo Israelis appropriated in that foreign workers like my fellow factotum only advanced something pragmatic but with equal force while dealing with their lambastic employers. Job 1 executed, leaves me to the streets and Red Sea shores where people-watching, Europeans vacationing mostly, lent the demographics of street urchins and wanderers to exemplify release. Elite vodka flowing freely was the rally point in libations--I mixed mine with Boysenberry juice--ended up thinking I was wrong and suicidal in my rare state of drunken swoon. Only after we get back from Egypt does the other illicit drug use begin, excusing the one hit of acid we split in Jerusalem. But, in Israel hashish would have gotten us in trouble--a more socially inviting and advertised indulgence--maybe jail could have been our fate, likely roughed-up while threatened with litigation and sent back to the states. ******** ***********My roommate, as street-prone an individual as I have personally ever been committed to, so to speak, mentions the numbing experience after chemical romance, its affect, was a "check-out" langor and the case of submission to an alienated mind. I imagine the starfield that combusts when one bangs their head, but in the dreigh moment, in approach to a certain loss in expectation, a conscious prop wo rks. The congregate of would-be swirling birds, jammed in a readied conscious betrayal, looks concretized, kind of similar to cooked marrow, white and expellant from sentient greed intensified in extreme barriers to attention. Even without the normative architecture of attention, a question in the nerve is lit, "How do I get back from here?" allays the glazy eye imposture of "knowing" abut in the field of heavy loss of control. Still, this is good enough--a critical dialect is been stultified, thoughts stabbing thoughts, killing the economy of mind, so the enlistment of mental nomenclature where contemplation may regularly alight, is going to again be found in the project of one's worth: like the revenue of time's birth--the despondent midnight-raver's rarified form 'pon the shores of release, an inverted control over attrition toward time's unlikely evasion. ********* **********The dust particulated on one of these dreidal candles is like traces of sinaitic sands, "just" features to sand media of chimera signatures--Kerouac's found mystics in another arabia, as other as a mystic unsealed, redeeming the once fallow whiling-away. A star of david shaped one mandala-esque could perform on a frozen sea-- a self-same desert but with its entrails presumed a modus vivendi: what is found at its surface is adjured from hollowed depths, life in its most mercurial assertions. Seawater & dust--we are, magnetic earth, and fire to divine human perspective in silent smoke disbursed as it mislocates the ascendant's reverence, like prudent instinct his being received in a state of self-knowing, paradise to the tune of an unexpected caricature of who he once was. Reified in vigilance, a primal gait, fragments of an encounter, the first vivid steps with worthy feet, the ground meets us likely surprised there is no horizon--but only momentarily, there is in fact only moving, becoming, going into relationship, as to the ends of stars' apertures, buried, interred in blue dome, as one can be a star and his limby radiance around you, baby. ******* ***********I'm late for winter--tho' it could be framed as per a desert-scape, the Sinai as I read about it in Walking the Bible, by Bruce Feiler, is a desert of an entirely different animal. I'm elaborating on a pretty evident reason why manna was thought to be the astral-substance attested to in the Old Testament. An ant remembers its wasp life. The green ant dreams under his mere acacia tree as exclusive to the ant so desperate a tree for less the prodigy of its desert's possession. The potency of and martial exuberance thru the crystaline sugar looking-glass the ant eats and finds its wasp ancestor adjured, is a shared feast. The wasp came and stayed; now a tree is in no permiss of continuity, incumbent only in a sky's monist state. So, there are other skies, but the acacia lives in enfeoffment-- its manna tears, and demur muse, giving-up to the Most-I or Sky in loci all or nothing fealty. Clemency in a tree's welfare, she awakens only in distant suzerain compulsion--but it is her awakening. It is the ant's becoming. ******** ***********I didn't cipher the direction the thoughts would come. Something intuitive over feeling had me look past rosy-color's subject to rather not so receptive-a-feeling as mindfulness that this color is all media to all subjects and artifacts of self, its media 'pon which I am written. Down streamy cusps of plashing visual waves, I only knew it was immanent. The author was ineffable, but I know I am he re yet inimitable. Identity approbates that these thoughts makes subject the approval of thoughtlessness, daemon martyring the closed crowd white noise-cum-colored audition, in his exclusivity of deprecare, to seek to avert, say, objective reality if it were concretized, still consoles me. Language so the vehicle with clarion but violent engine - thoughts accession in its abstract gait, or concourse , a path meeting the weird style of Hebrew permutations but ones choice in any ideographia meets the sentiment. Hebrew being written from right to left, and the phenomena of alliteration in upside-down context, because the reader might do this in large measure whilst what is read mitigates an essential mind - in effect recommending the "word" approachable & facile by any inversion, has a world of conscious prop, the frisson of marvelly self-awareness. ****** *********I figured out what I was trying to accomplish here looking into the finished skein of a puddle in my driveway--my face 1/2 a foot from being drenched. I did think about it. It was kind of a portal to china or in its place everything and and everyone to look as it were down on them on the otherside of the earth. No negative sense like I got some objectivity, but that folk seemed few and thus corralled in one visage. Dylan makes an interesting comment about there being no more folk, and that is made way for "poplore."