Hypnosis from the over-hanging sunflowers

Once while Jimmy Carter was being interviewed, instead of terminal sense of tarmac blanched political uncertainties, I was rather pulled into framing americana theater looking literally past his TV irreality into silent-gong of this family room, disappearing vantage points. In a sort of enlistment of media and cult of personality badgering, the silent room's corner becomes an easy time signature, a point of reference that makes old rhetorician a sprite past the strange receptive langor of hallowed home. In my quiet self-observation, he makes for an encompassing discussion, a stolid space for his personality like he's graduating from shapeless mass auditive thrumming to formative unhesitant bono vox. Literally watching what I see has space compromised but non-anthropomorphic in the guise of his appreciating illocution. Sitting at the feet of giants may be part of the right descriptor here. Not my appraisal in serious hero-worship, but a swathe of general discriminations, a worldly power-broker whose weight is behemoth excersized. His storm-surge of sober ethics are determined by relics the unassuming masses live-through, lazy & detached by foundries in eclipsing fealties to poplore shed ignorantly and with watery content: to be different from that was only to admit his candor. ******** ******To discover why it is I found myself anticipating inevitably habituating here off of a particular corridor, yet yrs later, merely was a murmurring glance past the traffic lights at the top of the hill--Burroughs' images filling-in a bleary assumption of unremarkable transit. Memories like the ones from the pyrethrum-peddler in The Exterminator sounds out what I knew would pass, his mellowing preachments of average souls plaintively pained in the normative awash thru the current of more illicit deeds mindfully heaped in a protagonist's not really ever-going-home-again. An effective visual is of one lady speaking about her then passed son but now is object of her roseate reminiscence. He had come thru that very "door" whose sky event Burroughs describes as framing the son's imminent return. The green of the go-light is hiding while I sit prone peeking past the sun-visor into a piece of the sky dominating in places of relinquishing intensity. Not seeing was assignations enough that I am magnetic and the steel was nigh--a strange feeling and intuition had me the claimant of a future I hadn't yet devised. ******* ********Fydor Gladkov's Cement, of Socialist Realism content, was apropos distraction in a desert niche post-university life--the gravity from schools left far behind isn't a more courageous becoming in as much I'm then inundated from a greedy sentience--the prodigy of self-discovery in solitude. Flotilla of spirits eliciting spaces in nothing's sanction, I felt emptied of characterizing my academician career. My power-spot in the garage fluid in luminary noise, radio silence pregnable, thudding on my cunga, percussion justice is beat mercy and freedom, precipitous in asana-gestures, magic carpet-thrum laying on a more nihilist's ground zero expectation, studies' alight toward school's kaleidoscopic first motive upon this student. A heady mask of some particular instructor helps to postulate a star's radiant necessary accompaniment in a clay mind's self-scrutiny, a strange notion to be a piece of solemnities of distant lights strung. Red is the compliment of beauty in Russian society, but for me it was the color of a hesitant glance at my face after having determined against easy vanities for a number of months, until then. The "looking-glass" however was just space--a parody moment that had I looked upon my cadence, air would reflect an unlikely expression. I remonstrated and watched what I saw: aloof, more outside-theater orienting self, and crimson face makes me suspect of unknown "golam" independent-me in dusty ancient expression. ******** ******* I feel I'm still dreaming in a space on the firmament earth tabernacle meant for florid or sullied bloom against forest languidly sustaining the more wrought ecosystem. The expression out of earth guffaw reaching sun revelry in its vital mass alliterates like self-taught exquisitely lost design to be put upon what the elements will say with flora. Life sheds self-report, she executes volleys of existential consequence as poignant as exultations to serve ones escape from it. In the valley of tongues, psalm-fooled monist self-consciousness of a stone deposited in silence, with words tarrying in the plurb and verb of identity yielding, wanderer's soft-machine makes subtle a refined place withwhich illocution is reckoned by conscious-prop--the light of moments revealed, a sort of there-ness in what is other. ******** *********** It was a shock of that much energetic--it was that much light, yet where certain spectral shore allays the more refined waves, subtlety is left there - And I am left to a lateral barely justified recondite luminary comfort. Mind haunts if only in enough light to turn dreams into reality, the gloss & richness to deny point of concentration, making a row of the sensual & illusory unreined & appreciating objective reality. N. Young captures blindman running by the light of the night, steppin'-razor questioning some dodge and thoroughgoing toward conscious satellites, the present moment, says to me what stillness in approach to the field of experience, is by the same yield this pitch of mind, shadows or no horizons, thoughts-pivot to remark on the same breadth of lucidity. Blindmen see; a book opened up minds into its natural element in unlikely libraries; primacies are suffuse with folky redound, whose well filled of tarried sands-if this place is ones prodigy of special existence painted in glory, then meditations alighting to its very Source has memoria the consequence of language replaced by likeness. ******** *******When one is helpless, a feeling it may be apparent I cultivate, is for spiritual moon and distant fingers, and alas there may be no quality; perfunctory is hat fit and worn by what you are seen & understood by thru convenience relationship proffers yet illusorily, salutory moments are more accessible. Kafka knows exploitation & servile reality of ones daemon. His father in caricature has all that may be feared like big floats taking notice in the watery guffaw of earth's magnanimous wont of mercurial libations quench. The son is drowning in it and while already suffering in his dire last few moments that his father judged his doom by this contrived initiation--this alien method only to learn and swim--infamies of absurd reconciliation is breachment measurably the the pain of ignorance in less certainty on his unconscious impulses, now in objective reality tremendum like compassion's last cry in lightning vox self-report squelched. ******** *********The trafficking auto-wreck of horizons met, avails the easy qualia that one chromo-value of those vehicles would be only possible of this calvacade of mass transit. These flurries of hauling hell-bent rides if not ill-content in my iconoclasm, speak to radical identities just not there. Not there, but elsewhere. ********* *******An elliptical beginning-ending where he or she topples the effect of authenticity, the thing providing the concourse of change, and merely call themselves the tarmac of the long-lonesome highway--where else are we transcient, but not pedestrian. Numbness, graphic stella to an impenetrable apophasis, can be solid state, a sort of available space in limbo for belied presence, where to claim stable resolve. The grim reaper waits in the recesses of your mind--your dreams are his sieve. Pour it into the waking state--dream alive hard and fast unconscious impulses... ********* ******Beyond Rangoon can be found on youtube--Spalding Grey is briefly in it and its good cinema. Interesting part of this world... Know this about Burma, Myanmar, according Finding George Orwell in Burma, a book about that society, these folks read, and a lot in English. But it is because their technocracy is pulp and writ. Whereas here we tout poplore and need rights begged for and agonist in our reluctance to be prone deliberatively by those who shouldn't have that social executor. The answer is speak to the absence in our passion, place it upon the meritable conscious map where the others' indefinite chorus allows for its reverence. Imagine an inspired world-view pro-west, but has that whole psychologically rather adept eastern meditations flexing all the antiquity evanescent standard, superable and concerning those nodding east, but right there and silent & beautiful for them. ******* **********Really beautiful: think a little, but not too much--say little, mean it all... There is something else at the center of the universe, you are first out of the door, the project of your worth. Characterize yourself with dreams. Stop thinking of you. Draw your mom in her eternal complexion--find her heart bisecting the universe like all the rivers destined to enter the same-sea of mindfulness. Leave family and gods behind-- the world of silence either compliments your youthful patience, or clamors like tarrying stones, staggering in your fate by the still waters with a pretense of no known beginning. Think on your impermanence. Reflect the trees. Distinguish your exile in sky aerobatic recession. Think of G*d anywhere but by identity telos. Deny Creator-being if your will to live is memories of common doctrine. Because remember, what came recommended to you, and if you assume provincial antecedents, your privy is to consult w/treated and amended "practice."