Reify the leisure in the suns arising

I was up between 5:30-6. The cool am air was black and ambient like a few moments earlier when I was sleeping under the same caricature of dawn & pitch. Even by a few minutes til 7 o'clock, still as dark out, I'm looking out across the road to the old lady's house while her trees allow a heady nod of tiresome chimera. For a moment the continuity was mantram comfort--mind murmurs of stimulation remoteness & unconcern. The day tho' by its hastened beat still has a poignant absolute before the talking heads in cosmopolitan bivouac show the waking life's foundering time, the frenetic temperature of impatience in its popular throttling. A halloo seems in order - would have for me - the reflections on answers to a manufactured duty, how our world permanently gives a deft account on who it is that peeks thru dormancy to its very dismantling--is the reawakened reification of a sun's leisure. ***** ***********primal dance - abstract gait - aulic wrought reverence, poeses topoi on poplore 88888888-------living, living, going, going, ronching on bionic rats. I wish I could write that in Judeo-arabic. It would be a ghazzal. Nice Arabic word for poem. I think quoting folks consistantly is bullshit. As austere a definition for 1 can be, is to remove the blinds of your reluctance. ********* **********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 works. 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. ********** ********"You Can't Go Home Again" motivates me. Our eyes in Confession's meeting in the reason of lamp light, an inescapable night gotten to as we lurch out of a day from its alliterative dangers. The day of time--sorrowing; day of vast intervals between sabbatical. The sheens of light unperturbed, solid as dust mote so avoidant like a creator's eye sealed upon his world eye skein 'pon appearance derm. The day wrested for respite--the creative, "passive" in its unchallenged revenue. If there is a thought, then there is the principle to thought, the simple beginnings. If there is ... intelligence in the world, then there is its beginning, the intellect. For every condition there is its potential. This simplicity is known as G-d, according to the rationalists: If we dream thereby we must exist. To exist then whence that energy promoted reflection upon the necessary condition, there is a principle to existence. Though it may be beyond a dualistic approach as our minds accord, still one may necessarily expect a principle behind that value. But Prime Mover still remains only a wish. "Value" is a strange word--is only luck if what is implicit in Belief accords with Right Action in the acsendant's reconciling impermanence. Send your impermanence-in-denial regards, I'm sure the dead'll understand. Their ineffable station in the existential loam seems to be the mean of what to "understand" could ever offer out of Greater Will. ******** ********As austere a definition for one can be--his or her self-professional possession of conscious crowd, would-be awakened, is to remove the blinds of their reluctance to discriminate pathlessness in the crowd's repair. Foundational impulses and intentions redound with or without what is implicit in Belief. If my essense may offer something exciting paths of self-profession, it may be parcelled in empty gifts of soulful plateaux, presentiment of self fading in ellipses of path's end: there, there, or there. ********* **********I was up between 5:30-6. The cool am air was black and ambient like a few moments earlier when I was sleeping under the same caricature of dawn & pitch. Even by a few minutes til 7 o'clock, still as dark out, I'm looking out across the road to the old lady's house while her trees allow a heady nod of tiresome chimera. For a moment the continuity was mantram comfort--mind murmurs of stimulation remoteness & unconcern. The day tho' by its hastened beat still has a poignant absolute before the talking heads in cosmopolitan bivouac show the waking life's foundering time, the frenetic temperature of impatience in its popular throttling. A halloo seems in order - would have for me - the reflections on answers to a manufactured duty, how our world permanently gives a deft account on who it is that peeks thru dormancy to its very dismantling--is the reawakened reification of a star's leisure. ************* ******** I felt I should've shown deference for Valerie where otherwise I had not. I tend to stave off the mystery, or the draw, while getting what makes it opportune fulminate. It is my attempt to be intricate in all the artifacts of my well-being... I thought about the two most influencial women in my life last night when I took a drag off of my cigarette. Mom in her own way remains untallied. When I ex haled I tasted incense in my mouth. I imagined Alison's breath channelling thru me. In dreams they've both, Valerie & Alison, been emulated in musing dynamic, how my interests would enliven my brand of relativity out of headwaters thru symetrical sensuality these women allow. Alison not only thru past dispensation draws me into her maternal wisdom in remote sanction, but out of a completely different chamber in the cosmic house.A place of little actual daliance. Almost but not quite negligible because I sorted out her influence in contemporary assignations, though Valerie as significant other's agency is subtle traditional rappore & of course in current form a solace in what I feel I need. Rather they are a furrow in the same garden assuming the season of difference, tho' I'm inclined to wander from its access to the fruit born of both their qualities. Mrs Abraham-Lakes with the superable vantage, her reach through me is expression for my rapt grasp. If I know I approach the stellar nerve, light-vessel sound-angel to wander bank to bank, sensual poles of intimacy, making Valerie secondary, of course this wouldn't work. My sense that she is the substance in everything beautiful seems to develop "shared"-- the quality of her sauntering love where I lie alone with her but reaching for release as her star's gleaming appanage. From the very real etiquette I'm imagining verily all women thru the looking glass into her sweet earth agency... in the end beauty is elusively tethered to certainty how she is meant for me, Valerie... is still as anonymous in the love of a strange career in my fate. Valerie. Sweet Valerie. Anonymous? Think Ideal Mystery, exotic taste, those lips. This is precisely not waxing poetic over long time ago relationship. I think I'm able to develop a different sensitivity toward who I would have loved once--that I am in love now. And what that makes me imagine in the sea of possibilities, is my life moving toward a goal and reunion now. I don't leave myself behind doors of my past. Nostalgia is not what I accomplish here, I think. In the likely event the reader wouldn't know--Valerie & I expect a reunion sometime next yr. She's got out-of-state responsibilities...