There 's no place like space-memorialized

******** *******I knapped for an hr or so--my respite in the usual, while at "work" unhurried & mindless. I wake up like the only companion to today's dim sully weather, assessing in timelessness, quixotic in immeasureable unpierced being. Just the world lulling like conscious satellites, so vague individually, but proven in something curious, more revealed still in my approach like the enlistment in one broad character. I take exception that I am belabored in such standard silence, eternity covering its guffaw--the measure of mind pillaresque, just stately, doing the day's long ends with or without me. If langoring answers' gray sky--a time-keeper mollified--were realistic for intimating being rarely understood (and still understood!)--yet in myth's garment of climate's greater will, I can see no need for redound authorship in this spiritual freedom. ******** *******I am intense, but once balance is redound, true nature, subtle, moth to flame, butterfly to monarchical thoughts and none of the appeal to victory, no self-profession. Gandhi, spoken in the guise of cinema, still offers confidence? while responding to whether he is ambitious. In stoic purport he puts simply, Hopefully not, so exposed my instincts--I am not entirely reproven, and I am elastic there. I pretty much like this time of yr. I think by not being pissy about it lent really a jewish equivalent. I shouldn't have to look for it, but only in accepting a sense of euphoria, like people's aloof sunder of more simple times. It really made me realize when and what it is to be relevant if I try to be critical of people. People might better be offended under different religious expression. Sitting out the days at home & anticipating a reified fellowship in this time of yr, 2010's Thanksgiving was the last shore in bellowing seas, the last toast to Mom within this life, whilst Christ-revelers out encouraging societal norms--I'd rather quietly listen to The Baobab Orchestra - Bul Ma Miin. (last night, I did revel) Reading & tribalist embracing, my fixation on time's slaking well in this dispensation, I'd record a motive in mind--I thought about reading but in the presence of an-other who flies the proverbial thought-kite. Kite flying, conceptually borne in space above our heads (would be) like the room in full regale of perspiring efforts in the balm of unity of Thought. But, today I can't reconcile that anyone is interested in the illumined notions of space I alone see--these power-spots are the poetry of my kicks. The manufacturing of confidence... it is in the end everything the world owes us, meaning everything else that seemed like love, and victory, and foundational and mercurial, was just a new ember to keep one vital. If we live we love, but live we must. ******* ******What is alien in ever provincializing one's temperate identity? Conventions merited thru accretions--the border is patrolled as enlistment of culture from without, while its guard discovers a society thrum, nothing of the city too hot, shitty city hot adjuring of social living is best, tho' resolving exiles anyone's whose askesis had been nowhere is splendor & light of solitarian self-profession. Who else is out the door first, love or death - who else is this imminent in a statement of presence than the one as close to the outward fact, as if, and long enough to change the hero, find himself the literal millionth of a million--there, realistic, shrouded-empty, airwaves interred. He's reachable--and reveals his expectations, rather intellection--the silence to enumerate, you would. Of course it is recommended to call our distortions or salient diminution something language would emote! Its content or desired symbology--the self-aware flotilla, born monstrous, creaturely, is the wrath of those painful intimations, not the glory, and is a spectre of the primordially creative. ******** *******Probably more than a "hmmm," connotative, illoquence timely, thinking thru what fuels my brother's appropriation of Kaddish, Ginzberg's, marauded eastern europe what-if-I'm-a-jew in there somewhere mapped onto here in Newbury, Ca. an urban arbor to distinguish it from urban jungle in and around it. The book lies where normally a bedstand would be placed. Mark's kayak hanging on the wall, this small 1 room crib w/ only enough living space immediately around the futon. The room let out to 2nd floor patio as if to inspire a note of relevant earth, yr around it's easy to imagine he'll leave the door open. The Pacific craven over every bit the immediate ground beneath us, garment in qualities the water would inspire, mainly appertain, in this proud land--think Native. Not a sigh--Zenzberg. An electric sigh--lightning cast but into the newly light-availed emerald sea--the seas plurb & murmur is subterfuge of language--a sigh of aum. ******* ***** Night's sound ravers, of whom S. Joplin in lucky media I was audience to, this man's look looked dusty, made me feel dusty - old, I suppose. My very name was supposed there as a 10-11yr old--I had to. Evolvingthrough it meant Getting turned onto soft music, as stages in life go slow jazz izz without the news slo-current physical success once was - my last seen geist of silences--unlucky in the face of the beat, feeding it while changed by it w/nothing enlisted so much as yesterday poorly represented need for it, I'll thank Wes M. It was to me that things yasss every color in white light, imagine one does or does not actually see, but is mindful, laterally all-knowing under white-noise vibratory properties--all colors seen in the former, all sounds & soundlessness--that night paint is heard in the latter. The music isn't mild in phonic praxis and loose desgns on intensity, but elects the tote of more to rally, requires a rancor in meditation's strange ground to be nature's alien bee-catcher's climate of the greater will. Impressions would have the listener believe in long distance runner thwack life-living footfall, heart-trot of truth--it's Full. *********** ****Art is whether or not there is a scream in him wanting to get out in a special way.” ― Chaim Potok, My Name Is Asher Lev Picasso said : "Learn the rules like a pro, so you can break them like an artist." Fantastic, literally fascinans, because the sport of rule conscious world prevails upon is the agonist spirit. But if the present moment is seen as precisel y a beginning, and in all beginnings all things are possible, a rule is negligible with our first impulse. Potok's favorite painting was Picasso's Guernica. I might see a thread with raw feeling he invokes, a "scream" needing to get out. ******* ******The Prince woke in a forest lair, glyphs in ones just-so wanting of toil-mind opens, and ease is barely framed--this animal habitat of an anonymous sensual beast, place verily used, and rarely confused mind event in such an exacting cause for need of repair. The next night's journey in potent thoughts content, he found himself alighted from a lake seacraft and into gauzy dusk forest know-nothing up to a fawn lying petra-faceted at his feet. Not-to-touch (a sensitive spectral shore, thoughts prone) but by the tip of his shoe so that sublime mask unused-to, silent pant, his and the baby deer in moment of the same wandering query, its mother is near... The Prince is particularly obliged by the morning's arrival expecting the dream adulterated by season's source, a day's lens, unreserved by summary author, sees the drumbeat-like 12hr daliance the dreams discourse, vulnerably dispatched. Humbly recorded in his heart, the angel who once said, you'll be up here tonite, & finally nods in cherubim witness, the world is served, spirit-body goes, "what" - not inquisitive, just pointing at her. Explanate, damn cool, the aum tat. ******* *******Happiness is a warm gun? The warm-gun wasn't as shined-out to renew identity in this kind of manic grasp. I stood in the corner of the garage facing the road in my nephews shoes. He took this perch often smoking, wishing, crying, & more remote from his Nanny than I was in the duration of this pocket of time. Her banished benevolence and her path cessation of permissed stillness is somewhere when I could smile, but I'm out of the rain--her ancient message is aerobatic, unbodied, and not fluid. He's lost and getting philosophical in his thuggery (in jail)--I glean sparks from his impossible rebellion fire, his confidence manufactured and not from his mired intellection to kill his fooled heart. My body gets stunted there in the moment, barking out of garage guffaw, his centering cloud just-so, mine exhausting all the white smoke. I can imagine getting clear having been committed to him--he'd get contemplative, social, awake & offer me back what Marley, Dylan, and others did to make me change, I betted. He'd been shooting-up up until about 2 months ago. I knew he was eating pills for 3 yrs, I figure. He vaguely wandered and never good enough to experience the shrouded traveler doctrinaire way to present himself, albeit in no-book, but instead in apparitional appetite, making my emotional availability like a conscious prop to a certain potent way to turn he'd rather excuse. ******* *******mentioned to Valerie--but fully elaborate here. The normal world is missing you. Frost on the ground, Mica Brzezinski (sp?) dazzled, Ozzie (our maine coon cat) and his bushy back-end--and his runt sorta sister, Banesa, shadowing the margins in beat cat anonymity. On the way to work I'm hacking and gagging as if you ought not see me like this, and prising a day out of a domestic life we're sharing, just not actively? Standing out in the garage cold blah here at work my little squirrel friends in sensory flange, the one of my mind's eye, once reflecting the mania of alighted daliance in its denizenship there in my old neighborhood--rampant in my mind as I look in at perfect trial of unity. People with lives all damned by foolish personal drama, on their way to school & work, but that you're more complete, like that, and knowing better, could answer them back in conversation I'm just not heady-enough in my aversion to understand. After a shower this am. pulling on my clothes, my splindly legs need the heat of the otherwise faint inner-sun, just cloud head-high, resource scanning, persona-acknowledging of those folks groomed in the horizon, their salutories a bit amiss in my feeling that they welcome me at the gate of the dawn break. I dream of waking up in a dreamt room, doorless, appetitic, hunter-gatherer intercepted--you want to go from here, I do to bring back something as if to a point of concentration, and don't know how to stay or even enlist how to come back... ********* *******I met myself in a dream, it was all night. I am the its ambassador to waking reality. The reap of twilight's glad stay rt as dawn lays its diamond hand cobbled kabbalah, washing the salt from salty brow, is the power unknown in soul ubiquity. 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. The lasting seance before I was to move out of pattering landed gulfs of power-spots--these places of sterile resolve & gravid change, I had brought a 19th century edition of Flavius Josephus' "Antiquities of..." to a place whose biology was as similar to the agrarian grace to that of Dad's born haunts. Thorny brambly roadflush wall now has been removed, and naked skyblue water tower, what I'm leaning up against, has a view to clashy well-trafficked city limits. In cool dew, I rode my bike out across here Ogden's field once coming from Wesley neighborhood into Parkers Mill toward Beaumont where I lived. Into the multiple acres of corn rows, I didn't feel my youth in as much agelessness, winter's night w/ certain rein on surface met, the sense of anonymity and room to breath in the loamy, suspiring farm. A scratchy corn leaf cut my pinky and leaves a scar apparent even now over 30yrs later. A bogey from my attention-expecting over-stimulated mind seemed sourceless but night personae affecting--not ever actually seeing the old man who owned the land, I couldn't warm up to interlocution in some babble of excuses like this evening's reconnaissance could be exacted for anyone other than me to embower shrouded traveler solitude. Probably 15-20 minutes thru purple skies gate of night, but satiate like the droning water tower, circle 4 references the break in silence in my advance out from natural egression to the near suburbs and belch of normalcy. ******* ********Its potency shouldn't be mocked, whilst what myth raison d'etre confides is crowd consciousness/open crowd, challenged by alleged dispensation, yet thru uniform pronouncement: A myth is the fodder of ready psychologies--perspective is no-direction-home, since there is the thereness of only a relic of our compulsion. That I give deference to disambiguous cultural victories, begins or ends--the journey is an enlistment of impermanence. A world-to-come mimics reprehensible margins, one feeling suspect of dreams reloading. ***** ********When you find yourself impossibly no longer mindful, it is because your thimbleful of consciousness is yet to be pierced by the needle of sentience awaiting in objective reality. Old garments are shed like old bodies--new bodies are donned as the appreciating veil of existence! ******* *****I am intense, but once balance is redound, true nature, subtle, moth to flame, butterfly to monarchical thoughts and none of the appeal to victory, no self-profession. Gandhi, spoken in the guise of cinema, still offers confidence? while responding to whether he is ambitious. In stoic purport he puts simply, Hopefully not, so exposed my instincts--I am not entirely reproven, and I am elastic there. I pretty much like this time of yr. I think by not being pissy about it lent really a jewish equivalent. I shouldn't have to look for it, but only in accepting a sense of euphoria, like people's aloof sunder of more simple times. It really made me realize when and what it is to be relevant if I try to be critical of people. People might better be offended under different religious expression. Sitting out the days at home & anticipating a reified fellowship in this time of yr, 2010's Thanksgiving was the last shore in bellowing seas, the last toast to Mom within this life, whilst Christ-revelers out encouraging societal norms--I'd rather quietly listen to The Baobab Orchestra - Bul Ma Miin. (last night, I did revel) Reading & tribalist embracing, my fixation on time's slaking well in this dispensation, I'd record a motive in mind--I thought about reading but in the presence of an-other who flies the proverbial thought-kite. Kite flying, conceptually borne in space above our heads (would be) like the room in full regale of perspiring efforts in the balm of unity of Thought. But, today I can't reconcile that anyone is interested in the illumined notions of space I alone see--these power-spots are the poetry of my kicks. The manufacturing of confidence... it is in the end everything the world owes us, meaning everything else that seemed like love, and victory, and foundational and mercurial, was just a new ember to keep one vital. If we live we love, but live we must. ************ ****" And Arya elaborates a messiah borrowed & alighting our congregations, this anointed, by the divine garden, the flesh in conversation with Good, a contract Higher. In comical martial graffitti, the populism of it, a billboard with painted prescription on what harbors end-of-days scenarios: An Iranian comes up and taps a Pal on the back, says, ole Daniel, (the prophet) the qadi (means "judge") of time made available his Excellence... The Phoenicians, the Assyrians, who else but our original nations show the Quran orienting, divining our license defending Al Quds suffering nascent abridgment, but who else will prevail? **note, Daniel is not named in the Quran. (think: Apocrypha) That in Susa, Iran his memorialization is redound and ancient. Fascinating, provincial like you bunch of heathens, ha!--there is been and ever will be biblical mission, biblical propaganda, and the implicit thing w/committed scheme thru belief, the failure of self-actualization as goal like it applies timely, lest it become universalized. One's struggle in Belief systems makes the least of the rationalist's query into the acsendant's confidence--yet instructive in elements of myth, defines different sensitivity, characterized without dissociation a Creator or a principle would have otherwise been revered by the "other." To be blunt, one's Christ need not abideth every poignant moment of release, as to say what is Nativist from without.