Burnt-Orange Bookcase--its terminal content

There was an old burnt-orange painted 3 tier bookcase in my room about waist high just at the threshold when coming out of the rest of the basement. I live in Beaumont neighborhood for 27yrs. My bro's books were set in it for yrs, many lay in there prone to me as this place of my making kept a concept-to-gather in and out of my approach in this inherited space. One book, Carlos Castenada's, lent images even tho' they were musings adduced thru incomplete anthropologies, no different than Joshua's warnings of cannibals--Israelites bound for Canaan. Concretized biblacy w/o any excuses, which lived stowed and foundering in my counterfeit academician fealties--alighted only toward a reflective margin, another concern in self-actualization. Don Juan's plaintive desert pilgrimages, a thought-world, in another arabia equal in its temporal theophany. If impermamence has philosophy I & Nature soundly recalls, dreamt out hagiographa -as it is in boughs of origins, these are places to jump from out of the 2ooo yr box of time in a momentary conscious prop. Viniculture in its Alice & Wonderland narrative, explained by Moses' successor, has interesting farcical huge grape bunches described like libations dramatized while supporting man's psychic privy. If finding myself laid-down in my favorite place (the sorta protagonist's 1rst initiation in The Teachings of Don Juan) , power-spot attention--no loitering temptations to divest in from the sublime, my appetite to change would have had any alchemical romance fully realized then. Heavens seemed tacit, ground of consciousness portrays vulnerability to any adulteration. ****** *******When I was probably 19 I did construction, pouring warehouse floors for BlueGrass Mini-Storage on Stone Rd. Before the crew got there one mid-am, some cold fantasy, blank concourse Lexington neither seen close up what was far away, nor is place drawing me abysally if only meeting self landed. I go into the portajohn no less than Dali staring in a mirror making his creative sensitivities wrought. The stench was its usual, and with the heat and air just so I didn't notice. The fodder plant next door kept supplying wafting sorgum-rich dissociation, the new concrete formaldyheide-like in cruxifiction with animal meal. I went and laid in a pile of gravel, stimulated, thinking about banana fields in the West Bank--my travels to England to begin with, for a taste of elite jewish scholarly tea. In a way intuiting the import of a lucky journey right before a terrible proliferation in restraining measures for free movement between Tiberius and Rachael's Tomb going south from us, where we would reside upon Moshav Fatsa'il. Summer sun couldn't indicate this same mosquito heat--sprite of intellection, mellowing in gravel exudation of strange peace. A horizon everyone may meet while my path derives from an indefinite relay in fate, season's middling effect makes a journey's giant leap Ky flush against Israel doing Israel, her sun halloo stings my hand visor, winks from the other side of solar yellowy mask. ******* *******Primo Levi was there writing aerobatic evidence in the graveyard of minds to furnish a means of inner-liberation. Inner-scrutiny is the result of fragmentary needs in what one calls the unique understanding where identity lacks fluency. ***** *********At Olivia's apt in Petah Tikva, outside Tel Aviv, Rob & I were staying our last night in the Fertile Crescent, the Mediterranean just within a ml. The meaning of this outlier of Tel Aviv, (Yaffa), like HaTikva, the Hope, Petah means "gate." Peach orchards were the first rather halcyon garden cosmos Sabras (Palestine or Israeli born) miss. Right off having come from Olivia's Mizrahi (Jews of Middle-Eastern origin) Mom & Dad's elegant digs, then to her small less mod place, I feel rather lost again & suspended in a world inventive enough to have me prone. The mystery rather unpierced by my cuss-mind, what spirit awaits, crysalis reserved in vacuous slumber, a new day's quality into a dismal state, while the euphoria of this journey is replacing its alien garment. She points me to my next 8hrs of respite, of mothership spelling out I followed her here, and as I leave she'll contest what is rather less divined as homeward. I light a cigarette in the blade of night light above me furling from the window hush. When I reached for it, it was like a kid wrought to apprehend a truant kite. Maybe I'm compelled--our stay is stunted one 24hrs short, a shams (sun's) lithium quaver in his apprehensive ray--an inconvenient adieu, the apophatic day ward of an approximate night, like upside, w/sky arrayed in the last bloom in aerobatic caravansarai. ******* *******It was my predilection to serve the present moment on the recommend of strong historical language, in the case of Egyptology, Mom's trivia on Akhenaton's son Tutankhamun. Dad at the wheel, Mom hands out potato salad and sandwiches, and a few of us boys lie scattered in state at the rhythm of traffic through the volition of our RV, Catskills bound. Dad's attention to the road plied the further next several hundred yards arcing me into attention over the cooked pavement's reflection one is apt to portray in weary glyph, mind sundered w/thought's pique--an apparition, a thing out of solar eternity. I'd seen such margin's shore the same way, tho' at night, the moon alighted spiritually true, paints us behind screens in solitarian fluency, in phoenix chromatic gauze & suspense. While I'm in my car coming back into the old neighborhood, the road in shadows prevails before I'm realizing to project out of pitch mind, and gloss contagion thought's visual. The succession of serpentine waves is cinched-up at the last glance before my headlights dissolve having pierced this two dimensional equinox. Only Egypt has the contours of antiquity to assuage a command of its newer less memorialized surface, a deflated epicurean suburb--She's magical thru a raven's omen whispered in the silent leap from the pages of Metatrone's prescription of one's impermanence. He prophesized, known in pseudepigraphia, in the court of Thoth, by one account--the road seems to end in dreamy approbity. ******** *********Well, we still have February for an actual devastating icestorm... The trees around this neighborhood offer their icy limbs like prone ornaments. Driving out toward the airport on a busy country road, the mistletoe which grew in the adjacent still preserved farm opposite of me going-out, used to have only 2-3 bunches, now there are a couple of dozen in the lurch of trees agonized but hanging-on despite the local gentrification. The fields of this farm really weren't such an ambivalent drive-by prop; apophasis is a likely standard in calvacades of metropolitans and yet what is not mentioned is a little different than the silence in a dreamy trek. My own now halycon footfall looks sated in throaty frost unfurling in a natural berth. A weathering garment persists by consensus in this Ky morning heralding recondite significance. ****** ********At Hemlock Lodge we take lunch, Mom's beef stew--like you may imagine, but better & with chunks of eggplant. I'm the youngest in tow, high school age w/ two brothers, and one of their friend, a Muslim Pakistani by way of Zimbabwe-- on a day much like this 30 degree weather. The effect natura naturans was blunted. Certainly I measured something ephemeral, an elemental feeling in the forest air. A sense in leafy impressions alliterated, a path parchment-like, a world already written, an opened book having left me intoning passages of smiling shaded and recently covered pages. I reckon such concourse - a surprise in arriving, being cold when cold, vital when clemency is spectral, but now ole brown was yet defined--a mendicant enchantment, magic sung too confidently by way of stronger & earlier surmise of objective reality receiving. The thwart of purpose looked grasped as opposed to this provenance if Natural Bridge arrays something emblematic, self-conceived. It's worth it "living" if only to catch-up-- mnemotechniques make an inevitable rationale when the box of identity is checked thru an experience appreciating in the rigorous clue to one's margins sussing it w/o sublime progeny. ******** *******Hirelings in Eilot, Red Sea, called Yam Suf actually meaning Sea of Reeds, we were as precise in a vegetable migration. Loam enthroned, sand albeit, mostly other Europeans, few Americans--me & Rob is all who I counted amongst. At the Peace cafe frequented by socially estranged ex-pats, drinking beer straight off in the exceedingly exquisite low-earth desert ams, crawling out of yellowy bricked, white stoned domiciles in the neighborhood. Good tea served too, as good a decent black tea, chai of usual Fertile Crescent fare. Some view to mts out into the Negev kept the attention of this dude from Brazil. I wanted as much in this furthest appeal, his mt in backyard S. American climes, brought nigh--holy, holy his mt and now framed in contested distance, spires in non-sensual redolence, f0rm remittant enough to flex in high god. Al-rahim, Eloh, Wakan Tanka, whosoever trickled effect in hagiography may have yielded an ascendant goof. And I felt it particularly a consequencial wish. So if it were to lapse, it's because a state of perfection is things just so as before you. A mere peak moment, perfection elucidating value perhaps and if one didn't live to represent an absolute, an easily referenced value. Confidence in peak moment may not reduce truth into a digestible source. Value statements are we the grievous sentient hydro-ape making our first mistake if mind alluvium strangles the fluency in one's cult of self-reliance--his/her philosophy w/ its horizon white thread dark thread capsulation. ******** *******I've been out of my element. Except most things possible are painfully discovered. I'm sleeping in the casket of buried treasure and 'pon my incarnational bones--the grave mentions an unknown name--I'm not suppose to be here. My bro's hole n heart congenital problem gratifies a world that wouldn't have been here... Liquid skies in his starchamber, & all I can think of is me pharonic, just dust sterile, and he's the broom. I know it existentially, thinking his trial took place in this mind theatre. In time and in place an egyptian, the elite, will have had relevant & inevitably ever to be transmuted new histories, our portion serves its compilation til now, will change. Upon whose animicule tarrying in the surface of an unknown dispensation to birth vision, protects the emmer from the waterhorse. ******* *******I think my pet at the shop, scoffs at his sister & brother in their high falutin' digs here--but understands their monarchical manicure, world-framed of open windows, reclination. The brujo which arose once in my perifery now is just the cat making the places I haunt a more curious extent of my repose. A "brujo," Native American-Spanish word, is like a warlock in the guise of a coyote--solid imagery developed in Carlos Castenada's The Teachings of Don Juan. I hadn't already read this reference-- while apparitionally apropos, Jerusalem is become decisor resonance--I read it since that Autumn/Winter, gave enough nuance like in margin's shadowy rather than reflective, torn and expositional in a broken surface to abyssal--(no "m") fountain--voluntas well of concentration. And behind me, the chair I'm sitting on has become a little more placated in a silent permiss. The little butterfly thought restored in these places - a ferrel-minded sentience but languid in subtle respite. Animal feline in its tremor-slight attention, hints of feathers falling, shared hale of the moment. He's houndlike really (Cornel's cuz of no-name) & as to characterize spiritbody, but the stealth is certainly an absolute a cat sorts out. Makes sense Louie Armstrong is the first to call someone "Cat" in folk thoughts recommending who's cool. I wonder and am likely right Isaac Bashevis Singer had Hasid poignancy believing ancestors frequenting these creaturely lights. And home w/the idea Kerouac theodicizes. ******* *******Gun Appreciation Day--here comes the myopic bunch of intellectually stunted americans touting more guns... Strangely, more gun deaths in the US than as industrialized and modern other nations, but more guns on the street is the answer. What else other than that reality (European) would have an impact on these haters? or say necessarily barbed individuals? This f'd up rigor in these expectations to excuse a cooler less political response to now 600 more deaths since the school shooting in Ct. Wait, wait I'm not trying to warrant yet another reason to be less impressed w/the rhetoric. But imagine this conversation: "Do you trust me?" And the correct response being, "Yes, it is easier that way." (Bukowski) That is something to cultivate, as to say developing in a way that has very ironic agonist principles, should readily "compete" w/ a martial ethic, and win the ideal circumstance of less boundaries. "Easier" is what this conversation is about. Imagine the plaintive voice of those chil'run whose lives prophetically suffer. If you spoke in that "voice," see it under less duress, its lightning reach is exiled from contented earth, but our preachment is not to sunder like imminent catastrophe--the rule is awe in a world more available, not less. Do you think about why it makes sense ALso not to have to refine oneself in constant defense? Jackbooted thugs are closer around the corner than the gov likely to knock on my door & depose me (in my monarchical slouch toward nirvana). Notice, many enthusiasts relish the gov intervention scenario as to what revolution is going to look like. Ahh, the Megiddo pedestrian ideal. ******** ******I have never put into words this early memory out in eastern Ky. ...from the margins, not suspect as I was young, what I thought I heard was - & then just image. A kid maybe 11-13yrs old had been rambling along side the country road we? were on, going into Poosey Ridge part of Madison cty. His gait was unremitting seeing or hearing the imminent framed. Just a blood-innocent, blanched of haunting sorta commune, so rather at-home, clothes of farm labors...and allaying in an approach of backroad same direction as Dad phased at the one odd affect. I felt I was already in thrall of the inauthentic while momentary reflection lent the miasma events of who evaporates in the cull of time & Dad querying if to appeal to my older bros. The boy had a snake apparently striking in evocation all around his head, the snake wrapped around his neck. Yellowy grass sprite-like into the uncultivated field adjacent to our drive-by chimes in a rather remote sacralized visage hiding mind phenomenally accosted. And what did I see? ****** *******POTOK out of his book (for me In the Beginning), and Elie Wiesel, have a sense of possibilities, a decisor element, certain exiles, Who actually is put on trial... Primo Levi was there writing aerobatic evidence in the graveyard of minds to furnish a means of inner-liberation. Inner-scrutiny is the result of fragmentary needs in what one calls the unique understanding where identity lacks fluency. Natalie Goldberg & Juden-deutsche: Having read The Long Lonesome Highway by a woman writer is been melodious enough where other women writers feel unique in the same approach, Karen Armstrong and now Miriam Weinstein, author of Yiddish. Yiddish is Jewish tradition's moma loshn, the mother-language afterall. I had left off family situation on occasions, Zadie (Russian) and Poppa (Lithuanian) particularly, appealing to lavender-moods and in expressive mendicant sojourns to make sense of the wanderers event of this language historical merit. The two old men under the interlocution from the yawn of their shared old world, creates a pre-20th century alliterative beatitude: potatoes gleem before sabbath preparation--deceased relatives acquiry in the now obsolete chalk, bluing, and wax--seems typical, domesticity evolved in the deprecare of missing sweater buttons. These men are versed thru inheritance of common-senses in different carpentry tinkering, adjuring in family fatherly duties that could have been lasting... Not understanding one verb between these patriarchs stirring the dust thickening my yearning blood to bring experience into as roundly a yield in such a life--subtle concerns maintained, while their temperate graffitti constitutes the normative fire I expected to attend. The outside of the synagogue, a brick bldg, where I'd lean facing Maxwell St, left chalky evidence on my shoulder. Immediately I thought the muscular posit in place-of-meeting, house-of-prayer, now looked relicky. Traces of it more in its lateral primacy, stained in my world-view--sands enduring ledger where the acolyte had sat upon the ground. Tasting it before it had painted me. I thought that unfortunate. The sense of it is like markings of unconscious impulse, ego uncultivated, in ready media of splunked walls accounting of ethos specter. And then as soon the fate of light applied and toward the compliment of culture...and unanswerable if it would be universalized. Maybe I was less concerned with Who. What is suspect isn't culture, but the vulture of change having left few social artifacts to exercize something contemporary (from further back) with signs of even stranger elliptical now-inventive origins. ******* *****The higher you climb, the more you are exposed. Now I'm about getting to this language one says investiture for belief is credible "literally," as opposed to universalized. So, mission is rt out the window and identity is suspect. Charles Freeman gets to the inevitable appropriation of the crystal palace, "the kingdom would involve a dramatic reversal in values" - that Jeshua, as opposed to the too easily reconciled one... ***Luke 6:24-5***But woe to you who are rich, for you have already received your comfort. Woe to you who are well fed now, for you will go hungry. Woe to you who laugh now, for you will mourn and weep Something like a primary instinct, posture in this path's tailoring reception, my physical success is the herald of prone verticality, pillaresque awareness well-of-promise in its prerogative of collapse, and horizon's distant guffaw layering of splendor: wind of mind, climate of greater will, atmosphere, pleroma, shore of space content in another deep-aside... Capsulation of emptiness, plain of consciousness, salutations on nothing! The thrall of loamy silence, my apple tree stood in the backyard garden, fallow & mown now, is elastic while I sat rt down under it the last fall I resided so close to country margins. A sense of it was its muscular & untamed limby fro--electric staggered boughs all rounded almost to same halo-reach, but also a decisor escape in the place of my making. ******* *******Exoteric ritual, mimicry in consolations, are the likely filter to this power-thing that sustains the faithful, makes furtive typically strict banners in his/her approach lending the intensity or musterion undiscoverable. The fury in motive (per belief ism) has resource w/praxis in essential reality, tho' self-actualization is elementally ineluctable when relishing identity rather in the tarrying of a becoming, by observation. ************Devise or agency? Agency as geist or something real? Device, experience under conceptual umbrella, would-be episteme offering student of life a prone self-same subject...! Agency is instinct in the acquiry of certain goal expectorated thru a deep-aside, rather the distance-strung. the outside of the synagogue, a brick bldg, where I'd lean facing maxwell, left chalky evidence on my shoulder--immediately I thought the muscular posit in place-of-meeting, house-of-prayer, now looked relicky. I thought that unfortunate.*****************When I was in a place of my making in my university career. 80s. By way of full disclosure, I don't advocate this behavior, the liminality still instructive. One nite really glossy upon nich'ville rd, midnightish mosquito supine in wait, I'm going down to the Hideaway, smoking a joint in my car then walking w/it as I'm there where I wanted to be, apposite in approach to met-goal some stupid beginning rutting my way to point B. I throw the rest of it into the butts in swathes off the sidewalk where cars would prk. Coming out of the show later exquisite luck in finding it while under liquid black sky I may as well have willed, ...chirps from folks on their porches if I act suspect may draw me into their vexations. Just looking for something from guffaw interest, tethers to minutiae at their fore. My hand grabbed the very fobbed star-shell I tossed amid gum once sweet, tarmac bitter, teeth-sentient concept of anyone's footfall. *************The moss is good enough for Rimbaud to go on and lay his head. His haunts around Charleville deign the event in wanting now to know everything. At the "old" anthropology bldg on its bench protuberance, old bldg moldy bricks at my back become merely a trace place, lent his intensity, what symmetry is arrogated, passage unforced by my counterfeit key. While monism reveals my incitement to a deep-aside, I made rounds to campus or various outer city-limits, some posit, basically vague discipline toward meditation--my varied psychological writ of others in provenance of superable reach. In Beaumont prk snow still on the ground and within violable goal in standard stupendously glad power-spot, I lean against a beech tree in yellow wind-dried grasses, read by dissociation of my cold-lamp malaise the reform of the chimera of flight thru silence. ***************There's no place in the calendar like the report of monday bleary in leaves eddied up in a blue wind. Inner-voice is an anesthesia, and I forgot why the doctor had me on the table, having dreamt my cure. The doctor sleeps like the divine mechanic, his measured passporte naturalizes encantations upon his patient whose lens plies his vitality, while the indefinite chorus judges his disease.***************Exoteric ritual, mimicry in consolations, are the likely filter to this power-thing that sustains the faithful, makes furtive typically strict banners in his/her approach lending the intensity or musterion undiscoverable. The fury in motive (per belief ism) has resource w/praxis in essential reality, tho' self-actualization is elementally ineluctable when relishing identity rather in the tarrying of a becoming, by observation. **************The higher you climb, the more you are exposed. Now I'm about getting to this language one says investiture for belief is credible "literally," as opposed to universalized. So, mission is rt out the window and identity is suspect. Charles Freeman gets to the inevitable appropriation of the crystal palace, "the kingdom would involve a dramatic reversal in values" - that Jeshua, as opposed to the too easily reconciled one... ***Luke 6:24-5***But woe to you who are rich, for you have already received your comfort. Woe to you who are well fed now, for you will go hungry. Woe to you who laugh now, for you will mourn and weep Something like a primary instinct, posture in this path's tailoring reception, my physical success is the herald of prone verticality, pillaresque awareness well-of-promise in its prerogative of collapse, and horizon's distant guffaw layering of splendor: wind of mind, climate of greater will, atmosphere, pleroma, shore of space content in another deep-aside... Capsulation of emptiness, plain of consciousness, salutations on nothing! The thrall of loamy silence, my apple tree stood in the backyard garden, fallow & mown now, is elastic while I sat rt down under it the last fall I resided so close to country margins. A sense of it was its muscular & untamed limby fro--electric staggered boughs all rounded almost to same halo-reach, but also a decisor escape in the place of my making.