From Orange Goose to Garden Springs

12 yrs into my life only to find out elegant visual control shown its bright light on my eclipsing continuity. Little pupil cellular spheres tracked against the floor in my feathers-falling glances. As if this mind 'flect enlistment chancing objective reality--school, or school of life, measures time hailing no bond. Day vanishing, expectation bleakly uniform in all thought's cessation and language acquited could be a good thing. Scaling the awe in the present moment: You are really unable, and all things are possible. But what paints me stolid from lingering bell peal--one reaches and I'm belched out of a lonely crowd, is anonymous world-without limby cleaving to the hot breath of an assailable distant dream, this brand of self-consciousness as the ends of me. I feel reliably unintended in vacillating messianic definitions, the world gainsaying that of my release, suppurating wound staining the contract w/good. If anything marks this ascendant adjured in physical success, it is a struggle to the surface developing how identity lent permutations: the sea's toil, the sea of possibilities is the drowned greed of sentience out of recent attention, has one awaken to the dynamic in the clamor of human footfall 'pon a rat-race in illuminal path. By the transcendent's eponymy of truth, no path is possible. ********If to write about the writing instrument--today I am a fountain pen. Sometimes I notice when I want to get an idea written the last word proscribed replaces the born concept, direction I would otherwise assume had made for continuity. I literally close my eyes write a word, forget it, and another comes to mind and I'm half a sentence into what would remind me I am the subject in the grammar of the concept. Like an old friend shows up, and one is reminded nothing new is in the event of our resuming the day's long-ends. ***********An ornament to what is unspoken like the clutter in the bungalow--my beck of eudaemonia, me in one room of respite, cousins, brothers, & watchman as temporal sprite are out from me and into the hallucination weaved black night of the Catskills. In what conversation, while I'm remote, sues margins losing magnetism in and out of content w/o the lens in subjective immediacy, one reacting in time touches bottom? While in apposite ground of consciousness, language is as upended as material success, the thing named. Tho' memories are relief & thoroughgoing the only reminiscence is a handful of yrs ago--still I see every dispensation in balance w/uncarved block. I mean, there is no going back home again. *********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. **********The sky as the moon's field of birth, but looking all obsolete--the moon bright bites at one's nose as thru blown glass, one layering pellucid spirit upon the next, and losing consequence in the distance strung. In increments of transperancy the summer moon shown its usual grasp upon me, anyone, in front of the doubt, slower to characterize in its mother blue media. Early memory of Mom. She's right ought of view in her bedroom, in the bathroom. In my repose, strewn opposite across the corner of the bed, she and I insist on the last time I'd accompany her there. Mom seems quite sincere, forget your age at the moment, she conveys, and I am almost 6 by the concensus trance inquiry--living timeless? Maybe I would prevail-over, lurched-into existential crisis.... My mind seems fused in opportune conscious map, self-consciousness in one of exile. I'm projecting unreceived glances at the corner of her mirror. There is a designed washer looks like a transparent, crystally, sharp bloom, siezing the mirror to the wall. Iconoclasm absolutes make funny liminality an ephemeral prop, sorts out the elapsing love per an egoity deluge in benevolence. If thought's concern strikes at eudaemonia, prayers inhere this story-teller, wrought youth w/the problem of the world already experienced. ******** ***Why is mind seemingly registered underneath something all the time, so interred in the ground beneath our feet? Plainly and in truant evidence, nevertheless, one expects intentions, mind communicating by revenue in the orb behind objective reality. One's enlistment in present material reality receiving, as if belched into Greater Reality, anywhere discriminated the world manifesting choice, in such behemoth surmise anything could be assumed. Enumerating only-having-been-pleased to be exiled and facilitating a rank subject toward agonist telos, veiled by the alternative, a mind is refined by the contest of memorialized space. **** *******The sun in its prudent skein visits me, infiltrating thru my Scion's passenger window flexing from the day's waking shoulders. The sun disc lifts up and out of the lateral neighborhood, deigning its election in curious patience over earth eliciting reserve to sunder it by shadows and artifacts of existence once observed by its light. Last night looking at an ominous picture, its vision anyone would declaim, taken of a sunset (captured one summer), purple across one of Ky's lakes, a single ray wallowing thru the split limbs of a long-ago drowned couple of trees, felt as precise as this morning's solarity visit winking like bellows this winter season, my occipital crown its hearth--eternality as languid in luminal denouement. ******** ****I start thinking of Mom some mornings up w/the rising sun. Not romantic as in some temporal ecstatic event, but it feels like a velvet phone-call while the interlocution has trafficked swathes of a general human element. Just a reminder or concern she would have me alighted and rapt in the present moment. I would easily escape the dawning threshold, the exposed resonant nerve, sensitive and awake, chimera lapsed, the season's machine taking place of choice...if I can imagine her less busy in cessation emblems giving lotus provision to the impermanent record. In my monist path, appreciating in higher ground while time opens up to scraps of possible change, once the vision she watches over me, Mom in her midnight blue flower spangled polyester shirt, I follow star-field provenant, adjured as a ghost behind the celestial standard-bearer of a decisor dispensation...back toward her benevolence. ************ **I wonder about the party in the great rift valley up thru where it goes to king's highway, back then. I wonder about the party in the great rift valley in olduvai gorge, the cushites. Those who have gotten along longer ill-nuanced or deceived by the reckoning of certain toil lasts awhile as the rest of the world lives by enlistment. Consciousness is the refinement of the memoria of nature: Fire. Water. Salt? The first association outside my name. Knowing thus Mom's well-served table, made me halophilic, shrouded wind & sun attendant by Qumran--where do letters taste sweet in such exposed earth ill-ornamented, then awed at the consequences in climatic machine's desert space heralding the 7 pillars. ************The pray mantis adduced in a friendly contract, I could take my leave, but he'd been there so long it seemed. The pity where I resign next was rather not coming to Ky my thoughts then, Texas physical success insect decisor has the patio turn blonde & summery. The entire can of red paint I fell into sometime earlier in my young life gives tableau in what was the creature's animae port, thought's tincture on the blood what-if without. Mark's tarantula in his room, dried woody numinal, next to Eric's room thickly orange blessedly painted my little mind thought it ebullient, I could listen to his 45 of Hey Nina (?), someone-wooing-underneath-a-window imagery? anticipating my brothers had the goods on how desperate sounds become in its raft to serve intimation, the other-inward. Coarse ambivalent sensorial fray, I'd relent if revealed once alighted to nobody's broken bridge, cold-lamp emitting underneath betraying my slumber taking exception in usual peak resolve. **********We are all relics of recent history. People going away etc. I'm more mindful of that than ever. Imagine all the kids getting slightly corralled toward the same effect. Imagine also that identity meant under rarified share in resource is a gift making negligible ours more-privy while seeking commonality and reason for reflecting on change exercises the intentions of the enduring conscious crowd. For those who are sundered by gravid reward having deigned a fate reductio ad absurdum, breaking out of usual patterns is being broken by the patterns of our impermanent record. ************An Adamic first prophet pre-informer of what is thought in the main the prophet whose language of yes, any quotidian, none but a natural element is personified by the usual gender's arising, the humans in everything to all of humanity. None of his verse is known. A way to phrase the hagiographia in ethos one imitates, messianic, lamanic, or otherwise is intercessive if the psychology has value. Maimonides, a Jewish theologian who lived 800yrs ago, responds w/spiritual concerns as an intimation to a student in Guide to the Perplexed, say less concretized than the writ of preachment to expedite in more stark array, alighting in would-be less awakened receptions... once over the salutations of peoples whose travels! divine the contemporary. These other civilizations excelled as much as the respected traditional congregation, give rise to real experience in understanding other "believer's" contribution in origin's qualia. An Adam. A Son of Light. I think Lilith may have been discoverable to Maimon in spectral ways!! She is as interesting as Asherah as consort w/the Most I relatable to Astarte, Aphrodite, Anat... ************Really a self-reflective moment having a cigarette albeit, and watching our shop cat respire on my bosses Miata sports car. Gray skies, gray tiger cat, on a wet-roofed gray car. In intervals of car tires w/its report like newspaper being torn, Scooter flimmers curiosity, tilts an ear, more bound to its bird mind, chirps and tweets all around the driveway, the pyranthea bush barely an interest now to avian harvest. Just a permutated read on his little meditation, barely outside a natural code, how can I be entreated outside of human perspective as if I could know any other? What is his mind capsulized by animicule apparitions of a world in persona, his watch-tower feline-morphic sentient dream-room, outside of him like mine when I'm projecting some different garment upon same environs--this place is accessible by an adjured courtier stunned by claims on time's mellowing ornament? ************I wonder if your mind by definition communicates elliptically? I mean you may be so alive in the heat of embowering psyche, finding you in the agon of the begin, may have barely a fragment of the origins you meet. Where is concern rooted? In what sky does its renascence speak into (wo)man's heart? Certainly the skies are closed in as much as the astral denies the sentient convenant. Always seeing the world for the 1rst time, just as this dream is assignation by the interrupted gait of self toward a nigh home. This is idealistic in precisely a wandering footfall. My step into the gates of the forest only banked a goal in some clearing by observation on the ply of enjoining the last light of day before the canopy smiled hopefully 'pon me of a stream to unleash the bloodclot of time. *************All too busy of a dream-scape was my presentiment of an interlocuttor who hadn't the time to address me. I begin to fumble w/some writ, symbols on paper which hide in my eyes only when focusing upon the opposite pg. A Chinese man comes across the POT square w/the Red sun at his back. He's on his bike coming my direction, so I climb atop the (now gone) fountain, & take in distances academia has yet defined for me. The day is coldCool, steam coming from vents in places, but the bldgs are locked & rather it is the final day or days before the M.I. King library would close for good. Assuming thoughtlessness in asana posture, my book called Pilgrims w/Dalai Lama's wordsAmongstimages--R. Gere's thing, tells of nirvana & refusing it to lasting deficits, spiritual enlistment here on earth--my telling of it. My eyes' recuse vision of ancient times always seeking Hebrew symbols, seeing Greek philosophical impressions too, letters, especially as the lazy mind becomes delivered of the dearest cryptic scenario, where the heart lies. I wonder if mind by definition communicates elliptically? I mean one may be so alive in the heat of embowering psyche, finding her in the agon of the begin, may have barely a fragment of the origins she meets. Where is concern rooted? In what sky does its renascence speak into our hearts? Certainly the skies are closed in as much as the astral denies the sentient convenant. Always seeing the world for the 1rst time, just as this dream is assignation by the interrupted gait of self toward a nigh home. This is idealistic in precisely a wandering footfall. **************It is no longer a question of human origins. Rather the stuff we are made of is explanate in the humility one serves to recognize the fluency or insignificance in identity: our vin is the same shed of refuse out of star-birth atoms, as the atoms in any earthy rock. Perspective if apprehended in the full, one might suspect global climate change as where any responsible socio-economic attention begins. Commerce of identity makes any concensus just a deftly inflicted wound from the whetted blade of tribalism. *************Your brain in this state is very little different than moments before. Where do thoughts come from, or even the boogey of free will? What are the chains of causality? The idea is that there is just the demands of clockwork upon you say in moments of reflection on your motives, your confidences. If you think there are other causes as in things piped in from the possibilities of faith--these too just apply to the potency of your intentions to act, rightly or wrongly, or filters thru, while one still acts on it without any consensus your change is determinist. The message here regards sentient greed as culpable in assigning authorial being. *********** In Dahab of infamy personally, having smuggled shisha back to Israel, thoughtlessness in Jerusalem microcosm after the ledger of superable histories make my excesses ebullient, hypnotic under the close winter sun--seemed a close sun, one isn't in fact--mind you this was 1987. This is extreme in my view to register revelry in toto. Wadi Gnai Mts rt outside of the bedouins and some Cairene business class by Yam Suf, Reed Sea, w/tents and huts selling coarse whiling-away accomodations is also where we stay. Smoking entirely emptied of time-spring's more usual volition--in sinaitic certainty this place becomes a remote decisor jumping-off point. A fellow gives us a tour to rather embarrassing haunts, cinderblock huts, black dirt floors, shadowed dwellers breathing in liberation if this sea were red w/everything a sufferer means by the world empathic. A salient revue of losses where it's hard to believe not every soul would meet similar pain of privations--that immediate in its weak imposture of humanity. The Egyptian kid reflected solarity, a prayer I thought--"Don't say you're American."--like it was a ghost, or the evil-eye... *************Walking from Rebel Rd to Beaumont where else would a body be levied in the remote. That buddha son, my brother's, my little brother really, man, both he and I determine to walk across Southside. At imprecise nods to our common caravansarai, he'd lie in somebody's yard prone & sky-spelled, then to arise like some "body" lends his commission, an exercized rebellion--I thought he comes-correct, and sadly sad. Well-sacrificed this air coming in past the big neighborhood park. I sauntered along w/ him, his steps, telling him of the soma bull I committed to embers by hagiographed strict hillocks in the logos-hollows behind the eyes of Nanny's (my Mother) Grandfather "Vevel" from whom comes my Hebrew name Shraga Favel-- thought's noblesse my once-wheel report from mind, communicating to the more indefinite me. These roads are furrowing unled in origin's daemon--the way stations sought-after artifaction, tempter's smile in season's countenance: "Why doest thou restore one's form in the fog?" I strike in lightning inner-vox--"I fear it." The road apprehending behind the veil, shadow's silent report. The road in plaintive wallow, goes on: "Then you hate it. If you fear it, you hate it--but if you hate it, you love it." ************A new incarnation's unopposed candle tincture, message flimmers then is razed. I feel I'm loitering in a musee' of dumb philosophy. At a visit to the Louvre I can guess it isn't hard to contrive being shrouded as it were unfaithful to any academician disciplines outside of the raw hand, blood proscriptions in my head, in compliment w/the few options I then could exploit. An unlicensed water-color artist places persona into where I frame aerobatic truancy, space's factotum alien. Asleep to remember simply, pastel thwacked onto postcard sized presentation, colors represent dust, turbid backdrop for animicule dust-contrived people under the Eiffel Tower. The accelerated center, statement of presence is a miasma of biologic bastard acquisitive bucket & mop bad-brain, images... Letters padding across the self-same window inverse qualia, the day imported A to Z, fluency to opposite window, undone room lassou, a sun mellows in her earth's house, with all his intensity in a sky-cauldron vertical & abyssal, terminal to the observer upon the ledge of the broken bridge. ***********12 yrs into my life only to find out elegant visual control shown its bright light on my eclipsing continuity. Little pupil cellular spheres tracked against the floor in my feathers-falling glances. As if this mind 'flect enlistment chancing objective reality--school, or school of life, measures time hailing no bond. Day vanishing, expectation bleakly uniform in all thought's cessation and language acquited could be a good thing. Scaling the awe in the present moment: You are really unable, and all things are possible. But what paints me stolid from lingering bell peal--one reaches and I'm belched out of a lonely crowd, is anonymous world-without limby cleaving to the hot breath of an assailable distant dream, this brand of self-consciousness as the ends of me. I feel reliably unintended in vacillating messianic definitions, the world gainsaying that of my release, suppurating wound staining the contract w/good. If anything marks this ascendant adjured in physical success, it is a struggle to the surface developing how identity lent permutations: the sea's toil, the sea of possibilities is the drowned greed of sentience out of recent attention, has one awaken to the dynamic in the clamor of human footfall 'pon a rat-race in illuminal path. By the transcendent's eponymy of truth, no path is possible.