Triune memoria of Oranges: Yafo, Prokofiev, & a winter's sun

BLue mOOn of Ky: As close as I wanna get to J Kerouac's "ooing moon" to see its gift in valleys of earth, it seems to me the moon looks down and wayward into the sky--walks backward, ventral translator of my harvest. Gleaming and like a yafo orange, its 'flect comes thru like temporal curtains are tied off, thick tree boughs become veins in their thrum, made its night-event as relishing of companionship as some craven dog. Doesn't inspire its star sisters, but enjoins her earth in a facade lassou of stability. Eternally down-pacing to reach us but then to eclipse the horizon. Receding perhaps, but like sky-fountain whirl-pool in the intense ink newly defined nothing, it smiles to unite with us again in its pondering path tarrying region to ocean's fellowship into regions again. **************Me in the west bank, in a G-d's country: Walk over toward the date tree, not close enough, just dreaming it the while. "Like this, g-d," I say. ...not as alone then, then! but ellipsis timely now in the denied promise - the reaping responsible-world over me, to endure my plod and fool's sisyphus witness to Mt Haroon, no corporeal wail of the eponymous Aaron. Moshe of infirmed expression--Balaam's doing, and mind of calamitous artifact thru musterion, to verse a halloo across the desert floor in that phase moment, watchman to an unearthed specter in "other. All the specter of unread mind topoi, anonymous tongues of unheroic teachers, leaving ground of experience for ablutions to its wanting-- the pug marks in contours of habit are my scars. My traipse is inconvenient. I can imagine suspiring in deer's lair and as if Salvador Dali paints the room of one's pilgrimage goal just past (into that space) an astrolabe when the pirate prises its data to impress it by curse or secret into the heavens above. ***********My mind just said, "Be in a good mood," and like an on-light I am. I nod incredulous to flangy thought consolation, why would I tell me what to do? What is the last thing having gotten me here...and so more convincing-- isn't manufacturing motive the agon of inner-scrutiny? I can't just do modality and provenance thus. I trial her through my unrecorded shrouded tracks--whose porte in convivencia is found in our fray noted without stella of sentient greed to overstand antiquity --by gainsaying languish in the climate of power, the happiness defines everything beautiful, and the tableau recedes. ***********Either one in the crowd reckons strangely the same-sea, or the decisor fluent passage, rather alighted as a vessel, one is, only living in a dream in a sea of possibilities. The perfect sun lighting the glory in desert void of its surface to the verb of its rally 'pon the stars--vapors to vapors--lashes with slavish origins the paint of the moon musterion true. At the coffee shop, late, an interesting LP techne lure comes to mind. Visual to beautiful noise, chromo values like social narrative, so something formless, would be mantram to umbrella concept, word's clarion gate. *********In Alison's family room , more usually promontory around X-mas, we'd sit and muse into the wee hrs. An elegant peach colored X-mas tree looking kaleidoscopic & pure against the nether blue night of universalized Lexington, rather blanched of meaning, airwaves to be dug yet in what it should communicate. Her veil of concern leaves conscious artifact evolving until in dream-state I find the character of my change in that setting: she's assented to frame the obsolete moments, the memorialized space where I sit prone in quietude, lone, and in waning expectation by way of dreamt-genesis the room annihilated in time, remaining a conscious satellite. She's not to enter and convene unanswerable questions to my inevitable continuity I live by adjuring a different faith in relationship. Valerie isn't taking place in my hidden consciousness behind the door of what would-be. Rather like cornerstone once ineffable in the ground truant to inter my desire, Valerie makes real, shining smiles in holy lightness of being. ***********"Religion survives by the enforced ignorance, as to say an informed choice denied, through our young." Daniel Dennett. Imagine the well-being of one's history without favoring your particular creative agency as its origin--contrasting so that there's space for self-actualization principals understood from without. If one is present and would survive an artifact in the illusion of our record of impermanence whether as part of his imagination or a sense of things appreciating in time place and community, then the "observer" is first and last rational while sorting out the other of presence, the very thoughts feelings and actions as allegory to higher ground. Spirituality is rational. The awe is expected. The idea of Believer in terms of Western core-culture if crowd's "believer" isn't closed off thru analysis of early X-tianity -I recommend The Closing of the Western Mind, Charles Freeman - the fire licking at Abraham in Nimrod's cauldron, if we adjure what open-mind is, is like a sister-faith imagining the Great Father cooled by lotus flower here. And what is higher ground? The present moment revealed--as to say presence enlisted--spirituality is the enumerating mind in a vessel to fill the very concern of Now: it is rational to consider the device and journey however immediate for experience as certainties in I & Nature. Hopefully her own. Nature elucidates spirit or an agon techne in explanate egoity ***********Feeling confined on a white-clay path, this dream enlisting thought-world of my trek up into Coomer's Ridge at Red River Gorge, this morning I rode down Parkers Mill the template of its diminution where I follow. In the dream the path visually seems furled but my consciousness processes like a step to come is renown only upon the impact of my last footfall, leaving me as some curious geist unchaperoned how I know a path but without any intuition why I'm on it. The looking-glass of whispers and glances, I'm looking laterally side to side at the hilly fields, which are like warnings I won't remain in dream-state, while I harvest thoughts on the assent of complacency. This corridor of mental nomenclature had parchment ground-of-consciousness, like leaf detritus & limestone making naked bones exposed out of the pitch of earth, its impressions like transient narrative of paradise out of the gravid expanse of farm-fields, feral-nature compared to what actually encroaches into Lexington's margins, the places of my making. ***********Under this constant daily guffaw of a black escher-like tree in the mural, on my bedroom wall, w/a dragon and acolyte 'pon a flying carpet with portal, one morning I wake up and realize unconscious stress, rather immediately in evidence as pressure I feel on the left side of my head. I was ready. I knew it meant phenomena that just takes persisting on an experience that will have all the irreality of a sense of being out-of-body. My nephews are throwing baseball and they were in no way showing me deference, making me think I was rather phantom-like. I walk under the arc of their replete martial sanction that that ball may have my head as a target--reinforcing the magnet and marionette draw of mind fluctuating out of matter. Unchallenged and slightly confirmed in my fluent transparency I walk past into the neighbor's driveway, place my hands, as it were, upon an aerobatic prop, lift myself up rather lying supine but in the air while grabbing dark hands grapple to sustain my repose-- I'm thinking digital fetters in license begin to restrain me weirdly as an imposture. I jump down, extremely satisfied I had smuggled in some sense of my potency in lucid state with all the plaintive dalliance of a long-distance dispensation. ************Uh 1000 deaths individually in a 1000 chairs all in different rooms-- and not a stick of spiritual nomenclature in no-mind once of form. Yass, I am just electric to the 10,000 TVs in my head. And I abideth the spiritual tourist, shrouded traveler, mayan propitiator. (Heb. for fountain: mayim is water) Homo Ludens to a machine-vision in late night rendezvous & traipse thru sensorial reflection miles to pace alighting to looking-glass breaths of night dancing in my shoes. Of traffic thrush, swift to inflate silence in blinking air tincture, glyph to ill-caprice on the loading-begun into dreams on new icons behind craning affirmations of buzzing city intimations. ***********Yass, I am just electric to the 10,000 TVs in my head. And I abideth the spiritual tourist, shrouded traveler, mayan propitiator. (Heb. for fountain: mayim is water) Homo Ludens to a machine-vision in late night rendezvous & traipse thru sensorial reflection miles to pace alighting to looking-glass breaths of night dancing in my shoes. Of traffic thrush, swift to inflate silence in blinking air tincture, glyph to ill-caprice on the loading-begun into dreams on new icons behind craning affirmations of buzzing city intimations. ***********biblacy and the yasss jazz of the deep-aside-- "Find my daughter, walk her down the lost highway." Peter Rowan making sworn and wind-cast leaves of grass where I collapse in my Laban prophecy, dispensation 'pon incarnation burnt even in November rain, her concern in the splay of her consistent rain. The Long Lonesome Highway (Natalie Goldberg) whether something in it or not a prototype in her spirit is subtle lens thru anything she'd have me martyr, vapors to vapors--shadows in my eyes to sister's fate of a dream. I wish physical memory would make confident this resolve to be the homunculi egoity samyasin in whatever irony Rushdie makes spectral in Midnight's Children, meaning diminutive by degree, creaturely & rare, implicit watchman on the most stupendous of unconscious impulses--more socratic, stirring the dusty veil of prohibiting fascinans. ************My love is fertile like the swamp off of Lake Travis. Rich and dank, recessive even in the hot Texan sky. By g-d if this is to be the Persian pardes, paradise--what became favored, soul back then into today's "core-culture," (what one calls a memory and goal of it) whence I would wake and inhere--by the risible fire I stepped into hot coals. 1970. The space my love leads me through and generating, is damaged, & fetters me in repute of the crime. Still she is the center of my world world from without: hear within tat, know all the worth from a coarse fray solace in my liquid eye almost unpresent, apophatic of the lamp eminence of this dream. ************While falling asleep a king and waking as butterfly illustrates the king is become aerobatic to his former pedestrian reign. He defies the hero, allows the world in, in the confidence of the protagonist. On the razor's edge the book of life is exchanged for a broom or the electric duppy (rasta for doppelganger, looks decisor by simplicity) of nature. ************Moody Blues' House of 4 Doors comes on and I'm truly imagining a full stomach. The gloss and inflated glory, with deference & promise, Mom's home-cooking almost everyday, menu set-down, the crime of my caprice has me commend her savory usual fare. I use the word "mantram" but in context. It means word{s} of no content recited as catalyst to reveal word{s} of definition: "Eating my heart out with stupid day mummer mantram." Mummer of the day is mantram: the substance of one's conscious state starts fragmented, one's more usual enlistment of self-knowledge. A thought: It is unimaginable whether media/ pop sinewy human passion delivers me - appertains to a life lived or unlived? Consciousness is the most refined state of nature--and consciousness is been denied the content of all beginnings. If time exists only after the Big Bang and not before, "awareness" is negligible to primacies, said Creator in anointing his defense of one's contract with good, if the ascendant would refuse reason. Transient or Receptacle: always Who am I, with no sense of "what this life has become?" Scholem Aleichem. ************If Tolstoy wrote in his most present mind in the public square, I am the pedestrian leaving tracks he may have dreamt, follows into encantation. In his cloud-attention the contract with good he will have had w/her, takes place in ciphering seasons of bazaar floors, go-light of a candle's mind-room success. His remote but concurrent privy is by extension only a lateral move and toward a renunciate Jesus if passive resistance philosophy appreciating Gandhi's bhakti is become X-tian witnessing. Two yrs before my Pap was born whom I knew into the 70s, in 1894 Tolstoy had published his The Kingdom of G-d Within You. One is an accretion of compassionate agencies, but rather its conscious satellite, within some crystal palace (I glean from Fydor D. Notes From the Undergroundman) revealing a would-be ubermensch who anoints ole brown (of the true hero) of another man's footfall. ************Sometimes porch-sitting, or rather in the garage facing the clash and thread of traffic, cars slaking the peristaltic road --do it by paces; thrusting forward as if to match cardiac pulses in my eyes by measured light-steps. Enough to observe barely the discovery valence in some one car, that moment before, in surveillance A day of nothing precipitate, onto the neighborhood roads between me and the niece's school, I go to park next to Southland pool and walk over Mary Queen's run-off creek, tadpole denizens survive, crawdads in perfect alien spelunking netherward becoming. Purple deadnettle patches like lawn marmalade deliver a sense they really have no seasonal esoteric concealment (going away is human tribulation), should have never been forgotten. If my eyes pulse to impress its respiring attribute--wind lashing supine from today's clouds flouting what we know of Spring , our weeds are flush and tremulous on the hill up to the back and side leading up to chil'run caramelized only to be cleansed in chlori-nation's pool--parks & rec crew up to task, there now. Unmanifest steps, intuited as emanate footfall--elegant weed-flowers bow while looking back past sky-breath and the pug-mark of chrysalis heart in fracturing plash where eyes answer in visual repair. *************Lee Scratch Perry's layering vox, dubby effects, has good dynamic auditive chambers to meditate on, performing on the mind in his Rasta specter. The 1rst two cds I bought--cds of late 80s-- Thelonius and the voodun priestly Tic Toc Teac, his Message from Yard, rallies in strong artifact in my thinking to date. But then as yantra (devise) in my coarse thought in discipline/self-awareness, framed "thoughts" in a rather concretized theater. I imagine coral shifting, lumbering as if from one pivot, tireless noise & creak of heavy twisting cardboard. I felt corrugated, sensorial interior-spaces within the walls of immense tableau. I held a wooden match above my forehead moving it laterally back and forth, broke from its enlistment, did it again. My tea glass had Geraldo obfuscated at my side, volume off, and a few sips left of tea. I'm thinking it just tastes like fulminate sight of our kitchen while the menu of mundaneity & specials are lapsed, it's at my back--a different tea in the sleeping vessel. ************