Quit Cigs in the Month of my Birth, I'm now 47.

Fire and the infinite sadness. I wish there was something to sacrifice in deprecare of apathy. A broken heart is blind. I can't record my dreams--her fuse is to conflagrate otherness into plaintive nothing. ************Arendt depicts Plato, who fears the ridicule in all laughter. "When we laugh we pay for all the innocent blood, that they shed everyday, oh chilrun mark my word, it's what the bible..." is Marley poised under the tremendum of similar idea. ** I went to family day at IBM, Dad's work. The mirrors, having replaced hubcaps, globular on the corners in the avenues of machine floor, never 'flect my visage making me feel meta-physically incidental, just mundi strophic from objective reality veils bellowed out of bright lights in fractured hallways. ************I think in ways of media's psychology. Becoming objective by not acting on a sense of following up with contemporary cache the latest news and everything else may vaguely have me introduce what passive edutainment causes me to turn to, name-your-talking heads. Yet I am reduced to banner ethics brought to the denial of distances to imagine uneven reason that I am curious why the visual industry stays viable. The art may replace choice while the machine is conducting consciousness. *********I dream; I live and dream--I'm living a dream. Tic Toc Teac voodun stylee-- I doff my hat to Scratch. ...there were neighbors doing cloud mischief behind house-fronts. Nite-vision pantheon now assenting in definition of "people" as if otherwise I would've assumed the mirror of bland echos, slightly side-stepping me a dozen-over, or not 'pon the otherness one is not really alone, acts only on his own behalf so feeels certain his solitarian ethos stains something true to physical success. I'm at work sitting comfortably then, Ascent of M... splurbing in my ill-attention (youtube) to waste a feeling on elaborate historiography cinema albeit educational probity, a discipline marketing of world artefact, or watch it later. Beginning a new book, strong feeling in me, about Sefardic Golden-Age and then the muck of what is in between us and then, words ghiyar, gur, ghetto. And the frenetic emblem within this dream, pacing almost running overtly from the seam of the 'burbs, the once lived bottle of coke I found 10yrs on from its litter-grounds, by the creek 'magine a branch of Elkhorn, there it is, cokeless. ***********I should read Hannah Arendt, The Life of the Mind, or The Jewish Writings, some of it for say a portion of numinous in 15-25 minutes of strickened intellection--I should, tho' haven't turned to her in a minute. It would be subject to devisement in elastic or tremoring Gershom Scholem appropriating thought's exercise like I know from Trends in Jewish Mysticism, Mom's book when I first became rancored in consciousness to penetrate magical but crystalline otherness. On the Mystical Shape of the G-dhead is hymnody of wind & the passionate mind mantram catalyst once, while the mystic of conduced life study, teacherly angel, has social scientist rigor from Arendt, leading me to power-spot, goal to this Jewish student. I like how Arendt boils down the refuge of certain thought, and beating her there to the degree that a minor battle on practical awareness in any relic of victory is become salve. She may ever refine "kavvanot"-- meaning "concentration." An executed arrythmic socratic test on thoughts one adjures in luminal expression--thoughts reach for unity by her ledger, acquisitive mind in the median of its fire. *************In one real way being courted by late night pedestrian angel, like a flashlight neonic on peripheral city-scape, on chrome bushes, on walls corralling homes, facade-agency painted even on air, caricatures of everywhere in the world sleeps. I experience the same deficit of say "timeliness" whilst the luminal once raw dispensation from cold-lamp fever had me digest an incensed ancient menu--banal porage, dated & receipt of a newly lived impermanent record. I waken and day-dream surmise, while the world guffaws in her sleep-wonder, necromancer shivite burned. **************I feel stupendous and out of my skin regularly. But, I give myself a few minutes, forget why a regular thing became distracting. Depend on profound techne-forgetting by the ornament of stress, yielding to defecate impatience. I'm weathered by an immediate need for change. No registering ciphering threshold, a moment decisive in what is beyond, but prone and exercised into mean solarity's arm-twisting court, I leave off wrangled by intellection, inspired by offence. *************My cat in old man guise, like stepping stone between my Zadie & Ralph Nader, winked from behind, rather overstanding, the methodically blowing floor-fan. Her aged eyes out of green ever resilient present-aum--she nods toward natural past, trees of their first evocation in earth, and intellection phantoms. Capsulating the project of one lone brow bowed to familial society of mind. A feline avian mind meows in chimera dust motes, light like a feather. She's the heathen I always want in an animal, culls the office carpet on wooden floors here of her fur she could have more easily lapped off her meticulous mane. No doubt her physical success is the project in these four corners of her pug paths. Train percussion of this moment in daliance, patternic temporal boot-step in a wave of silence, a shore of nigh climate--thunder-rain & railway jamming usual traffic thrum--all heavy & weightless "being" at once, is wrangled into observer upon observer, watchman time, house-maiden angel...a gift I was promised, and a recent conversation of good repair. ************I see the difference between perceived society and actually the concretized egoity of belonging. Once "otherness" is undeniable identity becomes non-distinct. Check my life if I am in doubt. I don't know society through my filter comes across as the appreciable silent sought-refuge, story of river-dwelling, song in chimera mountain written in the sand media of its eventual alluvial garment. When time crystallize absolute spirit by being in the climate of denial's same sea. ***************In what light when folks point to the word journey do I imagine merit by any definition of change? In the shade of time in approbation and control, light-step--and knowing I'm loose, and triumph through broken chains and adjure broken-ness. I hate doing here what travelling by crystalline goal in different activity, generating novel patience, or upon what "other" moment in objectivity my life is become. When theys shirts look well-formulated, as comfortable as the definition left in places of glyphic repose. Human market place; intellection in ashen 'flect of conscious stars. 4 directions all accomplished in once a refined bloop of good artefact in time. ...of a precipitous step, before tangled in the roots of wild agencies, the chaos of TV eye boundless in blank cyber lights everything tropic in wailing iconoclast conquest move from antiquity. ***********No more sequential art, script, say pursuant of cultural relevancies. Rather reading from linear newspapers and nothing subterranean about it. I always desire luminal, symmetry trick. Book of life, chapters of dreams, symmetry in the glitter and daliance excess like desire in the brain--the theoria gland--machine of catharsis, thine heart emptying in wooden eyes--if the sad man would stand behind the inflated tear. Imagine BMW when Rasta conveys fulfill the book, one must. I'm as likely to commit to timely nature on book of life by as few symbols as memoria alights. ***********If I am wandering in the cosmic house by day, I scale its facade in dreams by night.************** *********Without any thought on formal introduction, I wrote the following a few minutes ago which would sum bastardized Asian narrative, to good effect, which again will have turned me around when I was very young (by uncertain memories) in shrouded-wanderer fascinans, I hope. The following: What is the concept evoking the face of Fu Manchu? Orientalist cinema from mid 60s--Ireland. Maybe a visage of impermanence, to put it into serene, lost like Rimbaud emptying his mind in streams of thrum terminus, halls furled in layers of eternity. Yass, woe is death; wisdom in rank throes by its commission. Life never hesitates if one's reckoning is its esteem. "Death to all who fight." Scratch, I think once toasted. Triumphal Rasta in banner dispatchment "dentity." If it makes any sense at all memorialized space is at last a ghost-town, like convenient thought, everything in its climate of power topples the effect in superable chastisement. **********egoity & neurosis* *praises & manufacturing motive* Any sheltering of "me" brings on neuroses--to think of the landfill, what you must defend there. If only successes--& yet all the acquisitive certitude to wager goal toward truth: "It make no sense at all to say where we used to work. It make no sense to say how much he [?] had earned, [...] to say what you used to do. It's not what you earned that make you a man --it is what you keep that make you a man," are Desmond Dekker's lyrics off of Fu Manchu, reveals a place abyssal egoity might level out. How negotiable if not superable is one's philosophy of self-reliance? Most complete thought, subtle nomenclature of function & normalcy, having manufactured motive and whose yield living is posit memoria out of avidya pocket, just seems like I'd give a damn that pillars of consciousness are not collapsing, so I only praise. *************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. ***************Getting up from my chair at work, usual and bleary, I feel like waking is more of a surprise. Just maybe I'm not quite as synapse-wrought, fully in my skin, without acuity too-quickly gearing-up to do the handful of things I would execute. I've only half realized my body as a device of consuming experience. A caprid's head to the deep-aside, were my feet precipitously trying to find same exclusive point of revered high-ground. The bright orange that clots my eyes from scrutinizing the back of my head, tho' not what I expect, probably means I'm a sun-devil. Once feeling this way, teeth on the nail of the picture, the tones of conversation and thru auditive margins, rises--eddies, but no content, skin-toned corporeal images of horns in visual-field, seeing "what" hears--clearly I, and now phenomenally I'm alighted to call & response whose-nomenclature like big floats take notice. ************very existence, meaning his under threat, I have a different solicited guarantee to solar-particulated amphora wine-dark sky--my blessing is his plaintive respiring.**************************************************A bridge offers the pedestrian adulant sky-prone possibilities. Not having gotten over somewhere. Replace bridge synonymous w/gate and put the caprice of language whose potency ought to excersize one's margins for the likely pleroma standard: distance reliably enlists relationship--the more artifact of a river's journey for her, the sate of his goal is release. Cloud attention, if upon a broken bridge. *******************Free man but under the auspices of his juvenile wisdom retrieved. The intensity of reviled escape--his own. While intensity would be enlisted. Warrior but not striven--free man who designs his own vitality-- only to have the climate of the greater will emboldened. The vessel, the machine, replacing choice. What Mr Hall the Clock-maker (whom I met) furls in the contest of my umbrella shelter of time reifying my physical success, is the nature of all informal meditations. Your prayers are born to estimate the halloo of your earliest thoughts. A day within a day - you speak, I feel. If she keeps comin', she's over. When sense of life defined as the bridge toward transcendental awareness, as arising with the writ of spirit in the material or mind redounds thru iconoclasm--why not something with more receipt than just how I feel? Imagine the socio-trance; ugly modalities refining everyone conspiratorially: culture can be an ancient lens to unpack what this life has become in the maya of the present. Bears who swim in dreams are unconscious impulses ill-defined as anthropos. In evidence by the animicules of eye apparitions almost beating the futility the mind, self-asserting, nature's son, would be as ebullient and bold thru the architect of objective reality--but isn't. Why say the deer drinks replenishing water for anybody? ************