Doniger's Tea-maker

It is amazing, civilizations have lasted 2-3 thousand yrs, and with technological advancement, but for that time much of the continuity in stone age observers in raw circumstances of I & Nature. Strange climate in the power of human perspective and yet to survive. "Geography was destiny" to quote Eugen Weber. Imagine labyrinthine imagination in simple rations of light, real potency in our star mote humanity of superstition. Give & play of mindfulness, its "one cocoa fulls (sic) a basket." B. Marley********************A conversation w/a student I want to be: What is avodah? As part of a book mentioned in Amos Oz's Love & Darkness memoir--it suggests a means to worship. Yesod VeShoresh HaAvodah is The Foundation & Root of Worship. But work is the definition of avodah that I knew--my brother confirms. The Jewish Caravan, Mom's tome easily corrals my brother & I into phantasmal first concepts of Jewishness I feel, the weight of marketing eternal study like the student's search rather nigh & not around the corner. There is denoting license which explicates the concept of worship. But, as to get the transience or elastic idea of meditation, so many ways in kabbalah, gives examples like The Work of Aharon, I think I've seen--just name your prophet or any of the universals, any number of fruits (toward fruits of wisdom, one could imagine). A work as upon the solicitous subject or goal in worship. The Work. Like devotion--this is the instrumental word I deduce.***************The threading patter of Yasss piano into this lavender summery ear window--I dine like sounds-arriving are plurbs of victual resource. Populism is seamless. Americana is choiceless. Siva woke me. Brahman dreamt me. Miriam shelters in space memorialized, the other shore. Chagal sits in Sakyamuni's deerpark. Cheerful cups are here to drain. A samovar in the Light of Happiness yeshivah was a trough, imbibed by this horse on the exuding winter floors of a Jerusalem tradition. The chrysalis leave you gave me is your beginning.*************If you are looking for touchstone moment out of Yiddishkeit, broadly enumerated by Palestine then Israel one step across its culturally entreated demarcations, A Tale of Love & Darkness, delivers. You wouldn't have a choice while the fist collapses into one's palm in family illustrated in perfectly lucid nabakov-color, but happier, exoteric somehow. All told, rock really comes closest to an ideal revolution, for me the magnifying glass before religion's window, inspiring thing that made "it" alright for me in spite of responsibilities I saw seducing others, driving conventions which were just more school of life. Amos Oz finds Africa's sun if only proliferate middle-eastern undergrowth with its nuclear laugh, hellion passion, precise decisor of bluey-jew soul vending. The consumation nether bird-call of fates he names in the dialect of dying mother in the wee hrs roseate moon-lamp, has its sacerdotal sing-song go to the head of babylon, narimee, narimee, narimee. A read I fall over myself to assure a good romantic, The Same Sea is born of every river bisecting the universe like a mother's heart, and the sea is never empty.**************In alluding early scholarly student of history, dreamy thought-world sitting prone in a couple of libraries, it is strange validation having seen-through an accepted theory in civilization's beginning. This-world of Sumerians matriculating resources did not in fact live in existential denial by bureaucracy like Soviets devolve to endure in his Russian xenophobia, killing creativity ill-explanate. I'm saying: If bureaucracy is suffered in state of provisional explanation, the existential forfeits eudaemonia, but creativity is furnished like licence in mind-substance given context in white noise vibratory properties. Mind busy by approach and not impelled by wired wakening, stumbling through institutions featured just-so (dreams, theoria...) where from halls blanched of reason toward agency is the gong peal of intentions.********************Open crowd and sisyphusian attention: I find it unfair alighted! into an age commonality that I can't any longer remind just everybody to be rebellious. The marketing of identity and teethy grin to prise the sum cost of what identity-world enlists as dark-harvest of senses, lives by intramural agon, whatever the pain while moving into consciousness, restored to this posture has all the deathknell of institutions upon reception.***************I tried to visualize a rather roseate bedside setting. Thought's black balloons--the furthest reach I'm wont to allow for distances, the more likely I imagine them lent close up. Late reading, groovy mindroom. Rory Stewart lionine paces in a megatransect through Afganistan invokes Among the Believers. A niche in Himalayan footfills. Life everywhere, especially distant. Late nite porchsitting--I see your powerspot extending out from the sensorial frontyard tree. I almost feel prone in conversation, like some conceptual umbrella demands reflection in certain weather. Possibly all alighting to matriculation themes where intervening space hides spiritbodies leveraging what arises in Jerusalem, the haunts of memorialized space attending the Light of happiness yeshiva, when I felt quite beyond cleaved into tradition.*********************...people try to tell me what's important! Dad probably, & thus likely from our Pap, always sounded Daoist enterprising the most, saying, so & so "is the most important thing. Most Important." A thing like this has moral landscape source in character even in tea-drinking. I imagine honey for me strong descriptor out of Marley's venue, big things will take care of themselves, the virtue in earth accretions, its dregs in my mason jar, room temperature, babel palette candy, forest of sensorial relief underfoot. Still feeling Maygreen in expectation for summery highway of her lavender mood, her symmetry's volley lives in most seasons, trespassing like mercury ellipses of ever matriculating bridge into the next.****************Gotta do it rt-- My eyes flash into space imagining all specter of wisdom traditions, chromo values thru colorblind eyes of dream pitch valley. I'd say poetic, not really always lent to the deep aside. Arrythmic thoughts ration of light incite my physical success unreined, just to be timely, feeling intensified more than night fuels an exposed nerve. Intensity is key--opens doors--but focused intensity means only one would've been wrought super-pedestrian unrealized in bldgs blinking receptacle eyes, like an ocean's devastating earth-effulgent garment, a portal is rent negligible. A door is always rapt escape if it sunders the hand in the affirmative.*****************Across from my elementary school in Austin, imagine that sensory world of dank hot Texan environs, gentrification houses going-up, so raw earth and interesting subterranean fields of play...a few elusive wisdom trances, time shores & dharma dogs. I jumped through walls of pink insulation subsequently itching under my cool covers that night uncaptured, but scandalized in my independent rally licit in the margins of our neighborhood. Mounds of metal scaffolding monkey bars, crapulence served dirt hills, and mostly open doors, open walls, some sluice aft of emanation, an escape & a beginning. Down at Quail Creek lies a dog--no way of knowing how he died. But my friend, would-be, I thought, is dead and yet vacillating on knowing-everything-ever-was, because I am that I am still where he lapped from merciful green waters. What little soul spoke 5 yrs before in growl over jinns and a bark in the language of images now the shadowy door where mind appearance registers my nature?*************Native Americans grew crops in plural share of slash & burn plots, different produce within the same plot. Just seeing the natural incline of living in service of nature, in escalante only barely alternating from eyes of plants, to that of a macrobiotic philosophy, and the intelligible universe in the agon & kaleidoscope between I & Nature. No fences, no foraging chattel until the Homogenocene, to be concerned if to ward off-- fatalist deprecare they were not. But these plants live conduced in same environment, therefore no reason to dissemble their efficient natural cultivation. *****************If there is a thought, then there is the principle to thought, the simple beginnings. If there is intelligence in the world, then there is its beginning, the intellect. For every condition there is its potential. This simplicity is known as G-d, according to the rationalists lost to redemptive scholarship in Islam, the believer's Creator in his philosophy of well-being, the Mutazilas--Muslim. 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. Though it may be beyond a dualistic approach as our minds accord, still one may necessarily expect a Principle behind that value. Why do the Fundamentalists therefore say, leave the most profound queries about origins (cosmogony) up to faith i.e. mystery? What is it do they not want to think about?**********************I want to invest credible self-actualization goal with this current yet mid-20th century study on shamanism. Arises one & against monotheism while cosmic buddha always-principal, in my plaintive nod east. Myth is good toward plumbing the depths into origin, making a psychological current into alluding circular statement of presence. The orb of Siberian natives, shaman as a sociological figure, comes to light --in Eliade's book--not lost on me the drawing, some pale mask I meditated upon while illustrating it, is Chukchee. He mentions a world-tree important for a pilgrimage--this birch, like the one where I was apt to lean, meditating there, I read into the late morning. Just mentioning it recently I had hoped it would tie into yet another glimpse on mindfulness and meaning, placing a bet in belief the power-spot by my park tree is a guarantee of someday intuitive. These are hierophanic vapors, as to say, almost nothing to go on and yet relics of an ecstatic world somehow negotiated better than merely a deep aside.**********************The clay self-being hotch-potch signified ink-massified contract flops onto the concretized floor of the present moment. One's homunculus garment apposite of reflection in her mind in the way of mind, may well be palette of apparitions, proud posting up unto the negative land--my mixed up, bumpside down nervous computer & gland, shadow & image turned to physical success, lives of compelling space where language acts out, objective reality awash w/the stammer of amphora contents in human concern, vessel & lamp of universals. Palimpsest Church Father, Philo, is Scholem's Kabbalist--guide on merkabah meditation, that of the throne or chariot, significance of its cherubim, and adduced here in Freeman's "...History of Early Christianity" Philo proffers students, a student, the author to the The Letter to the Hebrews. Jumping from this literal cusp - a 2000yr box of time, Philo would be a unique conscious message in Alexandria of alliterative and rather technocratic star-mote destinies.*************************Toting around my empty form through a greasy-dark, chrome-impenetrable body-shaped swathe, a shadow blessed of characterized Beaumont park, may well have been this negative space of me as radiating star-mote painter. On the park bluegrass, my stomping grounds if ever I had become a flush hunter to a panoplied seats of awareness, my shadow splay receives eye schisms from that early day's dream, that morning of no subject and its relics, but of inside-out mind-media, mirror-maker of empathic earth. Once like my body torn from starry sky and before me as a homunculus garment, I exited a car catching a glimpse of likeness and image in the pitch of night. This pajama vulnerable soft-machine--night-clothes --opposite in mass of corporeal mind to that of film-negative, has purple eye niches where I can imagine lightless & featureless tacit relief 'pon the earth, gate to moments approach where I lean upon a birch & read to fuel a way of endurance ...feels like living next to a river.*****************************Feeling more On than the world runnin' me down offers as license toward my chosen fate, exile et al, goal of love again. The world never thought I come to it with this ekstasis in change, the sleep I interrogate. Belched from sea & sky, the fountain is every variable. Thinking deeply, a dialect to surface: analytical meditation may as well be my bag. Unfiltered sighs, glances, & whispers connote an author in sprite agency. Potok in the resonate space of my drums, intervening there and gone, they rock on their brace, feet wagging in my dream bank to bank, cool wood on sole prone lobbing pugs.**************************