heart open--light mind--step, 'pon the bug of impermanence

So, little creatures with the superlative lasting weather, make me wonder. Do they imagine anything from moment to moment, while auspicious hunting grounds can't furrow any longer than his average life span? What is it to live moment to moment, an ultimatum of good-enough, sun out of blue and anonymity, but eliciting her nod to eternity, while barely adjuring the crown of change, is her decisor promise of coming back?*********Imagining, what poverty of narrative to be rent of truth, I wander into passion and existential things to esteem, the willingness of the victim even unto his death, and by whose wishful sojourning. The following is from The Closing of the Western Mind, Charles Freeman: "...common theme in ritual, also found in Greek tragic drama, an awareness that any transition involved a loss that had to be recognized within the ritual itself."*****************Who am I to capture all the concern that once had lain as ready embers to the continuity and meaning that love meant? Survival is intensity, openess, and has no standard. Meeting the content of persona, our dust underfoot, tea dregs for egoity solution, asks to register eudaemonic shores of the gratuitous answer. Answers are to people as prone observer is to absolute spirit.*************A new book or this review of Judaic thoughts, her sojourn v. Core-culture's history, visual documentary, always the kind of things bringing me into a conversation with Mom--I'd approach her saying, "Mom, mmom, saw an interesting thing, its so lucky this kind of thing is available." Even imagining she cared beyond when an equinox was not so obvious--finally yielding, socratically I imagine, "Well, who am I ?" Tho' materially like many of her books I found--I didn't have to go around the corner, uhm, Judaism is good enough, supposing everything is lost on me anyway: self-realization is been a lucky guess. She acted rather rare if an indicator to a wrought truancy of mine, her son. Now, more than anytime in the last 5 yrs, reading is serving intellectual stamina in better account on feeling I have no better place to be. Generally I mean, I'm retrieving confidence in small ways--Things need to be ineluctable to manufacture a motive. Old authors are ill-contained by time or thought, and weirdly less so materially. I believe them imminently. **************There's certain standard of images I revisit; some for rainy days, the beginning scenes in In the Beginning--Potok, things otherwise which wouldn't easily prise from Salman Rushdie's writing, but trigger my own feelings as if an intimate lens is my allowance and key to the narrative. Chaim Potok is a few times over lent out of Mom's bookstow, and is deliberative good impulse while charactertizing languid meditations, conscious satellites in & out of hotch-potch precipitation, days of my making. Among the trees where the dreamer is unmovable, I capture black-barked maple wet like wind-bodies of spirits blowing drizzle sleepily washing away plain-light anonymity, only to manifest a mind participating in a cooler season's baptism. It used to matter to me having read an author whose footfall is currently vital. Usually the author would arise, in academia I imagined, so that those institutions would unfurl in anticipation that thought's dialect now won't spoil, dissipated spirit (in time) is still clarion & ineluctable, rather my enthusiasm can't easily be a mere relic in the living author's language.********************It's weird, psychologically, I'm sunk by concretion's confidence birth memories are just Rokeach candles. Kaskurbeh's wife, a Pte American native, in her transmogrific botany, her bones and flesh become the tobacco plant. Eternally blooming for solicitous blue sweet smoke, yet not for me. My eyes have turned away, & toward ground zero to the just substance deferent to stars and elements. Incredible as any jump from some yr past the magnificate door, implicit in unbelief is the lowing thunder of the door of perception opening.******************Pilgrimage of the week, the tearing grip of fire I bare in her absence. In a sabbatical of lifetime, creaturely ascendent, not daimon, but daemon, I'm musterion triune: lion, ibex, hoopoe. Chimeric intensity w/abracadabra key, open sesame. A Winter window, thru the free space of memories, a wet pear in my fist while traipsing into 1/2 a foot of snow, in the morning of my youth. At eye level skittering snow animates with intentions, neverland of skybloom leisure, temporal & dormant. At the top of the street, Lane Allen artery bisecting Gardenside neighborhood stains w/electric snowy blue, uniformity, & mush...******************Michael Wood in this dreamt room I am presently occupying wasn't a natural interlocutor, more a media illusion micro-managing my senses. I strained through the turbid dream current to speak. I mention historians. He reckons my immured state, can't humor the dreigh, slow of speech, yet impulsive, dream gate crashed, attempt. I start writing things, and while going back into myself, I belch words of fog & corporeal prison. He'd been to Alfalfas, now in the dream, I sit with him while his hard-drive media, bought outside the US, has data recovery performed on it. I read "Sailing the Wine-Dark Sea," I tell him, but real studies on Geniza won't meet this surface--it should like a 1000 yr marauding visage in a particular library. Professorial, licit & expansive episteme defines this, my shore plash at the margins, and like chimeric sustaining oxygen I run for high ground when the room recedes into waking attention. In conversation w/myself, imagining that I'm alternating with the beck & horizon in the rest of the day--expression taking place just not here--and lonely event of almost-dreams, one memory alludes to mud bricks made under the Red Sea sun, Dahab, hod of N. Africans, building buildings through whose entrances were just off these shores w/percussion & signs telegraphing, coming-to, as my telos in this conscious map.*********************The career of lights on Nicholasville Rd a 100 times over follow me out of the way of night walking from downtown to my room on Rebel. These lights turn into marrow of thoughts, they're the ledger of good humor, tranforming me next to the river of life. Minding dovecot message in mind's eye mantram of coos, report 'pon tarmac of "Arab's oil weapon" (Bunny Wailer album title) in perfect illustration of elite monies, ours, mine, our children's... a concretion swath in social living, addiction, appetite low uncreated and asleep. My feet juggle these sidewalks. My mind can't corral the shapes of temporal interests, footfall met, I'm a skein of symbols, no one in its ply. An exoteric berth for a local remnant Kentuckian burial ground, suspends in shallow exhaust of cars through the city's main artery, suspended in breath, but animated in memorial by ours.************************The center is dragging, it collapses. You keep coming, then you're over. Sisyphusian concretion mind, what is it when everybody knows this is no where? (...it's broad enough statement that I ain't rippin' off N.Y.) Life is maybe-cultivated. I might be pathless. There may only be forest and no gate. Underground man is shoeless, leaves blind-tracks his excelsior flap 'pon as much star mote yellow G-d's eye custard streaking conscious map, nothing above, moving into experience, he's immured as big corporeal float taking notice. One acts upon the mean abyssal sense, the moment is transformational. The uncarved block is noticably as mute as earth casting its own shadow, or sun's impermanence if it were possible some cosmic body radiated exceedingly, & she leaves swath in emptiness apposite her cosmic dialect, synthesizing the space of a mute lamp.***************I THINK I DIED that first night ole girl came around. Laying with her in bed--and No!--my heart kinda quit, and I saw myself sitting at the head of the bed, at my regularly dream saturated pillow, disembodied. Strange toxic foggy lament and a "see it means nothing" moment. I COULD TELL I was dead. Two things: first, she put her hand on me like I was the taut covering of a blue fountain-gone pool, skin drawn across an unfeeling body. Secondly, my heart asks if I wanted to "stay" like alive....