Yass, she is !!

Who am I to say I've always been dream-recollected, loading begun in imagining realism to more vital self-mythologizing, now all clotting up the ends of 20th century earth by her loss in the 21rst ? "Come bury your thoughts..." and by whose still waters takes thinking purveyor and buries him too among objets trouves of perception-doors, & abandoned keys of lone-geist alleys?**************************ALL dark, rather SLavic features--even within Americana erasing what is beneath-- bloom in old-day's soLitarian vagaries thru my studies awe of our past in the home of my youth, Mom's presence, and my visor-extremis weLLing in Winter bLindness, thinking on not looking into skein traffic, the glorifying shine aLL windows assailant in city brightness, is-ness, are eyes, whiLe aLL eyes are sky windows. Reflection is the extenuating mind acting in the eyes. BiologicaLLy eyes are mind, a part to the communication gland, as time in bottLes are an answer to the vaLLey of tongues. Back to my car after a waLk, the perfect unleaved trees against an even dirty cotton sky in the side mirror is closely how I imagine the eye seeing the venous fractaLs if the visuaLLy purveyed is onLy poured over her own visage. Eyes know the myriad: potency in the arms of fecund surfaces, a worLd carved by gloss and change. Just sight as feeLing and unmatricuLate. It z like thinking on origins, one persists to accomplish first doors, moment to moment, and through the years awash at the door-step. Mind is reduced to sentient direction to a beginning, but isn't spiLLed from the vesseL to its memory encounter-- "No one try to find the answer to aLL the questions they ask, --yes I know it's impossible, to go living through my past." B. MarLey StiLL here, not there. StiLL-eyes want to refLect.**************Getting more exercise--waLking around the neighborhood surrounding the shop. Wish it would be an obvious positivity in change, that I'd remember an uncertainty, then say, "See, there is a less dynamic worLd I've come from." And meanwhiLe, anyone wouLd suppose not aLL of this deficit in a wish for improvement is what goes on, so what is change--that I am becoming...? But I lament in a-way of manufacturing motive. LiittLe flower petaLs are faLLing across the sidewaLk in places, a street over. Two wafting bradley pear tree flower pieces assigning a notice of communion I'm just getting to hurry to compete toward the worLd of dust. The petaL trying to catch up says--likely to land sooner, "wait, wait, I'm going too." The one at 9 o'clock high says, "It's just there, and I haven't said the ground beneath her feet is so greedy that you could imagine air thermaLs as your once reach to our day's solar finis."****************You know when as Jimi riffs, I'm sitting, tho' in elegant miles in time, one big road, this once conveyed. Barely listening, only wondering that his guitar sounds one way never delaying the vend of East, different next only because sounds arrive by sequencial streams. Now mind has sound stand out, nothing in ply except blue Valley of Fire swirL suns. Music faLLs over me, I see that it gets a-way, & thoughts aren't much to offer meaning, only in that it's veriLy a stream, surface design w/o Spring transferring its high in the day as any vessel to a wine-dark sea. Makes me alight starved over what I would've known.**********************Oh to harvest bLueberries back in a special pLace, NY's air and mountains, the CatskiLLs where I'd vacation aLL those many years, has made in me many of the definitions of siLence which wiLL ever round me out in the tote of a deep-aside. Over across Casten Rd where the bungalows sprawL are bLueberry fields and mushrooms which the others made up of Russian reasonably secularized Jews, hunt and pick as they would have in their oLd worLd. I & Nature, so momentary, and the concretions of hot-icebergs in appearances aLL the more I suppose contain me, onLy micro-manage perception with the sLightest of agency even toward our macro-worLd: grant that had you waLked up and greeted me, inevitably I have more to judge than the wish over the mean of nature. I remember specificaLLy going through the woods untiL I come to a cLarion stream, seeping in aLien anonymity, its qualia of fractaL deep is only 2-3 feet. Sitting at its verily rocky margins & near trifoLiation, I say, "damn, damn, good-bye & thank you--I believed in being here."***************Reading under a tree, one of the few pines Lining the back of an EpiscopaL church--where my kind of attendance, wasn't, and tethered to happiness IS, is their space exegesis--couldn't have gotten better even gluing moments yesterday, in the sun, gaLLoping horses in the day's event cLose enough to be ecstatic, Limby refuge from drizzLing rain is contemplative path's few first steps. Herman Wouk's couple of wizened temporaL bridges across our portrait of Confession occupy memoria-teLos, analyticaL, wind and his arising roiLs over the burning in my chest. This place is looking down to naturaL springs; a yard over I had been stung on my stomach by a wasp, its creek's bridge denizenship in a scuLpture-post verily discovered, whiLe my brothers dance like warriors around me swiLLing time as free as its toxins argue in my bLood. If history truLy asserts Ashkenaz as the ethicaL landscape where I am proven, further back to Scythian, perhaps the tribaL CentraL Asian to European root, these studies of authoring eLLipticaL spirits, are in its yeLLow horde a solar tribuLation--whited out in pure Light of ubiquity--if I'm drinking off the fecund surface down its radiant stream.**************By g-d if there is hell to be discovered, even while thorough-going in the knowledge of my velocity, I absorb every reason to be sundered by it. And to come across a Socratic modus contemporary, he aLLows: "By Jove, I am mistaken, you are different, needs a little work," says Krishnamurti. This is an enormous lesson, because I teLL foLks, Change my mind, trying to acknowLedge that I am stuck like this-pet egoity-trance chained in the backyard of miLLeniaL separation to my love, and now the intercessor confidant is aLL aLong me. J. K. lived down the road from Chaim Potok in Ojai--nice place to visit in Ventura Cty, Ca.--and Potok having to do with my first existential shoes in passporte episteme, fleck of impressions to visuaLLy mine the more heavy question in my nerve confessed, I imagine turning few corners, finding meditation different than analytical alighted East my due, doing, the Brahmin painted retreat from "belief," more like observable release.***************The yard I'm walking past looks as reminiscent to Gardenside pond, its margins as in this temporaL berth is thought's unreLenting reception. Any movement, sight in color, sounds arriving, poise with sense of contemplation, which is just as easily big floats in challenging blind sensory notice, like algae slime, green mercurial pond redolence. In its sprawL, a fluent mythos is in actively choosing her garments wrought hem in sunny equinox, to meet public space, that of the adjacent park in arrant green grass, leaves in last season's brown detritus, where I loiter under heartbroken skies, star impressed rays like blood, the weLL of hearts, consumate with blue pleromas, void-sojourn thrown like roiLs of fountain plash across its fray--my heart drowns before Varuna.*****************Taking a walk around the park, the day anoints plaintive sadness & I come back to the same-day's contagion after the free air. Her certain soul confidence, my dear Susie, arises Dao-inventive, & I teLL her, if I can be sure of anything, she's effortless to absorb the uncontrollable light giving me away in this narrative of broken flowers: "You reach out for people. A certain freedom in doing that. Everybody is so important to me now in ways in which I feel I act on, and nobody may see... But in the end nothing going on crawls over my provincial mind and I fear everything." Midges clot up my linear concourse like flaque along the newly regouged creek. I screw the sun just for fun.*****************The West is genetic in its agonism over Societal cues' first light bewteen Judaism & Greek Thought--this dialect noted by Hitch. Both thorough-going measuring Babylon to run and anoint iconoclast poignancy, or appetite varied over symbology in human cosmogony. Central Asia is the dragon swaLLowing us, its taiL. Jupiter Capitolina is the temple of Aelia Capitolinus, what haKoteL, HoLy of HoLies became, & Jerusalem named by Emperor Hadrian. It seems in core-culture's report to Greco it is befitting Christians and Jews were likely translators of Greek Science back to those in closest investiture of civiLization's beginning. Chaim Potok notes in "Wanderings" there are thousands of Greek words in Hebrew. Realize maybe once in monist contentment, culture just puts us aLL in everyone's backyard, with truth in oLd masks' new interpreters.*********************I have no refuge in continuity. Had I acted on impulse, I'd consider smoking tobacco, the ameLioration if from enduring destructive behavior, (strangely) the event of mirror-breaking, so me becoming recalcitrant from indefinite nature (apathy over who would've been there to see?). Being pissed at myself and the world is a bitter piLL swaLLowed once; its prescription yields to a false homeopathic daemon. Seems the Sisyphus inside me beLieved the calculus of conscious prop--that rock--a resource & wont for an existential artifact that should adjure meaning--in the irony of a would-be transcendent mountain. Impermanence is a banal ornament to the tree already faLLen in its soundless wooded remote wonder. My mind is an ancient sense of Sinaitic ant mounds. Their catalyst in eating acacia tree sap, expectorating its sugary refuse, regurgitating its manna explanate biblacy finally out of its realm of fantasia. "Life" (a tree) yawning into the pleroma not only out of its reach however animate, everything humanity suffered is its specter that the sky yields what earthen mundaneity has us doctrinaLLy deny.****************A real doll tells me something--we're holding hands on the beach, sitting in the dark, unbound weather, martial sea argues in glass-green closely unarming smile, "Tears of a Clown," Alison says, and her head props up in g-d's eye visor handed back to me. She's right till a room's shape to silence within me reaches through mind featuring an object of certainty. The ocean is the tea of continents, one sip and the report, plash, lap, zzzzshooo, redounds as the whole. As a clown, poised of incredulous presence, I stand, rather furtively, here among clients assuming the evanescence of interlocution 'round me. Deign of content lost on me, and while I imagine not listening, project of natural moment's graffiti of my thoroughfare office eclipses needing to affect adapting. I breathed w/5 minutes instruction watching mindful illocutionary on meditation, like I know something. I think I used to be principled in range of movement, say, eye-hand coordination, a sense of staying lithe. Shiva all the more interesting now. Sitting in front of the yack of TV all the yrs in growing up with an imagination of body consciousness, I'd stretch, lay on the floor, touch-the-earth. While now most of my "creative" time I spend if only analytical attempts? in meditation, I'LL sit uncomfortably in positions w/ambiguous sense, unreadied sensitivity, then catch-up to an approach more fluent in reading lifting me out of rank contagion to moments' comfort level: waiting in physical success to remember to forget itself. Maybe in a career of this making room for me in ambivalence, power-spots would become emergent, eagerly sought-out, but no different than its blue pregnant surface of a lake after the rain: one is in the climate of its power observing its comely form, until dipping-in denying any distinction or motive.********************Forgot to take my meds before I crashed last night. So now, dosed the am., I will end up napping before lunch in good chimeric order. Lullabies to get me there, and psalmodies for the remote lands of dreamscape to keep occupied will be employed. Turning my thoughts to light, inner-eye nomenclature with 10,000 coves, become the lair of star constellations, midnight blanketed.***************Squirrels are out in a nicer day, jubilant under redolent pines where there's a robin whose beak pivots like a pitchfork; a liittel splay of pine needles emanate before its thrush forward. A very loud crow just cackled, went over the adjacent school roof, instead of landing on my sluice concept negotiating shoulders. This lil drainage canal makes my ground perch spooky by its blackened 3ft bellowy tunnel, chthonic, more hidden than my thoughts would retrieve. From cool weather and weathering issuant cold now, hot when hot, cold then sensorial & alive, Abraham's story of Nimrod's fiery cauldron-come-lotus bloom, bare a calculus of memories older than weariness.