GEUSH URVAN

Interesting seeing the wrought (self-acclaimed) ubermensch actionable in a world he can't damage. It is pure soul in the ephemeral luck when a fool does things with attention and understanding. Merill Lynch with their bull meandering around the crystal shop offers subtlety to a bovine's clop clop clop in ironic reflecting-wholeness through this world-to-come, that his complaint lived of mute and brute mindless courage is assuring our fealty to a musterion will, willing itself across the razor's edge. Geush Urvan warns Zarathustra he would be incomplete, metamorphically denied while being befouled from his kind marauded & consumed unceremoniously.*************You read, in one act, one mind--a hopeful other--through your one voice and terminal through another. Only until your analytical meditation became iconoclast, then someone had to wordlessly, tunelessly, paint the distance strung of an unopened book, its concept gathered as if motivated toward its answer. But there, that space, potent and only willingly from 2000 yrs of literation to the 100,000 humankind is been trodding proud land inventing a thing to name it.*******************Quality is not material? I go to Oxford, once, like Ky in a green hillocky way, cool too, thus the season coming on in late August. I sense a different moment in one place in contrast to whiling away in the wash of light, live in an essense to elsewhere, and then memorialized space in thousands of known & unknown earthen changes. But intentions, relating in spirit to nature, like fundamental nomenclature exaggerating the ground beneath our feet, a world reaching for its temporal-mission-purveyor has divining consciousness as one moves into it - its portents anointed in rocks, the sky, an arbor, this world.*******************Thoughts on this fascinating discussion between Satish Kumar & Richard Dawkins: Our material contest over attention enduring our infected spirit with abyssal ambition through physical success (moving down, down, into experience, ever the sorrow of encumbrance) makes a proposition to that of an inanimate world ill-vital, if unconscious, observable reality as the gratuity of appearances part of a network, sharing energy opposed to ours in our mean advance to be changed by it.****************You are completely closed off; you're asking for a right to be seen in that condition. Your closing, sleepy eyes, aren't registering a revolution to come. Our translator mask, worn by the abiding cipher upon his watch-tower inhibition, have his eyes pass-over their newly painted interior, when they are cut open to your dream.****************Listening to a variety of music, that of African titles, I am grateful to be transfixed through mantram lure of spiritually passporte language. Eje nlo gba ara mi King Sunny Ade' dubs up without reggae, but close superlative, and the hypnoses is glad, watery, yellow of African wakes in deep infinite equator heat.. Inkunzi ayi hlabi ngokusima is a lamp on origins too, other-worldly in prone whirling noise in his instrument, South African Jonny Sipho, this song arises in similar vulnerability as Mali's Ali Farka Toure' which is posted here. And not to be left undone in the valley of tongues, Spear of the Nation, Umkhonto We Sizwe, Prince Far I's preachment, his answer in concensus trance chanting to call & respond in biblacy, is an Old Testament believer on a Living G-d, may see sorrow not only between he and a Creator. ***************In pacing past my pine stand mid-way through my walk, today its redolence isn't suffocating from heat, but a morning garment of dawn catchment (moist) air. I breath in the pine, full of lung appetite, and while I am known for a fast footfall, I receive three inhalations, designing the langor of the few trees as I pass in four broad steps. I sense the old man whose house this is, his unconscious approval in my eyes of plants. The weary urban patrons of frenzy (close Lexington traffic) reminding he & I, like a conversation remits, nowhere recommends truth in nowhere to be. Amongst graying clouds, necessity makes the ceiling high above compose civilization, this silent, lazy Sunday, enjoined to an appropriated wilderness tabernacle, trees becoming more gonglike in its wind-made tremors, its conversation is manifest in whispers.****************That a jagged edged phrase would arise in the Moderate's mind as to why she is moderating rather than mania of pretensions with a Literalist as their okay ambition (Faith) giving a fix in would-be salient ethos, that somehow her Believing may have ones thinking prone (if assessed), winding in attention is a condition perhaps not otherwise cultivated. The first mistake the mind makes in the truck toward our pass of compassionate void is making value statements. The wet stuff in our head's first state is fragmentation, however gratuitous of a deep aside.**************An Autumn morning's re-narration: Little flitting robin off of the driveway looks resident and folky, not whistling--I discover its detective spy v spy gawking at personae warm neighborhood houses. Its form taking up my perspective in a small life, approbation as some kind of creative ardor, I'm more a part of consciousness in today's viscera with avian conscious expediters. Outward fact guise of bee-catchers, in the power of this-light climate among the earth's dispossessed, psalmody-wind's history called & hallooed I'm Present. Wanting such poise, aiming to get full-up and suspiring, I watch mundi red-seeing sky nomenclature squawk, traffic elapses by Kerouac's thinking upside-down, blood-monastate languages of I Am Here, Avalokiteshvara biographic organs of consciousness are inward-acting. Blue exuding cool comes off these bluegrass yards in a helpless yelp of earthen shade: It holds the coolness like blood of the heart as a kind of effluvial ditch, lush of proud land, mused-wildly from off the beaten path.**************My walk takes me past the UFO looking church right after the utility road leading to it. A hoary pine stand at the top of the neighborhood beginning that leg of my wandering has stifling heat complain in my ciphering lungs. And through ecclesia, perhaps in an extensive parking lot that lays out after the church, & under a tree, I'll sometimes sit and record a thought. The other day here I ruminate over St Raphael's close to my old memorialized space, as if this newer pedestrian qualia is as freed up and timely. An SUV with plates assigning Middle-town, NY origins, all black and rank in anonymity is flat opposite the white Escalade which takes us year after year to her mountains. This and an aroma of kasha mixed with the florid hotch-potch of tupelo clover paint colors of real retreat in my eyes. I didn't walk yesterday and today in the bop of appreciating imminent map, I realize conscious satellites, or almost, as if I say condoling things put upon where I belong.*****************All that movement & sound has a second long cast at people imparting a feeling of transformation, while acting behind a sublime babylon veil motoring to unknown horizons met. Cavalcading traffic in lopped-off dialects underneath blearing metal, their power is in threatening earthen wretched paths, upon bloodless vascular tarmac. A suburban denizen in lone ant execution wearing his sky blue walking shoes slipped on for utility shores around his house, carries folded clothes to the back of an SUV, really alliterates through metallic thrum my refrain between his silent anonymous patter and the margins of his nevermind neighborhood. I sip water at the waterhose tasting fountain at the edge of Southland Park, swimming and baseball draws summery faithful nigh, and past me into the park a boy in atrophied expressions winding by is buried in daliance loams, humidity thermals... Spend your time doing strange things with weird people is good advice, brings me to this: Is weird a state of mind? The guise of mind purveyor with less than a looking glass than her frenzy in nature persistent in moulds giving contour to wrought life is to ones threshold the first god and interior solace, and over 'til appreciated as ambition however mundane and greedily inspired. Is the mind out of the way of mind weird, or is statement of presence letting go, so mindful and exilic, and soooo weird the dynamic is bodas oro, a day consumed into lifetimes?***************Spend your time doing strange things with weird people, my man Thom relates, brings me to this: Is weird a state of mind? Is the mind out of the way of mind weird, or is statement of presence letting go, so mindful and exilic, and soooo weird?*************Like I've swallowed anything a pen may reveal through my realism, a pen hardens appetite, can make everything a mean flavor--feels plastique in my gut. "Transformational" by identity equating phenomenalizing source to that of resource.****************On down around the park, heading up toward the biggest pine tree I know, two big pin oaks in their sprawl individually bigger than the house whose yard they set lived & fractal, all the romantic silent neighborhood, in those appreciating thwack steps, lead to their stalwart shade and vibe. My Zadie's little cottage home in Kingston, NY, on Lay St. takes on my reach and discernment, feels good to re-remember summery foliage, a willow tree by his backyard leading to dense woods figure in fascinans' entreaty--assuming all these shadowy gifts of memoria--Stewart's Icecream shop at the top of his street, where we bought sweets, the Bowery Dug-out is the fish restaurant where we never ate, and the rest of town fairly unknown to me. I am as consumed in domestic, monarchical release to that of my vacationing enticed thinking, adduced with senses to jump from back then to an everywhen subtlety, the old man presence luckily solitarian and cool, thoughtless cloister of dross things swept away from my comely streets. How can our older generations suppose the kindly redolence to that of nature in changeless time of empty bottles, cipher of here-here, To Life-llibations, while I grasp wishing to meet minds pouring-out their licit answers?*******************So easy to see all our thought values replete in subject world, somewhere of proliferate spaces barely the salt grain of succour, and what of its taste. There are guarantees & divining of culture and if ephemeral, so by luck, an artist's voice eliciting the rather strange anthem of love in this case sung in Amharic, Arabic, & Hebrew, is how I'd want to hear her chiming while I'm less prone. I'm adduced from sounds-arrival to the sauntering purity of quiet steps into the rain, through green smoothish, almost undetectable lapse of texture, tupelo clover like star shards... The yoga bright and a Floridian ocean-fated lady stand under a tree out of the drizzle in a rare dry space and all alight what features the flowery redolence just under this ole soul, some gloss of today's rain deepens its gone-ness, into my love of fascinan's deference, her embrace, a rather Californian loveliness awaiting this evening's beautiful embrace, I think..**************Those plaintive days can seem more usual, the feel of langor when roommates and friends all are launched into our city splay. And how does this city funk up in forms where I've once emerged looking through and upon an aerating white staticky tableau, before me, shoulder high, like Lexington is only this certain project of light? A vision truly, and as consistent in recollection in time's stream of internal calculus as letting-go of a world is observable. Lexington's evanescence and my decisor (-agency) advancing in less cumulate sense, magnifying personalities as immediate in hometown watchtowers leaves me well out of it. I think, Why feel lopped off of dynamic waves over identity, now carried on horses with no faces?****************THE shadow knows, and is proven because I ain't got enough her. Once sussing about wrought thru time in daliance meant to surface between us. Sometimes I am completely wooden, futilely animate, in a tear's thrall, but you just don't know. And not in those indefinite shores, so remote--I wouldn't languish. I'm concerned to get subtle approach, mindful just then.*****************Yass, Yes, Jazz, beyond now. Yeahs are yeahs, culture soooo not the vulture. She's tradition, but new. The new message, the get-full. The biblacy of torn bibles is beat and social dust live under the feet of the tea-makers, fugue-takers, sounds arrive for you and the hip toward her best affect in self-actualization. These are songs of vulnerable instruments, oblivion mentating vox recollecting, oh yeah, the purveyors to some soul..***************Yass, Yes, Jazz, beyond now. Yeahs are yeahs, culture soooo not the vulture. She's tradition, but new. The new message, the get-full. The biblacy of torn bibles is beat and social dust live under the feet of the tea-makers, fugue-takers, sounds arrive for you and the hip toward her best affect in self-actualization. These are songs of vulnerable instruments, oblivion mentating vox recollecting, oh yeah, the purveyors to some soul..****************Seems only right a year on from a tobacco habit impossible for me, so dissociative & final to imagine its succour, its drink, but now to think in thanks and praises. The upsetting rather banal dis-ease coming to the disease in a theater of my body at war with itself, framing it as I imagine "certain" physical success that those around prove ought to be my norm, is regained somewhat that I feel motivated, alive. A psychologist had been to our business, recognized her from the place where I go for counseling, and I wondered how severe my languish must have appeared to her that one day... And just then, 'pon her leave, I called the gloom and dust of work all the decisor of reason less evanescent and cigarettes only musterion answer to ego amplified by pathos execrated from the behavior ward.*****************I want to tell the sea to reach me. Whiling away is the sands of change in all it can do. The 10,000 things of the Dao is become a deluge wailing in awe over a fecund deep-aside. I vibrate on but everything seems to go away. I imagine a feast, but it will be the last. The phantom-wont in luminescence of sister moon takes any seat she likes. I fall asleep wishing for her spirit to traduce sorrow & mundaneity, & her fire burns; it's an arising morning whose reality is principle to every beginning, and in shades of this present moment under reifying boughs giving-out, furrows blind through into the two threads, black & white, of the new dawn.****************I pace through Raven's Run today with sweet Cami Watts, the olfaction in streamy effulgence from the creek past the old mill tastes like the rust in my blood. Imagining something of final form enduring in the truck of my blood, come earthen evidence to nothing ever to wonder on impermanent record again. That antiquation of senses amounting to a seat of a thousand deaths, flows through me, now into me educated in micro-sensed world, mattering little otherwise feeling content with I & Nature. A lens over all of brother sister woods, avian monarchies, deer scat missed in my footfall? is where I think of Ivan Turgenev's Fathers & Sons and his anarchist posit of a new day thus, assessing the acacias of Russian-pathetic lands, and I get to see these Ky adjured cedars.**************