True and Now, What up is?

How that experience is become intuitive in my mind is no really verifiably subtle thing I would reify & see myself consumed in social reverence, that an unlived future is thought's consolation deigned daliance to revere anymore than listening well, knowing it is a thing to be enjoyed. You speak, I feel. You discover a direction multiplied. I assent a mind convulses willingly enough that it may appertain your dream as magical, the miracle to topple, again-bitten, this convenient array through our moment to moment distant strung, between us and on wallpaper intervening with the message you brought & bring into the room. I feel I do this even "for" us, but the space of your yeahs feeling like yeahs tho' the thing I reference wasn't an observation you will have made, lassooing mind tableaux where the deprecare is won is as near a truth, "inwit" emplaced only there, just saying you would.****************Cleaving to the progress of the creative in the world-to-come is designing the present moment into the mainstay of distantly plying light, but a frontier in theoria: Can I call this devekut (in Hebrew)? Googled and synthetic, it means: "...devekut, from the root davak, to cleave, denotes chiefly this constant being with G*d but sometimes also denotes the ecstatic state produced by such communion." Is this avidya & tanha (Sanskrit)? Ignorance & desire respectively, in threading an ideal circumstance to "clinging" materially, even to these words, doing something "spiritually" about it, is a way to convolve meaning in my perspective to the environment in which I'm invested to have continuity with its essence. Upadana is clinging in Sanskrit.**************The clasping guffaw opening alligator is Mom's sense of beauty, so beautiful. The heart rock my brother Mark Lakes may have found in eastern Ky somewhere. The pocked stone is one I brought back from the West Bank, Ma'ale Ephraim--it looked like one in every couple hundred with a former biosphere vapor emitting botanical life giving it a superlative pebble look. Our image to the antecedents on human sorrow come from The Last Two Million Years, a Readers Digest encyclopedian book--a yeah to dreamtime somehow. Human beings have trod devising their earthen senses probably in our present state for maybe 100,000 yrs. There are alligator species who have little changed in 200,000,000 yrs. The dragonfly has taken to the skies for 350,000,000 yrs. I'm awed to observe dragonflies just as when my first memories conduce moments in the natural world of our "lot" in Texas. Swamplike, its chocolate, fecund, ronching, Summery invitation to my disappearance into a void of wilds to enjoin living creatures freely expressing whiling-away where my intuitions make me feel I am closer to that then, different & a geist to its ephemeral reality now. Over at our shop which breadwon while we hope & endure the place of our making, my family's business, all those years, entailed butterflies & dragonflies around overgrown spaces amongst the building's creaturely isle of mute reprise to their anonymous season's arrival. I notice dragonflies zoom & pivot across the newly painted blacktop on occasion and knowing there is nothing of a subjective need that makes the bizarro redolent taste as the high that really lasted for the ecstatic insect, it intensifies in definitions of its ill-certain victuals, it's weird the animal would prefer its toxic trip. Literally drawn there, the nitrogen from petroleum only stimulates her, while flowers with their same appeal just past the drive grow in our courtyard with the buried cat from Rebel Rd.***************Sam Harris says something closely to this, giving me a riff on his "spiritual" consciousness in examination--his recent subject and book in focus: --If you were to wake up one morning and you felt now you'll know everything, and nothing is alright too in being boundless in your love, then you are likely only to have audience with an ancient wisdom tradition, so not usually contemporarily plaintive.**************Managing a Belief, G-d designs our approach to the graft of reason in shorelines, these frontiers, the awe before touchdown, into perceptibly a report to it all, has nothing conflating in following the creative, the mothership into the sea of possibilities even after parturience. So "birth," only-beginnings, are G-d. After that your frontier in knowledge is only intentions: G-d is your intention. The artifact to her deprecare plaintive unknowing is light; the awe of getting to know is hopeful, but a Creator's wish & mystery, luminally blind days with now an attention on light making observable that condition now becomes something necessarily not sky emanate, not G-d. Bernard Lewis, the linguist en superlative episteme efforts, relates "Gottinyu" in Yiddish, & only one other word is an "intimation" with that grammatical ending, in this case, that of the consummate vibe as fiddler on the roof & not a "diminutional" grammar of G*d. Intimate, interior, a reflection on something poignant, graver than light, the "blindmen" running through their pitch of chimera, self-knowing.*****************The stars are a spangly liquid agent to consciousness awash.**************The availability in cultivating your phantomic subtleties, this knowledge without whose preachment is it that tells you how to spend time does it make you what this life is become? How about now are your yeahs yeahs?**************A biological bias for beauty may be just the case for the appreciating phenomenon of contemplation. This is silent world in consciousness working with one and against beauty, itself, denying all inelegance before it. One wants to get into a place to think, true to an emotional schedule, intuitive. Thinking is self-preservation even fear, that our reserve to take up concern for relationship if only in our minds is in fact denying relationship, not only has one rally against where he or she is leading to their empirical given, but also perhaps the degree to which it is become manifest, the given unto the empirical duty. During a study of our genetically nearest primates (in Gombe, Jane Goodall's research) a certain chimpanzee is observed going during the overnight hours and sitting by a waterfall on occasion, only sitting, no resource imbibed. Enjoying subtleties in a thought world conduced to non-maligning change--plashing fresh & cool paradisiacal? water--perhaps, and in my view, like my Grandfather, Zadie, whose retreat it was to go sit in a dark room of the house, not to turn away, but turning toward his facility in a kind of release. Big comforts, like thought floats in shimmering night torrents, born of earthen wont from proud burdenable land is a beauty in catharses however an animal in liquid nature awashes in perspective.************Cleopatra brand cigarettes, not a treat in as much as a specter, in the nerve lit a face is translating nomenclature out of thoughtless lungs. Breathing in loam, twiggy particulate, what-tobacco, but as a taste of Egypt like I needed to resort to something other than the "hubbly-bubbly" pipe, ... Al-Salaam's restaurant owner emplaces such & such thing toward my conscious map. While we saunter past the Sphinx, it's corralled in a construction theater, we're told not to smoke among our averring vehemently antiquating pyramids, "Do not light your lighters underneath the pyramid, men," A guide there reckons--I remember because I entirely would have enjoyed that, thinking into the project of that day--we were staying at the ironically named Americana reverent & beat under north Africa's Siniatic sun. The next conceptual space, if I could figure it out, would tie "binah," meaning Understanding, from kabbalah mysticism, into the spiritual grammar where an extreme ranks Pte Indians (native) mythos, specifically Kaskurbeh & his wife whose body transmogrified to parturience of tobacco, their retreat into capsulate reality into our nature, a view through self-knowing, terribile in its last cultivating I gnash before it presents the world anew that I'd be dispatched. A concrete high, not mine--but in the bone enbowering weird standards to intensity. I scoff, but I'm serious, it was never me, not close and a stillness so blue, actually looking into a blue flame withwhich I conflagrated choice Bugler, lighting my punk off a gas stove, a 12 percent betterment in glowering moon sees to it I mark white decisors 'pon a graffitti real internal cove.