Soul, does the creative goal redesign me upon the exoteric other shore?

In Why Kerouac Still Matters, John Leland, in Words on Fire, Dovid Katz, my professor's writing whose Oxford Intensive Study I attended, and in the just out Waking Up, by Sam Harris, I'm enjoined to be unblinded in the deprecare of my laziness and its slight to ignore my confidences, observing their authors' style in the project of sub-floors to reimagine the subject: Jazz toward Hiphop poeses, liturgical analyses in their folk meddling, and goals of meditation or consciousness for the hope of irreducible shores respectively. What makes a read more believable is obviously having made a choice where the author is noticeably a strange spirit, but when he/she cordons off part of a chapter by sculpting more concertedly a historical point of well-being to jump from, is to immediately feel you are a reader thus accessed toward more alliterative change. Accessed as more amenable for change is a kind of key to the intensity having brought the reader to assume navigating things in full just has the more finely meant details more white-fiery, those tableaux plains of experience, subtle & adducible.************* Instead of saying, "come on self, catch up, so doing things feel better," unfortunately I'm conduced by my suspicious inner-voice within intra-mantra slavery. I'm wishing force of nature would have me mean it, and I say, "...oh, go on, do what you want, I'm still carrying-on." As if "doing what You want" sorts out a control upon something superlative that self sees in self, while temporal journeys show deference in the merit of change, I can only imagine having nowhere to go.*************I imagined once some deference to thoughts-ablutional, that having this feeling survive in my thinking it needed to seem natural, eventual in its assent while whatever other thoughts pull me into action. In my version of a handful of years rather like a "retreat" however social or coarse in cultivating mental discipline, I've gotten in & out of the box of appreciating lessons common in commonalities from the people I grow to love. Sitting down by the fireplace, the loading is begun. This power spot renowns in my dreams, while other family members abra cadabra licit in strong theorias, with whom I may have managed to gain this insight, those elemental candles glow in plight to serve my eyes, and I feel like clouds mistaken as smoke, and thought cauldrons populate the heaviest of night chimeras. My room, effectively and solely a place of my making than anywhere or anywhen to present me as this prone ever again, takes on spiritual continuities with a transmogrifying fire which would be my waking ritual, and where I'm attending dream seances, reading a language I've only understood in musterion sum in transliterations. A rabbi (my cousin's husband, as I know him) has me stand just inside my room adjacent to the family room emplacing the hearth, and I read from a usual book of prayers, now with its writing as barely an image before my eyes, but in the sounds emanating from the cant my voice appraises. In the dream, I look over to gray gnashings, a couple of spent Rokeach candles (finger-width & white), feel tabooed from our stonewear owl of the fireplace and to the back wall of its concave permiss, realizing the outside world is viewable past the would-be fire, has an inside of domicile lens as through a dormant once-contemplative kindling to everything without.********************Is habit still creative? A tree is always fractalized, lets go into what distances sought feel like in the ply of vision, and always newly skyline architecture. A kind of observable release... Alighting for all intents a version of continuum.*******************How does our society reform into ways and machine making money ambushing in transitions where one is otherly denied the more intimate notion that he/she is out of its confliction? The world in transformation may have a shrouded traveller drag his/her feet while roads are built & wrought through our mountains and alien buildings begin to blink. One really commands that the in-between spaces are the means to the ends of our footfall. Memorialized spaces are verily attributing the theater of live crowds when they are only meeting horizons in anonymity, our world registering before the endless night sates in its sky guffaw a taste of our meaninglessness.**********************When we rode straight-away into the most effective education I've yet endured, travelling briefly through a passage into the Sinai, excitingly, to Cairo (w/ Robbie Loco), a view of myself at the feet of giants would become "vision" so as to instruct body-consciousness, my physical success. What is also true from apparitional thoughts are the creaturely examples to something which may be the strongest appeal to taking my next breath. Noticing nesting mallard ducks, here & now, the female yields into something more present while the male, like he is a kind of watchman, makes a relishing awe over those fine presumptive close-to-earth suspiring nods--what sweet oxygen might appear as when I'm colluding with I & Nature--their beauty in vitality. There's some kind of substance to keeping me alive, virtually, which is sometimes hard to imagine in that I think my inner-voice is become so weary saying in the few words that survival is to simplicity and concern, "Oh so that's a little better." As if I've intimated for those 5-6 yrs tearing up my lungs with tobacco too much of a conversation of mind over matter--tho' it still matters--how is it thinking becomes confliction over the trespass of self-knowing? I feel a new body consciousness while Susie frames that and with more love than I have ever known till futility is kicked into the star dust eternality I expect will be me one day and the what-if an incarnation has our embrace in pure union.********************There's some kind of substance to keeping me alive, virtually, which is sometimes hard to imagine in that I think my inner-voice is become so weary saying in the few words that survival is to simplicity and concern, "Oh so that's a little better." As if I've intimated for those 5-6 yrs tearing up my lungs with tobacco too much of a conversation of mind over matter--tho' it still matters--I feel a new body consciousness while Susie frames that and with more love than I have ever known till futility is kicked into the star dust eternality I expect will be me one day and the what-if an incarnation has our embrace in pure union.********************If the last relevant puzzlement to soul is expression when it is dearest, Spirit elicits truth from the wastes of infinitude in a plain field of few artifacts. Awash like pure blanketing sands, empty as the wells of fossil water, where earth lies willing to be regouged from our skies lightning lip, her fountain spangles. The Shhh of a void's chronometry is a sign from ill-matriculate terrain. My body lies end to end starting from a conscious map to the world extenuating the truth to the measure of presence. Spirit while it restores one to take notice of anywhen at the center from without is consciousness roiling as one wave to our fountain beginnings of lusty reflection to earth's terminal star theater.****************Learn new moral codes. Undo the learnt mummer of an emotional frontier of blind or threatening mythos. Our psychological continuities have novel sensitivities--the assent of what is personified may erase what is beneath--probably always new because conscience is againbit from a deficit in perspective: one is only in relationship to act on vitality guaranteed in that rarefied awe of consciousness over the light of content. Plagues & war seem to surprise everyone; while the mission of social change becomes the broken footfall as apraxia across the moral landscape, humanity would receive the ply in getting to the summit as a provincial education.***************If you have some mentational deprecare thing, and you have been self-medicating, (matriculate here hopefully wiles of your past resolved) I would imagine that there are enthused states of mind now good enough to keep you busy, perhaps, in a reserved presence of mind which reflects this condition, in those new/old shoes of unsatisfaction with this renewed dialect over the weight on your well-being. Your mind makes more opportunity for the capsulation of these concerns than just about anyone ever realizes, realize. Therapy may well be your renunciate cause, mind's economy relenting normally being bitten by a feeling derivative--these things you'd romance albeit without more archaic rite--to assume the nature of one's half-thoughts, and an inevitable submission. You'd be the dragoman of getting lifted, tho' naturally, an exceptionalist like gong-player of licit sounding bell tilting and swaying over Belched-Ever-ers and to something come correct.********************My oldest brother relates: "...I wish I believed in seances, I know that sounds strange. But, I wish I could communicate with her again." I say, "Man, that folks seem to realize however dispensationally they developed if forgotten old garments of existence, I look around and see Mom in my corner in this sad world anyway." Supper with overly boiled lipton tea, sometimes a better brand, her uniformally painted attention opens up this nerve center kitchen. She grew up living over their father's store, "Louis Cohen & Sons" in Kingston, NY, which stayed in business early to 3/4th thru the 20th century. Wandering in dusty corners of his, Zadie's, old building down by the Hudson River seems rich with impermanent records on Mom rallying everywhen & identities smiling in their frustration and loves' lost or won, a table is set for the guest of my imagination, standards of sincerity like holiness in a place of its making... Old archives in their millenium as world-power when the Turks with their bureaucratic concretion & power places my eyes over the shoulders of business mundaneity and give & play day's long ends to that of clerical purveyors, their daily coffees redolent, live just as this musky loam, animicule riddling environs past our garage guffaw & my office. Once, Mom in her light expression, looking on to the pyracantha bush next to the driveway is a sprite tho' usual day of my abyssal leap when real concern overcomes me in my thinking--I'm at what end of her tenure to those Motherly preachments, ever to hear again in her sweet voice? I see burnishing pathetic lights, lights auspicious as her warmth, good lights knowing in clarion steps she could have dreamt me here.*****************This envelope opener may have laid on my Grandfather's desk 10s of years. It says: "Albany Linoleum & Carpet co....Floor Coverings since 1883, Albany, Utica." And his "Louis Cohen & Sons" store was in Kingston, NY, early to 3/4th thru the 20th century. Wandering in dusty corners of his old building down by the Hudson River seems rich with impermanent records on personel and identities smiling in their frustrations and loves' lost or won. Old archives in the millenium when the Turks with their bureaucratic concretion & power places my eyes over the shoulders of business mundaneity and give & play day's long ends to that of clerical purveyors, their daily coffees redolent, live just as this musky loam, animicule riddling environs past our garage guffaw & my office.****************Human beings have trod devising their earthen senses probably in our present state for maybe 100,000 yrs. There are sharks who haven't changed in 250,000,000 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. 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.