Intrigued Fascinans & My Open Nerve

Mnemosyne ambitions were my earliest incitement unpacking cloudy language, feeling everything ignorantly & stupendously walking around our Austin neighborhood styling myself an ideas' key collector. Now I'd wonder over conscious props & models of contentment. Memories work with one and against reinventing one's vessel enlisting presence over bubbling, ululating inexact confidences, flowing ideas of eternity. But then I thought I was stained with material things so imminently that what I set down earlier things-of-second-nature are energies remarkable through their sense culminating an interior me not quite thus-gone. If one visualizes what it is that feels and sees from within as self-being a shapeless mass in toto would be her senses in an amoebic sprawl. Thoughts are written in corporeal auditive horns blowing like the suspiring players tasting sounds of aerobatic fate. If dreams come from a dream organ and places in the world were at our beck, we'd see ourselves end to end, feet & legs in slight bowing bands reaching to our fingers from arms twining from an ever supine torso. Their enormative margins--in senses--poised upon our lucid holed up thought furniture are exceptions in appetite from reflections in a golden eye.*************I don't know you through an existential garment still worn amid the crowds of the bazaar marketing magical thinking. A god of the mind's eye blinks at collisions with impermanence whose cosmogonical reference is as elite as your wake into twilight painted of morning glyphs and redoundingly star-deferent horizons. Your meditations draw truth out of the same silent evanescence as mine. But your concerns, martial thresholds, plain ideation are triumphantly on offer. You are telling all of this-world's ascendents to wont & source how you should be discoverable in your condition. The who of an apex resolve upon the moral landscape makes inner-awareness the space of upheaval so that observable reality be joined. Notice the pronoun.**************I don't want life as we know it, so much sadness whence escape becomes the smallest of sense comforts. The potency of its way adorns the moment when the two threads black and white can be distinguished in the blue of earth's sky dome. Healing will be our education no matter what. One certainly knows what her mind demands, hopes for, where we feel unique promises, that intercession should happen. This is what confidence says of suffering between the ascendent & meaning.*****************I think Susie is a better critic to however mindless a praxis in expression I mile than she feels suited to argue. I feel I'm of worker ant egoity in this porch-sitting technocracy and she's one alluding to a bit more elegance with wings. Though now it's cold & I sit in this family room chair of my few lives spent, I want to absorb the rather glad escalante' light she senses, a world of Two scattering the kind orange light beams caught up in our ryddim bouncing, this world endures as coal to her luminescent sapphire's warmth. Our birth months are the same and I ask ole brown shoes what makes May lives fecund in Spring in the green of emeralds with splendor universalizing like self-same minds in slaving for wont to a coming drought to this-world's everyday waking signature, the Sun of lethal beauty, with Susie's smile in complement candle-light, her wink with hope, her night of new stars.*******************It isn't a kind of prayer in a traditional sense that I threw against the wall of my confidence for change. I realize some architecture in layer after layer of pieces to an internal conference on-going and that I am only meeting the event of one kind of inquiry on things with potent language awash--like warped pallets of words asleep--meshing over the stuff of mind as it concretizes with living burying another distance strung in living.. It only feels like parsimony in a long dialect on the pondering edge of consciousness rather at its imperfect embankments, and now meditations are imprecating in plain wishes.******************Look here at the world with its attempt on our thought values. Such an imperiled space to relent perspective, maybe so that one gets to the repair of relationship if only in your eyes turned to plants. Heated conditions of forced thoughts emplace--as though I've evolved--this more reasonable consent I have to have you change my mind. I thought closely in my Krishnamurti feet without having the contentment in being introduced to his non-guru-ism yet through what I heard on Rastaman Vibration. Bob Marley & the Wailers work it out saying: "They stab you in the back And they claim that you're not looking. But Jah have them in the region In the valley of decision." I heard this sensitivity in his poesis having what is terrible manifest as only the mechanics to portray a behavior ward of minds through One-drop music as the rigor or atrophy in one believing his/her thoughts make implicit the thinker's mission in a hopeful condition, (Jah's grace). Yass, I will, I do, & I want to better imagine things off-set in the valley of "indecision," and then having to rein in the pain of one's chattering mind whither to assume half-thoughts are meaningful enough. I think I can do this. Man.******************Kenosis means self-emptying. I imagine a lament with the accretion of awe from fear. Or just a kind of awe, really... Similar to catharsis but one is translating an Experience wholly incisive by her own essense. It is amazing how certain athletic feats make sense just per the competitive ego conquering by real physical chronometry. So, your own experience is the sort of compelling attitude, while the player is the artist of composure and kenosis. The competitions' ground are her ends of self, an apex observation she plays from the least integrated player's rhetoric on practice and her ingenuity to have the pack consent with harmonic moves.*****************Imagine, an unconscious sense to a harmonic background, the ryddims of things brought to light, light shed of paints making splendid continua from those elements now come as Source or Enflamed Fascinans to that of a tree, the sea, our moon, the horizon's mountain theater, are all meter to song.*****************Okay, so I felt down & out once and those who have been as humbled know that hell isn't made for them either of total concord for this moment's just escape, though you can bet it's not hard to imagine you felt a similar reserve like that then too. Socially not up to the salience behind the other not as endeavored to feel the change one needs, academically a world isn't becoming a figure of success where I could rely on personal victories, as a kind of parsimony these effacements easily assail the usual impinging world. Because I observed in rather healthy or plain lives going on around me, when those who have a pattern of getting into places of their making, those personalities will change toward real confidence. They don't have to pretend, or as I absorbed, one self-reflecting over the manufacture of his/her motivations, here are really big life-events feeding their concerns so poignantly adorning their ground of being. I realized if dynamic is what I wanted to become, it isn't only by my hand that I change, but it is recognizing the sure grace people can have without their minds in the way of their mind.******************Probably in my last year of elementary school is when I opened-up to the likes of Dylan or Marley. This Greatest Hits of Dylan's leaving me in solitarian content to his personae, that his being embraced by formidable crowds isn't somehow part of who I answer for, receiving and comtemplating real writing & poetry, that music, had been proffered for my remote inclination. I was only a boy and with whom he was speaking I rationed an imagination of salience. In the place of my making, my brother's room come mine, eyes flush against Mark's rider of his air-brushed flying carpet, two-toned black on yellow, turned away and wayward where dreams allude, I see Dylan also facing in contest to the myriad wrest of his sound. A Semitic purveyor upon Arabesque designs moving through swift aerobatic paint, while the dragon also on the wall lurches back into stillness to the in-between spaces, family machinations are only imperiled by green youth siphoning adult plain-ness of resolve. He's turned toward a world, alighting to more self-reflection from a translating face to that of musterion than his cadence spanning into this room, enjoining that he would be actually present. Which is a goal of his sounds-arriving.

*****************Presence claims drifty models and my getting caught up in redeeming attention, I'm of a piece. My eye plainly cuts open onto an inventive nature, as slate-air emptiness arraying in suspiring light discussant of clarion air. I'm Escher's Encounter, true to the bridge ambler purveying this and that toward splendid grass, over haunts of stream thrushing, a caprid meant to stammer upon his crossing. Or as it's drawn, the shadow opposite figure--the other inviting--and the all-lighted apposite one, union of turbillion meeting thoroughgoing of selves.

If you've never heard it before, Karen Armstrong truly discovers the Bronze, Iron Age G*d of Israel and the space He would've occupied in musterion thought.

This was my Zadie's scale. I know I have a 60 yr old pair of snub-nosed pliers around, and probably an even older pair of little cosmetic scissors which belonged to him, my Mom's "Daddy." Zadie is Yiddish for Grandfather. He and my Grandmother, Yetta Goldberg, whom none of my brothers knew nor I (though Mark was born and coddled), came to the US as infants, their families yet to enjoin this future, their immigration is right around 1900-02. I had the passport of the soon to be palimpsest Czarist Russia, Zadie's Father's, Russian as xenographia met in better than a century ago crises come bureaucracy and erasing what is beneath. Names like Veroba and Gubanko and Kasden are our patronymics, curious like this one of Ukranian ancestry in its ironical way. "Gubanko" means fat-lipped. And it may be one of many Jewish names meant to deflate the censuses in those days and before sometimes intensionally depicted the humility of being counted, so "drek" and "sheist" and perhaps Fat-lipped laterally gets imputed. I may be gratified to imagine an askesic purveyor of distances strung if only out of the gaze of reified Fu Manchu masks, these translators of a biologic clock greedy for the sun.