Mother Night

A letter is a symbol and is written as black fire on white fire. I hope this term I use is cold correct; I can see it in linguistics through anthropological sensitivities. I heard the term used in a documentary from a find in Israel to that of an Alef-Bet chart whose cosmogony is from some 2500 yrs back: it is called an a-b-c-tary. The spelling may be wrong too - I haven't actually seen this conceptual term written out. There had been at least one (likely more) so-called madrassah (a yeshivah-like institution) withwhom its students, while in Arab lands, Syria, so Arabo-Jewish heritage is certain, divines a type of school inwhich the learning schedule may rally in media as fecund as the sands where these students gather. I have read about the ubiquity of students writing their lesson into the tabula temporality with fascinating lateral recitations also written sometimes with pitch & tree sap. My romantic reason to abide as an observer, as if on one side of a text, side, side, in front, front or back, is the verily printed letters of the Hebrew Alef-Bet upon the facing wall, by the blackboard, in whose blind care our dear rabbi could've celebrated my meditation on them. An a-b-c-tary indeed, letters transmuting to thought values, so then are the places I'd jump from as to reach the beginning of a box of time capturing the legs of antiquation as if they've put me there on the ground. The Hebrew Alef-bet here on a decorative plaque. Mom gave this to me, enjoining symbols' journey & flowering in antecedents out of earlier first civilizations, while I begged off from the one with its 10 Commandments. The judgment mounting exotericism seemed more easily a thing to look past for the more averring spaces etymologizing letters for thousands of years written in desert lands, its soft changeful cosmic dunes, the more usual earth's media.

Whence the things of waking state evince the next move one makes, they keep coming till they are over. In the pocket behind your florescent thoughts, hiding with a contract on exile if for only a moment, one is barely invisive on continuity to remain yet enthroned of the diminution. Thought is self-preservation, an angst of your bizarre wisdom, where you go when they get you in the valley of decision. In I & Nature conducing its observer through her rain-dance unloading upon your wanton earth, the tear abundant skies when thoughts lure make all the blue-brown-clear-green veins fecund, give back all it can into our deep aside to remind the saved and the drowned, come to the ocean's other shore.***********Das Ich. The first out of the door; the assent it would be of our exile while never looking back. The self redounds in a plurality of impermanence. The bullshit we call you. The identity of only dream-throes of sand's sojourn. What it means to you that somebody's done something somewhere and it matriculates as the years surface, sun eluding around a horizon, moon 'pon its inky parturient.************Parkers Mill Rd is a complex intermedian through dreams and the realistic invision to corrugate directions meant more usually en linear. Out past Bluegrass airport I'm amid a trek upon a really old Schwinn 10 speed I bought from my neighbor after his chil'runs were grown... I thought it was a late 60's or definitely an early 70's model. My brothers & I had reason to stomp around the community out behind the airport; a friend having grown up there let me in on some esoteric eponymy, but nothing gives. By the time Little Texas Christian Church is imminent just off of Fort Springs Pinckard Rd, I hear, I thought, the boom of a gun shot - and the sense of my own demise felt too easily musing as I ride into these spaces gravid for a libertine wakening of anonymity. Right then an old looking field house, whose porch is suspect in its bare guffaw has me in wonder, zooming away from it. Ducking and imagining my evasion I wail around back toward the airport now in its audible reach, airplanes revving and there's some kind of surviving hustle and bustle. Then I realize - my front tire had gotten hot and blown out from a weak spot - thwack, thwack, thwack, no worries, no gat.************Thoughts once moved stars in a low sky blanketing immediacy with painful generality, repentful dreams, they restore the wishes worth the content of a langue de aerobatism, but now I'm cursed to the fractures of never to be trodden paths of wisdom and intuition. I want to know what it is that makes one spiritual in lives of temporal dreigh-- the heavy & curtained wont of plainly colored light--skies whose wist is changed into the more usually till now unadjudged abyssally freely lent world, where tethering episteme to nothing different than populist purveying of a world to come becomes the heavy-load of the culture we share. This is a Yo Evam Vedic day, Bob Marley lyricked, the One who feels it knows it. Or to a primary Rasta egalitarian poesis Marley's adage with it, of it moment: Who the cap fit let him (her) wear it. The Sanskrit means, Who it is that is Knowing.*************Upon making it back to our neighborhood, our walk, Susie & I, just concluding after coming from the adjacent Glendover suburbs, the sprawl line of our street reaches a house of certain changes for me, though it is just out of sight at the top of the court. Many times I would be spent and fulfilled at once as this street unfurls before me after having walked from UK's campus, WRFL particularly, usually enjoining the night and a phenomenon of dreamstate with neighbors all in assent to anonymity or sleep. If tea leaves could be discerned in the next morning's brew, this spirit of buildings, trace exhaust, sparsely trodded night-streets, few cars zooming by with late hopes of dissipation, trees referencing their sky architecture, only this Rebel Rd could become the navel of the world I get to know. "Kabbalah" stutters in my thinking in many a night going through this Lexington corridor, Nicholasville Rd, especially the words "notary public" at a house in the last stretch to my domicile. "Notarikon" is the word I mused layering the rhythm in my gait and the signage of the advertising of "notary public." Notarikon is the meditation technique to suppose new language by tying the first or last letters of words into a sequence to discern the exegetical goal with its new corollary word now derived.*****************Just imagine the easement one manages if shadows of rescue in sense content avails in our self consciousness--a blue slumber--then in assent to the gradins of observer to the dream of one's reprieve is a taste of night behind it. In every one moment we've given back the next; night breathes in the morning and one experiences its threshold again to begin. Impermanence in the chosisme void (thingism) where we're washed upon their shores, a world more done with us as everything, a diluvian consistency - the world is greedy with surprise in her instantaneous arrival than one could pretend it matters. I love the opened window, starry splintering thoughts of folky (Russian) conservations through the discreet guffaw of late 19th century, Rainer Maria Rilke's window, and closed painful contemporary opinions on the tremendum & certain intercession.****************On a project to Jewish meditation I'm saying it like I hear it, true to a theophany my brief study toward a bar mitzvah, then other things, is coupled by enlisting just what it meant if I kept Jah 'pon a rather J. Pollock impression to the tabula spiritus. In only a few ways into that world of certain Universal-thoughts, antecedents as the purveyors matriculate their sensorialist kabbalism, throughout reinventing memorialized spaces in those histories, there are places to feel where chronometry isn't any longer denied. Bernard Lewis discovers the acuity of provincialism in its lucky theoria with the Jews in the Pale of the Settlement, usually Russian lands deigned for their marginalization. "There was no lack of problems to require the attentions of a Redeemer." So one may imagine religion with the revenue of pathos, and thus as a resource sensitivities illumine that a Source recounts and redoubles one's hope. Bernard Lewis, whose book From Babel to Dragomans, writes while not performing for the Conservatives (that he's been blamed as such) levelling the West in its profligate wanting-to-go-find his Maker, easily is contested with the East's or now Eastern European's rather kathenotheist Indian feeling, Unto those who will need you, O Creator, seek me here in this condition.*************Forty ibex are sung about in an ancient prayer illustrating Shavuot also known as the Pentecost which is biblacy of Sinaitic myth idealizing the Spirit of G*d descending into the wilderness encampment of the exiling Hebrews. Temporal things are generally the found artifacts in the Jewish sanctuary and knowing this early enough for my calculus to embrace Nature in relationship, always the mention of animal characters would satisfy an issuant earthen cult. For instance, Balaam's ass spoke famously to deter the sometimes prophet sometimes antagonist to the Israelites on his way to exercise doom for the Israelites amid the desert Midian lands. I read the story in Flavius Josephus' book Antiquities of the Jews, though it appears in our Torah as a parshat, portion, to be studied as part of a yearly sequence in reading our Law. My book is written in the late 1800s--the translators promote that it is what we might call hagiography from the original Greek. These long-suffering animals, however, catch my fascinans in a dance of ludite anonymity, refusing, as if, even in our technology of words (or in the case of Balaam's ass, the bearer of man's uncertainties stunts in a dialect of warning), while these creaturely companions obviously prevail by their continuities to a history freed from the recordable egoity of histories. Perhaps, the student of a solid 3000 years of humanity in their example of a civilization's longevity, Egyptian, & social antecedents in and out of its climate of power is one who transmutes the King's Highway to a sense of eternal migration and eternities of proud land whose language of self-promotion can be read in her pugmarks of libertine inheritors.************Bernard Lewis discovers the acuity of provincialism in its lucky theoria with the Jews in the Pale of the Settlement, usually Russian lands deigned for their marginalization. "There was no lack of problems to require the attentions of a Redeemer." So one may imagine religion with the revenue of pathos, and thus as a resource sensitivities illumine that a Source recounts and redoubles one's hope. Bernard Lewis, whose book From Babel to Dragomans, writes while not performing for the Conservatives (that he's been blamed as such) levelling the West in its profligate wanting-to-go-find his Maker, easily is contested with the East's or now Eastern European's rather kathenotheist Indian feeling, Unto those who will need you, O Creator, seek me here in this condition.**************There are a thousand years to walk through into these temporal hallways alighting as our actionable state, all-movement concommitant to sound's theatre layering audition with the tastes of black tea & orange honey savoured with attention to Spring's Grace consumed & metabolized like our sun over cool waters, whose reflection may relate to the over 90% of alien animicules making up the body human, after the menu of its purport & reprieve is burned leaving us with one thing to do.*************I watch what I see, but feel like a spirit's invisive pogo in a map of only my prone space, an outline of life's project always at the gradins' cosmic interior. When I walk under street-lined blanketing canopies, my arms become limbs and my feet grasp at each footfall just as my hands: I have four hands whose lure of reality roils out of reach, its Sisyphian rock is revealed in our stream of life as tarrying incarnations. Jumbly reasons to wander, ole brown shoes fold akimbo under me and the world iterates histories of angels placing their crystaline hand 'pon my dense brow.*************So how are we different than our lepid monarcas, reading highway's map, or complexions of shade in city sinuendo homeward? She incarnates then moves like scattering waters' wash to clean the streets of footfall, the day's give & play that opens the nerve of migrations' great destiny. Butterflies emerge from nature, poignant in tall trees, alight in blooms of timely contest who can't demur, because it is seasonal, recordable, cycling, are the shadows of some first door where her sky's Castor and Pollux suppose our waking state, upon the wing among leaves of grass, the conveying North out of the belly-button South.