TV's Irreal Tea

Television impels the media-advised with narrative which confers different certainties to the viewer's intensional stance, eye contacted, dialectically realistic in values evaporating into our time's spirit, its spell. All ask what is it intoned and awash to spectral shores as content predeceases an unpromiseable episteme (self-knowing) while the pop mythologizer demurs to stillness of even image? Silence written on Devil's Island prison colony walls in Papillion is verily enforced to put a name on a spellbound purveyor of silence as Henri Charriere would have it. A silence in receipt to familyroom's dusty corner, I suppose, has everything anew in one bubble amassed of 10,000 to that of a past world, which I study, glare and muse over, maybe analytically suspired in a crawling meditation, plastique, where I may use one word for it differently for triumphant senses, standing in the rain.*****************Reflect Krishnamurti's idea as I read last night that meditation is to get control of the mind and then go beyond. With that goal I'll have to accede to his other recommendation, that being constituent of teachers who may orient me--my confinement in seeing a lumpful testament, all my teachers of one purpose--yet are still authoritarian--and is one thing also to get beyond. For our challenge being reduced to truth and not its gratified decisor, I suppose, has everything anew in one bubble amassed of 10,000 to that of a past world, which I study, analytically suspired in a crawling meditation and where I may use one word for it differently ...I submit in the end it would still be better with a teacher. The Talmud says buy them: the what of me absorbed in the who of you, acquisitive nature peradventure my luck in lightness of being, that the mind asks to elipse in resource--understanding--identities as objects to our second nature. Coltrane by his saintliness and pulpit in blues delivery, gets my propitiation...I have something to tell him!****************Sometimes hopeful in the bright meadows over loamy correspondence, Gandhian sociation to my thoughts, thought-world, appreciating some one thing, rather more likely the discovery in moment to moment the least of distraction not detaining my mind, while the rest of the day lies throttling with acuity, feeling level, circularly thoughtful, even tight. Though I imagine this mind mostly like Miles could portray in Kind of Blue, or just Miles Runs the Voodoo Down ...survivor-like funky as my radionuclides, the what of me absorbed in the who of you identity of acquisitive nature peradventure my luck in lightness of being, that the mind asks to elipse in resource, things of second nature. Wakefulness first becomes a world immersing us, explanate in some encounter within promising shores of security, only to do what most of what our communication gland wants to do, the makings of sight.*************I'm a pagan: the thing about something rather than nothing, anticipating the reflection in I & Nature revealed till I'm ultimately, naturely content to ebb homeward. I'm a heathen, oh yass, in stalwart halls with a sense of deep encounter the synagogue anthropos contests and wonderment addresses every equalizing notion of the flow from security. Elie Wiesel's Grandfather turns from his own bard finding its way to our myth psychologies, predicts rivers of blood. History is blood and its body palimpsest iterates as change, esteemed from the fount of its magic. I knew then every move in praise and hope all around me is the congregate's spiritual possession in Formlessness.*****************Nonduality may well be to reckon in between the uncreated, equalizing observable reality, hopeful conscious void--perhaps an ironical impersonal En Sof complexion, the Endless--and a sense of our subjective mithering, identity mis-adorning, whose content delays with scrutiny in self-being to a conference in awe. You may understand an illustration in morning chimera cast back-upon silent coves in your night, then halfway to a day's common perspective, artifacts of dreamstate can't any longer populate consciousness; it detaches from meaning as the principal of reason lies prone to an interval of twilight before the two threads of the horizon are distinguished. You are the place unarchitectureable behind your eyes. Observable reality has its light, sound and feeling purveyor assent as her usual give and play, monadic, her eternity's would-be dancer yields equally blind toward all things of the uncreated. The streak of mummering lightbulb across the room enters one eye then the other through grappling nerves, true in its digitable warm centering ambition, taps my scelera, dips into surface anonymity.********************You are the place unarchitectureable behind your eyes. Observable reality has its light, sound, & feeling purveyor assent as her usual give and play, monadic, her eternity's would-be dancer yields equally blind toward all things of the uncreated. The streak of mummering lightbulb across the room enters one eye then the other through grappling nerves, true in its digitable warm centering ambition, taps my scelera, dips into surface anonymity.*****************Measuring what tarries once by haunting bookcases either in proximity to my whiling away over Zamyatin's Short Stories at home (he's the guy to influence the writing of 1984), then studious rather bookish drowning of time's freeing blur, are moments of good conduct espying an enumeration to Amos Oz's A Tale of Love and Darkness & doing customer service Micro-Computers, imagining I hear a beat language in a rather hypnotic paradigm, bowed at Mom's knee, relishing she'd been these live-long slumbery-days' conscience, where the stress for everyone had been hilarious, spending monies, and courting our expanding family--cook-outs, pizzas, local restaurant feeding us in our epicurean ambition--our ordering, reordering, and RMAing the order from the computer exquisitely designed, but had a requested sound-card upgrade, her techne's exotic resource transmogrifies all these gentlemen's and Ms Mary's mind, giving the players their world-wide travelogue, giving them a cult of self-reliance.********************The end to every bridge crossed over toward transcendental awareness may also be moments of all things possible seemingly, confidently, as we become the first to join the years soughing past our front doors. In orange refraction ponderously swathe into vanishing spaces, earth's shadow painted upon dust, exquisite dust suffused in meditation's tea, is a rite of your tea-drinker's appositive over thoughts of Krishnamurti only living just down the road, there in Ojai, Ca. from Chaim Potok, whose Camp Ramah is also situated in these precincts. The conscious map works like this: Tradition however unscheduled solicits inner-scrutinies via Potok's fantastic images in the less literalist Conservative Judaism's lens on its history written in his coffee-table style book called "Wanderings." More intrigue than fact, but major outlines of Jewish continuity are sorted out, while this sense of belonging comes through my Mother's universe-bisecting heart. So, Chaim Potok is primary from cinema to analytical meditation and this Judaism I like to claim. Its Jewish reality comes from Mediterranean roots, my Mother's side. Her Mother was from Ekaterinaslav, on the Black Sea and part of Russia. And this is where Madame Helena Blavatsky originated. She is the spiritualist handing over the reins to a young Krishnamurti to the Theosophical Society, whence his Truth is a Pathless Land gives us exemplar complement to self-realization without "mission." Thus a way to populate Eastern European antecedents and reach into Andhra Pradesh as if seeing the place matriculated in Blavatsky's Esoteric/Exoteric Writings, remembering it so as that I could imagine the literary artifact when realizing a better established sense of my studies is at the crest of a contemplative note that Krishnamurti comes from there.**********************In The Marketing of the Mystic East, Gita Mehta relates to the reader what the cult of self-reliance can feel like in life-exquisite dust, your prayers no different than that mess, a couple, man and woman, Westerners, whose Orientalism brings them to an illusory rite, maybe a weird confidence between the two. Their spritual mess has them phenomenalizing likenesses. They're on a bed in some however Indian remote hostel, shrouded travellers yet intensifying, eternal solar mirage-rich summer in its design becoming customary to them in these regions... His face reflects in his hand-mirror, which she sees while back to back with him. He sees her mask of all the microcosm to unnameable fusions of mind and emotion, personality and racked behavior wards, and they are in dialectics of their live-long playerhood into antiquation. He even rallies over the invisive glue of her mother in the tearful dreamer standing up in his eyes. Bob Marley could have soothed thru hymnody, Cry to me, down by the still waters. But had we taken the turn the author achieves, the present isn't met with the continuities of just any ancestry, but the turbidity of a forest of life underfoot.**************Stagger into the gates of the forest, careen into its dank floor tasting of the juice of being present. Everything shows the might in self reflection accumulating there, and the shadows of just-because become its capacious smothering. To paint accounts of glad mind nomenclature is nothingness little iconographed through appositive proprioception with clamored over, funk-eliciting glass of inner-tissues.