Mother and Raven Night

Mom's birthday is today. Passed January 9th, 2012, she was born on August 18th, 1936. Sweet Mom, I'm behind my eyes because of migrations in your ancestry. Dad's once ambrosia matron, heaven passed well-wisher. Dear American Dream provider, your four boys visual everything you ever said about growing up in Kingston, New York, a little Jewish girl, once kidnapped and quickly saved, the middle born of three girls, business acumen inheritor as socially adept as you've seen in your own Mothers in pure magnanimity out of loving family embrace ...though her Mother, Yetta, could be cruel, Mom told me. My conscience orthodoxy is ever appreciating through the journey to being present in the way she said I shouldered, when presence is remonstrate as a late feeling in musterion, that I'd vie to transcend, just live. Mom the bringer of knowledge to my natural prayers, the light I shed on beginnings' beginner, the mushy surprise of her multiple kisses, always the ameliorating power who reminds me healing is inevitable.*************Thought is self-preservation, Krishnamurti summons. I'm reifying the self-same anticipation all thought is concrete and lurps through inaction. If I prevail, alight into thoughtfulness, its emergency illustrates a bleeding essence, that the devastated subject heart isn't so austere anymore. She bi-sects the earth in riverine human beginnings, the earth is her body. Like relationship is magic and proffering though I'm thrown to the banks of a ditch of blood, then relationship is real. With scrutiny and patience in the sense that I am recording accretions with an I and Nature daliance in rather obvious ways. In the place of my making this movie whose image below serves and has accompanied many a contemplative homie, eternally tea-adjured couch where I'm restored, Papillon improves the decisor of freedom within me.*****************We're used to the mission of transcendence and mundaneity in small bands of hunters and gatherers rather than following the mothership however wishful of her salience to therapeutize on source upon her navigation toward social and economic rights in a world encroaching ever plying its new definitions to fit seven billion people into our backyards. And then of course there's counsel from wandering through one's thoughts as if an angel recovers what is contemplative, makes room to serve human myth effective as the coin in this dreamy realm roused out of reality. An angel for every thought...**************Says in Jewish Myth, Magic and Mysticism (thank you Stephanie) the essential ground of Kabbalist thought, which I'm going to break up and paraphrase, appeal to how words intrigue and recover the world of verily a subtlety in meaning and of identity any raison delicti. When Adam HaRishon, the first man and toward heros or heroines, archetypes, identities which consume, when he sinned though calling it the world of seldom evinced escape from sorrow, you are the first out the door of years turbillion passing. He blemished all the nitzotzot (Holy Sparks one avers in contrasts, makes good on social contract) ...causing them to become immersed in the kelipot (dross existence). The kelipot are the husks or shells of impurity, evil, and entropy, values dissuading in fugues unreachable into and trying to imprison the fallen Holy Sparks, the currents of ataraxia, unperturbedness. In the first part of the 16th century Akbar the Great, a plural religiosus devotee quotes Jesus from the Quran, which I barely synthesize from two translations: "The world is a bridge. Pass over it but build no houses upon it. The world lasts the beat of an hour. He who hopes for an hour may hope for eternity. Spend it in meditation, the rest is unseen."*************My whole magic, sense of continuity, blessing of conscious transportation is in strongly wanting to be remembered as my consolations in being present. But I dance as a sentient warrior of every ancestor of this One World's passion play and usually as a purveyor in any contemporary's plain magisteria: Impermanence becomes a worthy game of amelioration having certain experiential thresholds always seemingly hopeful if divine (or just exceptional) taking care of our life's going-on. But I'm wearing shoes of primate displayal, gathering power-spots that would assure my fully filtrating thoughtworld elaborated in memorialized space takes my enduring concerns and recollects me, would recollect me in wishes of eternal embrace in contentment. And don't we all.****************Light, water, verb, char, sap, sand media, effluvial disco, emergent Innana-revelling authors author shpielen about India's Chendamanagalam around Muzuris, Romans early penetration by Kerala, those remnant Jews come this earlier Mother of nations who write a contemporary's atmosphere of smothering new millenia's ceiling having those emigrants from Charax their ancient Persian Gulf community long ago improved as if to meet the morning in the cult of self reliance now banal in cultural evenflow wont to homogenize beliefs that burn with eyes through mine, hopeful in the dregs of creative ones that would be served upon the plate of experience and can adorn the table of inner-being.*************The squirrel with its greenstick vitality is so convincing. The leisure to her intensity, plain and natural power that it projects is only an increment of what people economize in a life anticipating the hunter and gatherering exploits of our bubble, bouncing, rhythm lease on time. I intuit sometimes months of emotional peaks. A switch is flipped, arcing as a limb to bliss in the light equalizing sun, it might be hard on me pulled out of better modalities orb, ...it might be emotionally I would not turn around in myself to get beyond its critical definitions. Looking at growth and life, an animal's reserve powers are netherly intension's surprise haulage in a fecund stream, water lush of water like sentient rain making its surface of gloss and lurp tarry more than light magnanimity. If trees as sky architecture show the sense of Mind in scaffolds of meaning, squirrels are their wind dancers, bring their seasons into the years past our door.*******************On the communal farm where Robbie Loco & I worked in the banana fields of a West Bank moshav (in the desert), worked with Shmuley, the Israeli manager, and his right hand man, a Palestinian named Fauwiz, out of that and nod to mnemosyne I breath the taste of a scrap of soap having made the bungalow apartment, provided in Histadrut compliance (their socialist Trade Union), look roseate and new as a place of respite through meaning and timeliness--redolent in days of merit leaving tokens if only mind sussing the angels of intensity and depth. My eyes scan the freeing space of its yards made dust arisen in chaparral styles--yards unawarded with contentments blanketed of security handicapped spaces--even look with my face just at the threshold of a pointy frond to a low cultivated date tree as my lips meet the fruit, the plum-like white film on it soothes like chapstick. For me the pyramids however unfathomably distant in man and woman's sun arresting sorrow its dust-pure heat complex lucidity has its persona religiosus blessed of resignation and woe the accretions of her neighbor, more inflating tears, the Wailing Wall like touching a spiritual satellite in my lure toward new patterns of history are visual theaters in the splendor of iconic maps.**************If you pick up on folks all inculcated in time--a machine's revolution incrementally filtrating energies puffing their ardors, a clang and peal, it blinks and murmurs--spanning in the commerce of contemporal reflection that one would see the tumbling effect of a life completely--piqued in wonderment the conscious food in its minutiae is as different from aspartame to cane sugar, the plate of experience set while observing cosmic individuations through these late decades like America's 1970s bird's eye view and our eyes waking-up, the 1980s technocracy and etherealizing, the 90s squint into everything before as a 2000 year old servant to fetch water again--may be thoughts whose amending purveyor understands the opportunity of its rhythm in the throes of this anywhen.************Proscribing your moral landscape, just because as children our minds rut deeply in what Justice might look like is become striven like your being approached to fulfill a person's ludens in this passion-play as a dance partner with your marionette ego, a licit purveyor to an infinitude of False Positives, wind and rustling caught-up spaces. The last time you gave yourself over to an elopement with fascinans blinking-glowering white black white black corridors mentating to plateaux, one closes his/her eyes to the observer and its depth. I'm changing through a oceanic concensus enumerating the vie of my trance egoity, becoming stuck to the glass of appearances that intimated the hard to know first few years of my waking state.****************You are the birth of the present and as ignorant of the other shore as l'enfant writing this book of mystery, an inquiry over selves of one's empirical carousel through every tear. His/her fate is sealed knowing the departure from Mother reality is immanent, appreciating and true. Thus gone at the crest of what-is. The nature of consciousness--our amniotic theoria--is not explanate through its content. Proscribing your moral landscape is become striven like your being approached to fulfill this passion-play as a dance partner with your marionette ego, a licit purveyor to an infinitude of False Positives, wind. The last time you gave yourself over to an elopement with fascinans blinking-glowering white black white black corridors mentating to plateaux, one closes his/her eyes to the observer and its depth. I'm changing through a oceanic consensus enumerating the vie of my trance egoity, becoming stuck to the glass of appearances that intimated the hard to know first few years of my waking state. *************Up past the Blackowitz family's rather Munster-looking house a little hillock at the threshold between houses mounted up more in execution than the slant ascension to our Laurel Grove neighborhood road. Here I played King of the Hill against spirit-bodies though I pretended the feeling I projected had been toward my intercepting a sense of give and play with everyday folks having moved into a usual decisor time-line when actually being among figures of recent depth (seemed apposite wandering our middle-class surroundings) leads me into the imprecations come prayers of meeting-the-ground and appearances. However possible to yield ever filtrating our within world as to reveal anything incremental to self-awareness, I get as far relieved of self-confliction down past Mr. Hall the clock-maker's digs, Mandy his dog is my witness. I felt my mind was perfectly available and therefore those values recording inanities could place me in a stream of perfect reason, or as I reasoned it, a kind of escape I badly needed.**************The White Nile part of this river wherein I rinsed my hands and had imagined vying for ablutional feelings while rowing out into one expanse of it is a taste of Egypt beyond the commerce of admittedly a Westerner's sense of their myopic political-religious adjuring or any mission to provoke cosmogonic meaning. In one of the ubiquitous documentaries showing the Victorian Nile region, one lone creature of thousands of species lured to it in the dryer seasons was a little ruffer-ruff bird as big as blackbirds we see here in Kentucky. Its feathery garment is mussed from the terrible Sinaitic environment close by, reprises its avian statement of presence in such a way that I feel Amos Oz's The Same Sea now in cultivated thought. The image of a Mother in her own going-away waiting machinations wants to hear from her son away then travelling in the Himalayas - she's languid of purpose in her crazy midnight muse - the Mother suffers and becomes a dialectician to the narimee bird sqawking "narimee, narimee... narimee, narimee" at the edge of night. That I live creatively by denying a striven world, only the dust and coarse devil-may-care apt little bird may seed the silent void of its swathe invitations to space. Beautiful and so present, her fight to exist may lead to this writ of imagination nuanced out of our human awe while accretions to my hope in its comely perch are actually transitory, sober and deliberate.